What do you love now that you hated when you were younger? 

I would love to tell you the answer is vegetables, specifically beets, but that would be a lie. I still can’t look at a beet without revisiting some deep childhood trauma. Whatever marketing campaign beets are running, I’m not buying.

Instead, I’ll slightly reinterpret the question and talk about something I simply didn’t understand when I was younger: soccer.

Growing up in the United States more than fifty years ago, soccer barely registered on my radar. We knew there was a ball; you kicked it, and apparently, touching it with your hands was frowned upon. That was about the extent of my soccer knowledge.

Today, I watch at least a game a week. When the World Cup comes around, I’m all in. I know the major leagues, many of the teams, a fair number of players, and enough of the rules to appreciate the strategy and skill involved. What once seemed boring now has layers I never noticed.

That said, there is one part of the sport I still struggle to embrace.

I grew up playing ice hockey. In hockey, a player can lose a tooth, get stitched up, and be back on the ice before the crowd finishes reacting. In soccer, a player gets clipped on the ankle, and suddenly it’s a full theatrical production. There’s rolling, grimacing, appeals to the referee, and enough drama for a daytime soap opera.

A trainer eventually jogs out carrying what appears to be a picnic basket, spends thirty seconds checking on the fallen hero, and moments later, the player is sprinting around the field as the Road Runner escaped from a Looney Tunes episode.

So while I’ve learned to love soccer, let’s just say I’m still adapting to some of its cultural traditions.

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