Hot Shot
We were the Crackerjacks.
What do you call a kid who can play like that? You call that kid a Crackerjack.
I was a 4th grader playing soccer with the Crackerjacks on the dusty field of a local elementary school in Oklahoma. In our minds we thought we were the best, but a vague memory lingers that we may have resembled the Bad News Bears more than I care to admit.
My coach loved us all well and she called me Hotshot. Truth be told, I didn’t really earn that nickname. I was often a little tentative, hesitant to really go after the ball because I hated getting kicked. I think she gave me this nickname to remind me of how she saw me. She believed I had potential, even when I played afraid. I loved that nickname and I think the more she said it, the more I believed it.
I remember my buddy Michelle and how we laughed on the field and could often be found dancing or hugging in the middle of a dribbling drill.
I remember how my tube socks slid down shin guards that were too big, and I remember eating juicy orange slices and cupcakes after practice.
I also remember having to wait for the field because another team practiced before we did. They thought they were a lot better than us, which they probably were, but there was one girl who was especially mean and would make comments about our team as her practice ended and ours would begin. I remember how mad I felt about how she treated us and how she wore her arrogance like a medal around her neck.
One day, her practice ended early, and she sauntered over to the sidewalk where a few of us who were waiting for the field. She started in with her usual taunts, and I could feel anger bubbling in my gut. I watched as she opened her dad’s car door, flipped her hair back with a laugh and directed some rude, inappropriate comment at my friend Michelle. I glanced at my friend’s face, her eyes looking down, her skin flushed and before I knew what I was doing, I lifted my cleat covered foot and kicked the girl’s car as she closed the door.
As soon as my foot made contact with that car, my rule-following self was filled with regret. My friends and I stood frozen on the sidewalk as the dad jumped out of the car and screamed, “Who just did that? Who kicked my car?” I think he yelled some other things, but I was too busy wondering if my heart was going to rip out of my skin to hear anything he said. My coach saw all that was happening and ran over to ask what was going on.
She talked to the parent, made sure my bony leg had not caused any damage and said some other things I don’t remember. I do know I apologized and started breathing again when that car drove away.
As we walked down to the field, my coach gently put her arm around me and said, “You ok, Hot Shot?”
As soon as she said my nickname, I started to cry. I tried to tell her how mean that girl was, but my words were muffled by my sobs. I don’t remember all that she said in that moment, but I know she didn’t shame me. I had messed up and she just loved me in it. And then she nudged me back out onto the field, got me to do some drills and kick the ball with the rest of the team. She helped me to remember who I was and why we were there.
Some things in life lately have been getting under my skin so much that I fear I might put on my cleats and start kicking. This morning I felt like I heard the Lord say, “It’s ok, Hot Shot…Come catch your breath and then let’s get back on the field. Remember who you are and why we’re here.”
God knows that I don’t fully deserve this nickname. He knows how tentative and scared I get. He knows how I can let my anxiety get the best of me, and He knows that at times my temper isn’t really good for anyone. Yet I believe this memory surfaced to remind me that He sees me and knows me, and He understands.
But I also think there was another reason He allowed this memory to surface and to be honest, this is the part of the post that I haven’t been able to finish. This is a fresh, new lesson that feels uncomfortable and hard to learn. I’ve read you shouldn’t write about an issue until you are on the other side so I will keep this short.
In the memory, the lens zooms in on 4th grade me the second after I kicked the car. I lower my shaking leg to the ground and can almost see my heart beating out of my chest. In slow motion the dad climbs out of his car, anger spews from his mouth, and he points his finger at guilty me. If I watch this long enough, I feel anxious and want nothing more than to run and hide. And in that moment of discomfort and fear, I listen as 10-year-old me thinks, “Wow that was a terrible decision. Don’t EVER do that again.”
My 4th grade self was right on some level. It was a terrible decision to kick someone’s car. It was wrong. The problem is that my brain attached that feeling to my anger from that point on. Feel angry? Stuff that down girl because we are NOT going to feel like we did that day at soccer ever again. Got it?
And so I did.
But stuffed anger is still anger.
And in my case, it has, at times, led me to shrug my shoulders thinking I have no voice, and it often renders me ineffective in my relationships, my work and in the world. And sometimes, because I haven’t learned how to communicate anger in an effective way, I have simply turned it on myself. Anger has to have a voice and feels a lot less dangerous when I direct it at me. (or the empty Amazon box. Just ask my girls.)
I had forgotten about Hot Shot. I am glad I remembered her and want to get to know her again. I think she has a lot to teach me.
What part of yourself have you forgotten?