I was watching some little kids play soccer. These kids were only five
or six years old, but they were playing a real game - - a serious game
_ two teams, complete with coaches, uniforms, and parents. I didn't
know any of them, so I was able to enjoy the game without the
distraction of
being anxious about winning or losing - I wished the parents and
coaches could have done the same.
The teams were pretty evenly matched. I will just call them Team One
and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first period. The kids were
hilarious. They were clumsy and terribly inefficient. They fell over
their own feet, they stumbled over the ball, they kicked at the ball
and missed it but they didn't seem to care. They were having fun.
In the second quarter, the Team One coach pulled out what must have
been his first team and put in the scrubs, except for his best player
who now guarded the goal.
The game took a dramatic turn. I guess winning is important even when
you're five years old -- because the Team Two coach left his best
players in, and the Team One scrubs were no match for them. Team Two
swarmed around the little guy who was now the Team One goalie. He was
an
outstanding athlete, but he was no match for three or four who were
also very good. Team Two began to score. The lone goalie gave it
everything he had, recklessly throwing his body in front of incoming
balls, trying valiantly to stop them.
Team Two scored two goals in quick succession. It infuriated the young
boy. He became a raging maniac -- shouting, running, diving. With all
the stamina he could muster, he covered the boy who now had the ball,
but that boy kicked it to another boy twenty feet away, and by the
time he repositioned himself, it was too late -- they scored a third
goal.
I soon learned who the goalie's parents were. They were nice, decent-
looking people. I could tell that his dad had just come from the
office -- he still had his suit and tie on. They yelled encouragement
to their son. I became totally absorbed, watching the boy on the field
and
his parents on the sidelines. After the third goal, the little kid
changed. He could see it was no use; he couldn't stop them.
He didn't quit, but he became quietly desperate futility was written
all over him. His father changed too. He had been urging his son to
try harder - yelling advice and encouragement. But then he changed. He
became anxious. He tried to say that it was okay - to hang in there.
He
grieved for the pain his son was feeling.
After the fourth goal, I knew what was going to happen. I've seen it
before. The little boy needed help so badly, and there was no help to
be had. He retrieved the ball from the net and handed to the referee -
and then he cried. He just stood there while huge tears rolled down
both cheeks. He went to his knees and put his fists to his eyes - and
he cried the tears of the helpless and brokenhearted.
When the boy went to his knees, I saw the father start onto the field.
His wife clutched his arm and said, "Jim, don't. You'll embarrass
him." But he tore loose from her and ran onto the field. He wasn't
supposed to - the game was still in progress. Suit, tie, dress shoes,
and all - he charged onto the field, and he picked up his son so
everybody would know that this was his boy, and he hugged him and held
him and cried with him. I've never been so proud of a man in my life.
He carried him off the field, and when he got close to the sidelines I
heard him say, "Scotty, I'm so proud of you. You were great out there.
I want everybody to know that you are my son." "Daddy," the boy
sobbed, "I couldn't stop them. I tried, Daddy, I tried and tried, and
they scored on me." "Scotty, it doesn't matter how many times they
scored on you. You're my son, and I'm proud of you. I want you to go
back out there and finish the game. I know you want to quit, but you
can't. And, son, you're going to get scored on again, but it doesn't
matter. Go on, now." It made a difference - I could tell it did.
When you're all alone, and you're getting scored on - and you can't
stop them - it means a lot to know that it doesn't matter to those who
love you. The little guy ran back on to the field - and they scored
two more times - but it was okay. I get scored on every day. I try so
hard. I recklessly throw my body in every direction. I fume and rage.
I struggle with temptation and sin with every ounce of my being - and
Satan laughs. And he scores again, and the tears come, and I go to my
knees - sinful, convicted, helpless.
And my Father - my Father rushes right out on the field - right in
front of the whole crowd - the whole jeering, laughing world - and he
picks me up, and he hugs me and he says, "I'm so proud of you. You
were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son,
and because I control the outcome of this game, I declare you -- The Winner."
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