The smiling young man pictured here always believed he had the stuff to make it to the top, and this is his day to prove it - he’s been invited to a tryout with the West Brom soccer club. The big time.
As he walks out for the scrimmage young Frank O’Mahony can barely believe his eyes, or his feet, which have never stood on a field this beautiful. The grass is so green it seems to glow, and there’s not a bare patch in sight.
The game starts - Brits call it football, not soccer - and it’s as if the splendid conditions actually elevate his game. Frank is outrunning the defenders, controlling the ball as if it’s on a string, passing well and faking out his opponents.
He’s elated as the first half ends, knowing he has to be making an impression on the coaches. This is it! All that practice, all those push-ups, all those games he’s played on shabby fields with bad lighting…at last, it’s about to pay off. By halftime Frank really believes his dream is going to come true.
Or is it?
He takes the field for the second half, and can’t believe his eyes. He’s standing in the shadow of the guy who’ll be defending him, a veteran West Brom star named Bill. He’s big, he’s broad, he’s fast, and worst of all for Frank, he likes to knock guys around, at a time before fouls were called on the rough stuff.
To top it off, Bill is fully rested, having sat out the first half. Frank, bruised and aching from his all-out play, feels his shoulders sag as he watches Bill shaking his arms and jogging in place, like a boxer eager for the bell.
Oh no, Frank thinks. I’m a dead man!
It’s as if Bill can read his mind. With just moments before the start of play, a smiling Bill puts a friendly grip on Frank’s elbow.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ve been watching you. You’re gonna make it. Go ahead and play your game. I’ll hit you a few times to make it look good, but play your game.”
Play your game. Three of the most beautiful words in the English language, right up there with I love you.
Bill is good to his word. He knocks Frank down a few times, but gives him enough light and space to showcase his gifts. The final whistle blows to end the game, and as an exhausted Frank walks off the field, the head coach puts an arm across his shoulders.
“Welcome to the club,” he says.
Okay, now, what business do I have calling this a Christmas story, when it might have happened in the springtime of that long-ago year? Well, for one thing, we lost Frank O’Mahony, my father-in-law, during the holiday season last year, so he’s in our thoughts.
But there’s more to it than that. Of the many soccer stories Frank shared over the years, this was always my favorite.
What if Bill had decided to turn mean on that young kid, and squash him from the start? What if Frank had gone home from that tryout, rejected and defeated? That kind of embitterment can darken the rest of a man’s life.
Instead, Frank got to play in the big time before cheering crowds of 80,000, and the joy of those games stayed with him for the rest of his 83 years. He was one of the most optimistic people you could ever hope to meet.
He told his tryout story time and again, and I never tired of hearing it, the way you never tire of hearing your favorite song.
“Why do you think Bill gave you that break?” I once asked.
Frank shrugged. “I really don’t know.”
Point is, we don’t have to know. It’s enough to know that it happened, that the bottomless gap between “almost” and “yes” can sink anyone’s soul, and that on a soccer field more than sixty years ago, a guy named Bill bridged that gap for a kid he didn’t even know.
A life-altering act of decency. Man, that’s what I call a gift. The kind you don’t find under a Christmas tree.
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