Photo: (from left) Our dog Max, my brother and I hanging out in the backyard

Every time I kick any kind of ball it takes me back to playing soccer in my backyard in Germany when I was a kid. My older brother and I were both on soccer teams at school, so our garden was the perfect place to hone our skills. There was a set of monkey bars in the middle of our lawn, so we had to be careful not to collide with it during our games. 

I have good memories of playing soccer for hours in the summer heat and taking breaks to quench our thirst with ice-cold drinks. Occasionally, we would kick the soccer ball into my mother’s flower garden by accident and then try to hide the damage before she noticed. When the ball went into a bush full of stinging nettles (= a plant with leaves that sting you and leave bumps on your skin), we played rock, paper, scissors to decide who would retrieve it. 

If we kicked the ball into the neighbour’s backyard, they had no problem with us going over there to get it back. However, there was one time when I jumped back over the fence and landed on the sharp end of a garden tool that pierced my shoe and went into my foot. There was a lot of blood and I recall feeling really dizzy. My parents took me to hospital and I got it treated, but couldn’t participate in the last two matches of the soccer season. 

Back then, I was really upset, but these days it’s a story that I like to reminisce about when I’m sharing childhood memories with friends and people I meet.

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