I ran down the steep hill curling down from the high school towards town. Talib Kwali was thumping in my ears as I thought about the stretch between then and now. My sister and I talked about gift giving and she mentioned the giant balderdash game she gave me on my eighteenth birthday and realized “whoops, this isn’t a gift for a young man.”

I had thought I would have been moody, but she said I was jovial. I wondered how often I’ve looked back and remembered darker days than what they actually were. And which ones were darker than I imagined.

But as my knees protested during my descent down the hill I started laughing. I imagined talking with that eighteen year old. Too many things set to come to advise for. I’d have given him a bear hug and told him to buckle up— because the ride was about to be ridiculous.

I wouldn’t change anything. Surely some things could have played out better, but I wouldn’t have learned the lessons I have. I wouldn’t be this version of me.

I don’t think you have to suffer to grow. But there are costs to experiences. Roads taken and not. It’s especially true of the stuff you try to run from. The desires inside you that clamor to see the light of day, but in your fear of failure or the world, you stuff it deep down. Locked in a crayon scrawled box marked “big dream” and refuse to open it. That’s where the trouble is. Because that dream isn’t some inanimate thing— it’s a living part of you. And each refusal to meet it eye to eye takes you deeper into troubled water.

For myself I’ve had two big dreams— one a little more nebulous than the other.

First, I’ve wanted to be a writer. Now the vein of this is a little muddled, because as of right now, I am a writer. Certainly not anything beyond a self published one/- and certainly a little lazier in my edits and revisions than a professional writer would be. But I’m relatively prolific for a guy that writes wack a doodle stories in his phone notes and puts them on a website called “Hamjackal.”

My biggest struggle here is not wanting to push further into the publishing world. Not wanting to bend my ideas for anyone else. It could just be a fear of acceptance/ rejection. Because once you deliver there’s an onus to keep on delivering. As of now, there aren’t any overbearing expectations on my writing. Hell, for the 2,500 page views in 2023, I received maybe ten messages about anything I wrote? But if you do need this and would ever like to comment or message me about stories please fire away!

The second dream is a little different. My entire life can be boiled down to a love of stories and soccer. Even better when they’re combined. As a young buck I wanted to be a professional player, but even then I knew I didn’t have the drive or skill to make the leap beyond talented amateur. But I did have a burning love that led me to consuming all the soccer info I came across. Matches, movies, documentaries, books, magazines. I have piles of Four Four Two in my house. My favorite part being the dream XI former players and coaches would make.

But for someone that loves the game to a near encyclopedic level, I didn’t know how to jump to the next stage after it became clear competitive playing days would soon be over.

My traditional response to fear is to freeze and then break it by charging at whatever scares the fuck out of me.

So that’s how I figured out the next step.

I had started playing the Football Manager game during high school after reading a ridiculous amount of career stories on forums. Such a soccer fanatic that I was reading accounts of simulated games/ careers.

The game itself can be a headache to navigate. The depth of detail is daunting— especially when all you want to do when you start is see your side score goals. Instead you’re dealing with a half-talented goalkeeper is the reserves complaint about how they deserve a new contract even though they’ve shipped ten goals in the last three games they’ve played in.

No worries if none of that catches your fancy, but it’s part and parcel of the game and the level of devotion some people showed to their saves (and teams) was astonishing. So much so that I’d read stories about the players who’d gone on to get their coaching badges to do it in real life. Not as ridiculous when you learn some of the top managers in the world have played the game. But funny nonetheless especially since it’s what spurred me to go and get my first coaching license.

To paraphrase Blink 182 I was “eighteen without a clue or a fucking explanation,” as I began my coaching odyssey.

The course itself slotted me with a bunch of older guys and one girl my own age who played for the Oregon State team.

In terms of being vocal or clear in instruction, I bombed. My practice lesson was a muddled disaster, but I got through the course and received my first license. Which I promptly went on to not use for three years.

It wasn’t until I was working at the Starbucks on 39th and Sandy in Northeast when the varsity coach came in to get coffee and we caught up (having played in his program). He had just switched over to the girls program and was looking for a JV2 coach, so I seized my opportunity and let him know I was licensed and interested. Within three weeks I was out on the sidelines watching tryouts start.

I still have a photo from that day as I rocked some coiffed hair, sunglasses, a blue v neck, and a bag of nerves as I hoped I wouldn’t be spotted for the fraud I felt I was.

There’s nothing like coaching where I feel consistently in a state of learning. No other vocation where I’ve struggled to even start because of my fears I wouldn’t be good enough.

In short, it’s the dream that terrifies me more than anything else. And probably why I’ve dodged it for years as I’ve galavanted through college, the western side of America, and now Japan. I had to show myself that even with all the other options, coaching was “the thing.” And I’ll be damned if it isn’t.

From the community of coaches and players, to the parents and fans, soccer is the place where I feel alternately most at home and the least.

Most coaches I’ve met have been high level players. Due to circumstance and skill, that’s not the path I traveled. Instead, I’ve had a more eclectic background that I bring to the game. And when it comes to players that struggle, I wager I understand them on a level that perennial winners can’t. I know what it is to lose the connection to the game. To be confronted by thoughts and realities that you might not be good enough— and then finding your way through by deciding for yourself was “good enough” will actually mean. What the shape of your efforts will provide for you outside of the field. Time and time again I told players that this game is a game— but it can also be a place to build parts of yourself that will carry you in other areas of your life.

It’s alright to not win a state title or score the most goals in a season. It’s alright to not be the starter or star player.

These things are alright when you try your best. When you can look at your efforts and know you’ve wrung every ounce of energy and skill out of them that you could.

It’s more important to build your sense of self your confidence in who you are and how you handle challenges. It’s more important to fear your fears and anxieties- and learn that it’s just as important to rest as it is to push yourself.

I fucking love this game— and what it can add to life. Because it’s a game— it’s supposed to be a thing of joy. Of course, a place of challenge and achievement, of pain and agony, of effort. But through it all— there should be a joy that you get to spend time on a pitch kicking around a ball. That you’re joined by like minded people— and as you step out from the game you take with you the understanding that life itself is not so different— and all the challenges you’ve faced on the field you can face off of it.

I don’t know exactly how it’ll be when I return to Portland to jump back into coaching. But I know I’ll be rocking with at least three of my favorite coaches and that alone is a gift that I’m truly grateful for.

Funny to travel halfway across the world and the thing you want to get back to is standing on a sideline trying to sort your players in a high press (or something along those lines).

Dreams change and evolve— especially when you meet them face to face and allow them the space to grow.

I’ll never be a professional player and hell, I might not even become a professional coach, but at least with one I know I’m going to give it my best shot.