Summer. A time for ball-park brats, Cracker-Jacks, and baseball. Hunched down in my stance, I control center field. My hand pounds my glove, preparing me for anything that comes my way. The pitcher signals, “Two outs! Full count!” Bottom of the seventh inning. The opposing team’s clean-up hitter struts to the plate with a cockiness only A-Rod could pull off. I smirk. I check my stance, spit sunflower seeds, and await the pitch. Crrraaackk! I react to the lightning strike sound of the ball crushing the bat. It’s soaring to right-center on a line drive. Can I make the catch? I lay out for the ball like Superman and squeeze my hand as the ball buries itself in my glove. We won the game. The ball-park announcer howls my name – “Colin Koerber.”
It’s the beginning of junior year, the hardest out of the four. A blank page. My mom challenges me with a bet to get a 4.0 GPA. I laugh. Its game time. Test by test, problem by problem, I demolish each. Nearing the finish line, I earned all A’s. One last exam stands between me and my mom. Nervousness. Sweat slides down my brow like a leak on a drain pipe. The results returned. The next day. In the paper, under the Arrowhead High School Honor Roll, 4.0 read my name – “Colin Koerber.”
The first game of the 2013 National Soccer Championships kicks off. SC Waukesha verses fourth ranked Santa Clara California. The heat suffocates and each ray of sun pierces through my skin like arrows. The referee’s silver whistle sounds. Intensity. The atmosphere, like a college party, rages on. We get an abrupt corner kick five minutes in. Get me the ball. Like a magician, I slice through three defenders and score the first goal of the tournament. The crowd ignites. Ending the competition third in the country, the announcer lays the bronze medal around my neck and announces my name – “Colin Koerber.”