As the referee blew the whistle to end the first intramural football game in second year high school, I felt the pressure mounting. Our team was supposedly against the weakest team in the batch, but we could only muster a 1-1 draw in normal time. Our fate would be decided through a penalty shootout.
In a shootout, players from both teams take five penalty kicks, with the win going to the team that scores more. Many of the penalties taken that day are hazy to me; however, the memory of one important kick is seared into my mind: the last penalty of the game.
If our goalkeeper did not save our opponents’ kick, we would lose. Knowing that, our opponents’ kicker stepped up to the spot. Running up to the ball slowly, struck the most lackluster attempt at a penalty kick I’d ever seen, failing to hit the ball properly and sending it rolling across the ground.
I thought that the penalty would be an easy save, but that was before I looked at our goalkeeper. Time slowed as his body flopped toward the ground, like a rotten fish carcass being hurled into the trash. As tentative as the kicker’s penalty was, our goalkeeper matched it with an equally unconvincing attempt at saving it, barely getting a finger to the ball as it rolled across the goal line.
I did not take the defeat well. Having lost to the supposed “easy win” team in the division was humiliating. Returning to our bench after the game, I was fuming—and I didn’t hesitate from letting my team know how I felt. I expressed my sarcastic congratulations to them for officially becoming the worst team in the batch.
Some particularly mean things were said, especially to our team’s goalkeeper. When I looked at him, all I could see was his failure in keeping us in the game.
Despite the sting of defeat, I went home that afternoon thinking I did an excellent job of being a leader. Having been inspired by stories of tough love from professional football captains and managers, the idea I had in my head was that if the team was put down hard, they would have no choice but to rise to the occasion.
This was not the case. Our team went on to lose a number of games moving forward, yet it wasn’t the losses that hurt back then. What hurt the most was the way my teammates—my friends—became indifferent toward the games we played. The passion they had for playing was sapped away from them. It didn’t take me too long to come to the realization that this arrogant manner of addressing them was not one that was helping them achieve their potential and letting them enjoy the game.
Over the years, I’ve come to realize that this angrier version of myself, had such a toxic outlook on life, believing that any mistakes should be condemned.
Thinking it over, I realized that allowing people’s mistakes to define them is to essentially cut off all hope for them to grow or redeem themselves. The football idols I looked up to, like Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo, didn’t have perfect careers; both have failed on the biggest stages at certain points of their lives. If legends of the sport could fail like that, who was I to condemn my friends for having made mistakes of their own.
There are times I am reminded of that angry, misguided, and hypocritical 14-year-old. There are so many who are so quick to gang up on people for the mistakes they make, not for one moment taking into account how they would feel if they were on the opposite end.
I’ve seen all sorts of people have to undergo this trial by fire from others, and I find that many of them are those doing their best to get by, putting their best foot forward. In them, I see the faces of my teammates, who put their best effort on the pitch every single match, no matter the scoreline at the end of the day.
Things changed after I recognized the error of my ways. Instead of anger, I approached my friends humility and kindness. I believe this is the only reason my teammates and I were able to play so many more games together afterward. It was only through constructive discussions that we became a team that could not only win the intramurals in our senior year, but could have fun while doing so.
From that point, I accepted them for the players and the people they were, helping them where I could, and I am grateful that many of them remain my close friends to this day. The goalkeeper I got mad at previously is actually one of my best friends now—with both of us being able to see the funny side of our second year hijinks.
People will always make mistakes; this is essentially the cornerstone of our existence. And though no one enjoys suffering from mistakes—either through our own faults or through the fault of others—you’d think that this shared experience of messing up from time to time would make us more sympathetic toward those who do make the occasional mistake.
In certain ways, mistakes indicate potential for learning. Apathetic rage in response to these errors does not help people learn. It’s through kindness and empathy that people can grow, becoming more than the mistakes they’ve made.
