My dad has always been in my corner, my number one fan. He reads every article I write, encourages me when school gets stressful and tells me every day he’s proud of me. And growing up, he was always my biggest champion on the sideline when I hit the soccer field.
While I was home in South Florida for winter break, sitting at the kitchen counter stressing over who knows what internship applications, my dad snuck up behind me and thrust his phone in my face.
There on his screen was a 6-year-old girl with rosy red cheeks and a window in her smile where two front teeth should be. Her deep brown hair was tied up in a ponytail — or rather, most of it was, considering the sheer volume of flyaways.
The girl’s arms were raised toward the sky, creating a cotton candy color scheme with her blue jersey and pink socks that ended just below her knees. A matching pair of pink shin guards rested overtop the socks, the plastic glaring at the camera.
The caption on the 2011 Facebook photo read, “Soccer Saturday and Lauren scored her 1st GOAL!!!!!!!”
My dad shows me that photo every time it comes across his Facebook memories, and it always brings a smile to my face — though my smile no longer has a window.
I made my first goal during my YMCA soccer days, which consisted of a mob of children chasing after one ball with no sense of direction or teamwork while a “referee” tried to make sense of the mess.
It’s not self-deprecating to say making that shot wasn’t my greatest feat.
A few years later, my parents registered me for the Greater Boca Youth Soccer Association’s recreational league, and my dad took me to the evaluation tryouts, where players were scored to be split into even teams.
Before I took to the field, another dad pointed at my bright pink shin guards and said, “Hey, you know those are supposed to go under the socks?”
My face went as pink as the plastic on my legs. Without a second thought, my dad ran me to the bleachers to fix my shin guards and send me onto the field.
He didn’t realize the shin guard custom until that moment either, but my dad swooped in to rescue me when I lacked the ability to not beat myself up over every mistake.
My dad always greeted me after my games with a kiss and a slew of pointers for next time. He played basketball in high school, so it was gratifying to see him get invested in my playing as I gained more experience.
I wasn’t the best player on my team, but I was improving and, at the very least, knew to kick the ball with the inside of my foot.
During one game, my coach put me in the goalie position — probably to give me playing time while preserving better players for the field.
I had been pretty timid until then, and I was scared of getting hit with the ball.
I made a few saves, and my dad came over to me, raving that he was proud of my first performance and reassuring that missed saves were not solely my fault — it was a team effort. I played goalie for a few more games and soon fell in love with the position.
Always eager to uplift my newfound passions, my dad took me to Dick’s Sporting Goods to buy me my own pair of gloves.
Whether it was GBYSA or my high school soccer games, my dad always stood on the sideline, in line with my goal, switching to the other side with me after halftime.
The goal was where I truly flourished as a soccer player. I became resilient and even scrappy, gaining more confidence to throw my body to the ground if it meant smacking the ball away from the net.
I stepped out of my comfort zone and learned to go with my gut because any hesitation meant a ball in the net behind me. My arms and legs, caked with dirt and adorned with scrapes, were badges of courage.
I was quiet in school, but my voice boomed to my teammates, and my foot created echoing claps when I punted the ball from one end of the field to the other.
When I made a save, I heard a rousing “Yeah, Laur!” among the other cheers. I’d jump for joy and look to the sideline for a thumbs-up from my dad after I sent the ball downfield. He’d see the number 33 on my jersey — the same number he wore as a high school basketball player, and the number of his idol, Boston Celtics legend Larry Bird.
Looking back, I think becoming a parent to my siblings and me and going to our games gave my dad a new set of idols to cheer on.
But don’t think I don’t outperform my dad in admiration. He retired in October after more than 30 years with the Delray Beach Fire Department, so I’ve always known him to be a hero to myself and thousands of others — and I hope to make a difference like he has.
I miss playing soccer now. I miss the team environment, my grit in the goal and how healthy I felt. But I’ll never miss having my dad as my number one fan because his support transcends beyond the field.
He may be supporting me from a few thousand miles away now, but I can still hear his cheers above the crowd at my soccer games. And I can still picture the face behind the camera in that photo of me from the day I scored my first goal.
