The Game Comes Full Circle

My dad coached me on Saturday mornings. Years later, I watched my three-year-old son play his first game—and saw those memories differently.

Growing up, Saturdays meant soccer.

Wake up early. Grab the uniform and cleats. Get in the car.

My dad, Walter—same name as me—was my coach. As a kid, I never thought about what it took for him to be there. I just wanted the ball at my feet and to hear Dad calling my name from the sideline.

I didn’t know those ordinary Saturdays would stay with me.

Years later, I found myself back at a soccer field. Except this time, I wasn’t playing.

I was watching my three-year-old son, Josiah, play his first game.

At three, fútbol is simple. Run, kick the ball, smile and chase it again.

But watching him brought everything back.

I used to be the kid looking for Dad on the sideline.

Now I was Dad.

Suddenly, all those Saturdays meant a little more.

I don’t know if Josiah will remember his first game or how long he’ll play. But I’ll remember watching him run onto that field.

Because for a moment, I wasn’t thinking about where the game might take him.

I was thinking about where it had already taken us.

From my dad, to me, to him.

And somehow, fútbol made a Saturday morning feel like home again.