Don't worry, kid. You're a soccer player. You won't need those testicles.

As I sit down in my best Doogie Howser, M.D. posture, ready to type my wit and witticisms in my best Kevin Arnold internal monologue, I am reminded of a confusing time in my life.  It was in elementary school that I noticed I was different than the other boys.  I would sit there in my 32 huskies watching my classmates change into Larry Bird shorts and and polo shirts.  There was something about this routine that was foreign to me.  My DNA felt a strange connection to this feeling, as if somewhere in the long-long-ago one of my distant ancestors might have shared this feeling.  However in that moment, while the stars aligned signaling my generation’s place in the world, I felt numb.  After a few weeks I finally worked up the nerve to ask my father the one question that could only come out with the strength and determination of a thousand Spartan soldiers.

“Father.”  I said.  “Why don’t I play soccer?”

“Drizzle.” He responded. “Our family left Europe so we would never have to see that fuckin’ sport again.  Now shut up and get me a beer.  The Red Sox are about to become the 1986 World Series Champions.”

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