Last night, I sat and watched our 9 year-old daughter’s last game of the indoor soccer season.  I watched the Funky Freaks, her team, get defeated by the Tie-Dye All Stars. 8-4.  And I cried.

As much as I love a good victory, I wasn’t tearing up over their defeat.  Instead, I was choking back proud tears as I realized what this season has done for our daughter.

Towering above many of her fourth grade classmates, most of whom are a full year older, Clara, at first glance, seems to be the picture of confidence.  In many ways, she is.  She'll jump on any roller coaster that her height allows.  Climb higher on a rock wall than some grown-ups would dare.  And, if gravity would permit her, she would gladly pump her swing up and over the top bar, doing loops in the sky.

But inside, Clara is a different story.  Her stature betrays her inner doubt.  She is a “don’t watch me try this” person.  She is a perfectionist who wads up a million of her beautiful drawings because they aren’t right.  She asks to practice her spelling words and math facts out of earshot of her siblings even though she will confidently and correctly shout them out in private.  It took her three years of wanting to sign up for soccer before she actually let me fill out the registration.

In this culture, most kids start soccer in pre-school.  When Clara started playing in second grade, it was obvious that she was the only one who hadn’t played before.  Despite her physical strength, she was the least aggressive player.  The one who rarely touched the ball and, when it did land in front of her, would boot it instantly as far away as possible.  Anyplace where it wasn’t near her.  Anyplace where it would keep eyes off of her. 

But she smiled at the end of the games.  And she kept going back.

This past fall, she landed on a team of amazing young women.  Strong and competitive but full of laughter and genuine affection for each other.  Most importantly, she was graced with two amazing coaches.  Two dads who laughed as much as the girls, loved each one of them, and found the perfect balance between challenge and choice. 

The Funky Freaks were born.  And thrived.  Often they were victorious.  Sometimes, they got stomped on.  No matter the outcome, after every game their coaches did just the right thing.  Came to each of the girls, gave them a hug and a hair-mussing, and told them how much they loved having them on their team.

Early in the season, if Clara and another player, whether her teammate or opponent, were going for the ball, Clara would consistently let the other player have it.  She would back away.  From the bleachers, it looked like she had told herself she wasn’t as good so she might as well not try.  Or she didn’t want to mess up in front of everyone so she wouldn’t put herself in a position where that would be an option.  There were moments were she shined but many more were she seemed to want to blend in.

One game, much to my parenting terror, the coaches put Clara in as goalie. She hadn’t played goalie more than a handful of times in her life, and never in front of the full sized net they use for indoor soccer.  There are few parents I know that enjoy watching their child play goalie.  Even when they are good, it’s such a high pressure position.  But there she was, in her goalie jersey in front of that giant net, looking up into the bleachers at me.  I put my head in my hands and said a quick prayer that she felt good about whatever the outcome.  More likely, it went something like “Oh god!  Please don’t let them score on her!”  They did score, once.  She also made some amazing saves.  More importantly, she survived.  And when she did, something came alive inside of her.  I saw it.

Every game, it grew.  Not a fire to win but a fire to play hard.  She was running to be the first one to the ball.  She was right there in the middle of the action.  Fighting with her feet.  Stepping up for her team.  She stopped looking at us up in the bleachers because she was so focused on the game. She was showing a kind of determination I had never seen in her.  She was sweaty, and smelly, and utterly happy. 

The Tie-Dye All Stars are the first place team.  The Funky Freaks are ranked somewhere a few rungs down the ladder.  Clara’s team didn’t care, they had freaked their hair out for the occasion and were happy to be playing together one last time before they are dispersed to different teams for the spring rec league.  Twenty minutes into the first half, the Freaks were down 3-0.  They were holding their own but momentum was waning as the girls continued to miss scoring opportunities.  And then, out of nowhere, comes Clara.  Soaring down the field.  Dribbling that ball with focus.  Somehow, she ends up in front of the net with no defenders to block her way and uses every ounce of power in those long legs to boot the ball in for the Freaks first goal.  When I saw her fists pump up in the air, and her five freaky ponytails fly, that’s the moment when I cried.  Six months ago, she never would have taken the chance.  She never would have risked failure.  She never would have given herself the fist pumping opportunity.

That moment is why I’m okay looking like a stereotypical soccer mom as I pile the kids into my blue Dodge Caravan and head for practice.  That moment.  Because it was about so much more than scoring a goal.  It was about learning to believe in yourself. That’s a lesson that will follow her far off of the field.   I love to win.  I’ll never deny that. But when I looked at my daughter last night after their defeat, I saw that she was smiling and I knew we hadn’t really lost.