Soccer

Lately, on our nightly trips to Belmont, J.P. and I have been spending more and more time on the soccer field playing soccer.  He has a small-sized soccer ball I picked up a long time ago at Athlete's House.  I keep it in the back of my truck and we get it out each night we're up there. 

He's really pretty good with the soccer ball.  Usually, he runs onto the field when we get there, throws the ball on the ground, then takes off running and kicking it across the field (or dribbling, as they say in the World Cup).  I chase him and he squeals as I get closer to him, laughing.  As he kicks the soccer ball over the paved track at the end of his run, I yell "GOOOOOOAAAAL!"  After a couple of good runs back and forth across the field, we stop and take turns "passing" the ball to each other.

It's awesome, really, because he'll kick the ball to me, then I'll kick it right back to him.  Sometimes, he'll miss the ball completely and just laugh, which makes me laugh.  Other times, he kicks it right back to me, which is pretty cool.  He's clearly right footed but, with encouragement, he'll kick the ball to me with his left foot, as well.  Although I know virutally nothing about soccer, I enjoy every minute of our time playing soccer together.

Tonight, we stood on the side of the soccer field nearest the tennis courts, passing the ball to each other.  I kicked it backwards to J.P., with my heel, much to his delight.  He tried to do the same thing, but couldn't quite manage it.  He got tickled as he tried, which made me laugh even harder.  We stood there on the soccer field, bathed in the light from the tennis courts, laughing and laughing.  Not talking, just laughing. 

That's what it's all about, I think.