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Inner Peace

I’d love to tell you that my boy loves soccer.

That wearing those little cleats at seven a.m. on a Saturday morning means something.

But I’ll just tell you the truth instead.

My son doesn’t care a lick about that red ball.

Not yet.

And maybe never.

He doesn’t care either about which direction he ought to kick it…

If he kicks it.

My boy just wants to bounce in the leaf pile behind the goal and chase his buddies with a two foot crunchy branch he found by the fence.

He hollers to gather everyone into the net. His house.

And when the rest run for water, he closes his eyes instead and whispers, “inner peace, inner peace, inner peace.”

At which time I’m not sure who needs inner peace more.

Him.

Or me.

When we leave, it isn’t with talk of soccer or anything else relevant to the last hour.

No…it’s with a small log hanging from the draw string of his shorts.

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