Descriptive Essay

My dad had just gotten home and I was eager to kick the soccer ball outside with him.  It was my first year playing soccer on a team, and I refused to be the worst one there.  I was playing on a Fairmount team for kids ages 8-10.  I had only ever just kicked the soccer ball around, and was not very good.  I was in dire need of practice.  My neighbor was on my team, and her mom was the coach.  I could have practiced with her, if I asked.  They knew how to play soccer well, and could easily help me.  But nothing is better than getting to spend some quality time with your dearest dad by kicking the soccer ball around. 

We would stand three yards apart in the middle of the small street, and kick the ball back and forth to each other.   He would help me when I needed it, and teach me new tricks when we were getting bored. We would kick the soccer ball for half an hour and talk.  We would talk about what it was going to be like to play on a team, what position I may want to play, and what it was like when he was on a team as a boy.  It would be the perfect opportunity for us to bond.

My dad was always at his office working.  My mom was the one who picked me up from school, took me to violin lessons, and tried to keep me occupied when I was bored.  She was really good at tennis, but dreadful at soccer.  My sister was usually at home doing homework and talking with friends.  She was always “too busy” to play soccer with me, which was not much of a loss, since she was worse than my mom.   My dad was the only person in my family who knew how to play soccer.  But he was also only at home in the early morning, and three hours before my bedtime.

When my dad would plop his bag down by the brown wooden chair by our stairs, he would say hello to my mom, and go down stairs for a beer.  After a long day of work, a bottle of beer was his usual reward. Then he would come back up stairs and tell me the name of the beer, some of which had funny names. He would then head downstairs and plop onto the cream sofa in our living room.

            One day, when he came home after a long day of work, I had barely given him enough time to find the television remote to watch the news before I interrupted his relaxation.  “Dad can we kick the soccer ball around outside?” I asked eagerly, he looked up down at me, for I was still really short, and said “No.”  He explained to me that he had just gotten back from work, and needed some time to relax, and that we would practice after dinner. 

This was our daily routine.  I would ask, he would say “no,” and we would play after dinner. I would protest when he refused to play soccer with me. I would tell him that it would get too dark after dinner, and that all he was doing was kicking the soccer ball, so it wouldn’t take up much energy.  I would beg and whine, hoping he would give in.  I would tug on his arm, trying to press him up.  Then I would get so tired of whining that I would just give up, and sit at our table waiting for dinner.

I understood why he wanted to rest.  After my short day of school, I was exhausted and in no mood to do my homework that I would needed to be completed by the next day. While I had my short seven-hour school day, my dad was working from eight in the morning to six in the evening.  And his work was much more tiring and required more patience than math-baseball and dodge ball.  But I was his daughter, and I wanted to play soccer with my dad. His duty was to play with me and I expected him to reserve some time in his day to do so. But did have three hours to myself after school, while my dad had just gotten home from work, and I was already begging for him to give up more of his time.

When dinnertime ended, I would slip on my shoes, run to the cubby were my soccer ball was sitting, and run out the door, calling for my dad to hurry up.  My dad and I would start out kicking the soccer ball back and forth.  Then he would say we could only use our right feet.  Then he would switch it to the left.  We would switch to our toes, heels or knees.  My dad always came up with new challenges for me.  He said it was to keep me interested in the sport. 

Streetlights would turn on; he would say ten more passes each.  I would try and raise it from 10 to 50.  And as we were kicking the soccer ball back and forth, we would debate the number of passes we got each.  After I passed the soccer ball to him, he would scoop it up, and say, “that’s twenty,”- ten more than we agreed.

My dad works 10 hours a day, and has four hours at home.  Those four hours are his time to relax and whined down from his busy day.  All I wanted was a little bit of his time to play soccer, when I wanted to.  But despite his long and busy day, he did always leave some time for us to play soccer.  And although I did not think to care when I was in third grade, that time after dinner was something to value.