If there is anything in the world that rattles my self esteem, it is soccer. A swing. Cleat on turf. Ball rolling by. I like to imagine I have sexy thighs and gazelle strides. That my foot impact will create a beautiful arc just beyond the keep. Instead my reflexes mollass, I duck out of the way and step in front of the wrong kick. And when I hit the ground my thigh likely erupts into a ball of cellulite. I try to wear cover-up so my face isn't so red. Red from exhaustion, red from embarrassment.

Good job. Right.

You're doing great. If I was a monkey. Even then, questionable.

It's good in theory. Up until game day I want to play.