When it comes to team sports, the goal is simple: win as a team. But there’s always an MVP or two, right?
Which is why, in football, the spotlight usually lands on the strikers. Not the goalkeeper. The goalie rarely gets cheers for doing his job. But if he dives the wrong way or misses a penalty? Cue the groans.
So, my son has been playing football for a while. He’s tried out various positions but recently chose to settle on goalkeeping.
Being the involved (read: slightly meddling) mum I am, I gently suggested he consider a position with more visibility—and more running. Not going to lie, I thought it might help him shed some baby fats.
But more than that, I didn’t want him to feel like a spare part while his teammates dashed around. With his naturally “chillax” nature, I worried he might have just accepted a role no one else wanted. I nudged him to speak to his coach. “Or I could talk to him, if you prefer,” I offered.
He hemmed and hawed, and I silently wished he’d just speak up for what he wanted.
Then one day, he did.
“I want to be a goalkeeper because I don’t think I can outrun my friends,” he said, in a very demure, very thoughtful manner. “And I enjoy the wind in my hair when I dive for the ball. So, I think this position works for the team and me.”
That was my moment of clarity: It’s not about what I want. It’s about what he wants.
As parents, we mean well. We advise, we push, we worry. All in the name of protecting our kids from missed chances and mistakes. But sometimes, we just have to let it go—and let them grow.
That doesn’t mean throwing them into the deep end without a float. It means supporting them in discovering their own voice. At home, at school. For example, when choosing CCAs or subject combinations, we can guide, discuss, weigh options—with them, not for them. Then step back and let them decide.
That one conversation helped me see my son in a new light. He’s not the loudest or the flashiest, but he’s steady, empathetic, and quietly confident. He rallies his teammates when they falter, regroups the squad with grace, and even tears up with them when they lose. He leads without needing a spotlight.
His thoughtful reply, calm and measured, was more impressive than any dramatic protest. And I see this same quiet strength reflected in his schoolwork too—from teacher feedback to holistic reports. I’m grateful our schools offer more than just academics—opportunities like competitions and exchanges help kids develop the life skills they’ll need long after exams are over.
On the pitch, things are going well. My boy—sturdy and solid—uses his build to his advantage. Opponents don’t charge the goalpost quite so boldly now. He’s even joined a youth league, training under a national programme with a more rigorous regime.
Got to go. My son’s match is about to start. The crowd will cheer for goals—but I’ll save my loudest hurrah for every save my not-so-little keeper makes.
