I progressed playing goalie throughout my tenure as a corpulent child. One mundane game, the ball didn’t even enter my Goalie Precinct in the first half. In the second half, stir-studded child that I was, my indulgences compelled me to sit in the grass, pick flowers and string them together into intricate flower-chains. Consequently, I installed myself in a particularly flower-filled area in front of the goal and labored at my flower-chains, my swelled stomach only intermittently inhibiting my flower-focus. Flower field fancies flipped in my fantasies. Abruptly, cheers and applause charged my ears. I looked up to a forward on the other team fifteen feet away drawing her leg back to strike a shot at the goal. At me. I leapt to my feet as the ball flared through the air. I caught the ball and dropkicked it. I realized afterwards, my initial petrified reaction to a ball hurrying toward my head was to pee my pants.
I peed my pants in the middle of a game because my focus had been on flower-chains.
I was that kid.