For those who know me, this title is funny. For those who don’t, I will explain. I don’t play soccer, in fact, I don’t play any sport. I write about football, but truth be told I only know enough about football to be able to half-ass watch a game. I like high school football because of the energy and because it’s required in my house, since my husband coaches. Sports and I are like math and me – contradictory.

When I was growing up, I tried to play soccer. All I remember is that I hated running and during a game, I went the wrong way on the field. In elementary school and seventh grade, my extra-curricular activities include playing the piano for a short while and then playing the flute. I wasn’t bad at the flute.  I actually remember going back and forth from second to first chair. I also remember going to Dairy Queen after concerts and eating banana splits to celebrate.

My brother, however, was a super jock. He played soccer and received a scholarship because he was such a good player. After college, he even played pro for a while. Yes, that green monster was there. I was jealous. But I was also always very proud of my brother. So was my dad. He went to all of his games and talked about him all of the time. Okay, this may not be factual, but in my eyes, my father’s favorite was my brother because he was a super stud soccer player – unlike his adopted non-athletic daughter.

Oh, the pains of wanting to be the favorite child.

My dad now has seven children. Not all are from his blood. He loves each of us in a different way and does the best he can at being a dad to us all. Who is his favorite now? I would say it changes daily. I no longer need to be his favorite. I just need to know he loves me. And I know that.

He was visiting from Kentucky and came over for dinner. I got him to myself because it was Halloween and everyone else was busy. The need to have his undivided attention will never go away. When we talked earlier in the day, he said he was going back to my brothers to finish my book. YES! My book! I about shit my pants. My dad was reading my book – my young adult novel about a girl and boy, friendships, stepparents and football. He had forty or so pages to go.

He was at my soccer game, rooting me on. He said he had tears in his eyes at the end.  I feel like I kicked the winning goal.

Side note – My mom read my book too. But I’ve always been her favorite, I was the first.  Love you mom. (Truth be told – I think my baby brother is actually her favorite. And now that she has grandkids, who trump all of us.)