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The red and white stripes of his jersey seem to fly off as he sprints right by me. His black number 8 glows vividly, though, as I turn to watch him weave from side to side to set up and release his enormously powerful shot. He shoots; he scores. “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLL! Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole! “ I already know the rhythmic mantra too well as the opposing under-fifteen national team from Mexico dissolves my small under-sixteen team from south Florida. Returning to the Kelloggs National Tournament for a third straight year, we go into the matches thinking we can win, but our foes dissipate our victorious thoughts into a nine-goal loss. I was thirteen years old and breathed soccer. My coach, George Sasvari, had not only inhaled the game for his entire life of forty years, but he knew all the exchanges of oxygen, blood, and sweat as he lectured us about strategies.
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