It was a day I had been preparing for longer than most 12 year olds can imagine. Practicing soccer every day for years, months, days and hours. Kicking, passing, running, shooting. And the day had finally arrived for try outs for the City select under-14 club team. It was an icy late-fall Chicago day, and given the time of year, try-outs for an outdoor sport were appropriately being held inside a gym.

My mom dropped me off in the parking lot adjacent to the gym just before the 10 a.m. start time. I hopped out of the car wearing my lucky Chicago Bears t-shirt, lucky Chicago Bears shorts, lucky Chicago Bulls tube socks and soccer flats complete with lucky Blackhawks laces. She would pick me up at 2 p.m., 4 hours later when try-outs would be over. I was full of confidence, and I watched as she drove away knowing that the rest of the day was to be my destiny. Playing soccer on championship teams would build my name and my reputation, but earning my way onto the Chicago bears as their star kicker would be my enduring glory.

I approached the registration table and fell in line behind three other kids waiting to sign in. I peered ahead to the kid in front and noticed her pulling something out of her shorts and handing it to the woman behind the table. What was that? Money? You have to pay to get in? I craned my neck forward and listened more closely. “That will be $5 dollars, please,” the lady said. I froze. I had no money with me. Nobody told me I needed money to get in. To say that I was about to come face to face with what would become the largest social challenge I would ever have to learn to overcome would be the first generic word to describe Me. Shyness.

Before it came to my turn to be at the front of the line, I dashed away to the side of the parking lot. I had no money. How would I get in? I sat on the curb to think. My mom was gone. I didn’t know any of the grown-ups at the try-out. They were all so scary. As the wind began to pick up, I settled into the curb, pulled up my tube socks and tried to think. About anything except asking anyone for help. That was not to be in the plan. In the end, and 4 hours later, there was no plan. The curb was my only friend.

My mom drove up right on time at 2 pm that day. I slowly stood up, dreams dashed to make the team, yet now just a frozen human homage to the Chicago Bears in my self-made uniform that never got a try-out. I struggled to get in the car. She looked at me and asked why I looked so cold. I stuttered and quietly said, "I didn’t have $5." Stunned, she suddenly realized what had happened and why I sat outside for 4 hours. Alone.

Now my mother, an Irish woman whose calming and wonderful sense of mothering would only ever be interrupted by the Chicago Bears or Cubs, displayed no different behavior in this instance. She looked at me and said very earnestly, “Maureen, one day, you will learn to speak up. Until then, I want you to watch everyone you see go by in your life. Become the best listener in the world. You will learn more that way than by anything you will ever say in this lifetime anyway. And one day I know you will gain the courage to talk. You must. If for no other reason than someone needs to help those hapless Chicago Bears win a damn game. They need you as their kicker.”

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't see myself on that curb before giving a speech or sometimes even asking for a simple favor. That curb has in some ways become my friend. But one thing's for sure: I don't wear the tube socks any more.

By: Maureen
Hometown: Chicago, IL