Number Eight
My first soccer practice was at E. Rivers Elementary School in Atlanta, Georgia in 1977. I jumped out of my mom’s car and then ran pell mell down a steep, tree-lined hillside to the soccer field below. It’s a vivid memory still.
The number on my jersey that year was number 8 — and I’ve stuck with that jersey number for the last 36 years.
Imagine my joy when I saw this during a two-hour bus ride earlier this week in Rwanda:
In a way, our experience in Rwanda has so far lifted me like that long-ago hillside run. The adventure — open, unknown, raw, Glorious — has been every bit as exhilarating as the expectation of a young man’s first-ever soccer practice, on the eve of running and running and running with a sport and a great Gift for decades to come.
Wonderful words, as usual, Jim!
The “three boys on bikes” photo is really getting me. Not simply because of how cool motorcycles are. But it’s such a great image of young men experiencing the world as it is.
Carry on. …but hurry home.