# data[].attributes.body
I love Soccer with a passion
The game is rough
Skills are required
You play with your feet not with your hands
You do long kicks to make you close to scoring
You can score with your feet or your head
The goalie uses his hands to prevent scores
The sport is popular around the world
Every four years the World cup is played
Players represent the country they love
Fans travel from around the world to support their country
The crowd goes wild when a goal is scored and the players celebrate
The commentator yell's out the sound of........Gooooooooool!!!!!

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From the moment your foot first touched the ballThe look on your face said it all. This is what you were born to do.Growing up, you would continue to play, you just knewSoccer wouldn't be ready for you.Year passed, and so did you, as you became a star.The training you've had would take you far.How far you asked? Championship Game, here you came.With a minute left, you shot the ball hard and upset.But luckily, Whoosh! The ball exploded into the net.

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I play keeper very fine.
When the ball comes it’s all mine.
Bam!! Goes the ball off the pole.
I just saved another goal.
Whack!!  The ball has been shot.
It comes to me and I’ve caught.
You can try and try and try.
You will never get the ball by.

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The adrenaline.
The excitement.
The energy.
It surrounded the field.
The whistle blew.
One team against another.
One world against another.
They raced for the ball.
Dribble, dribble, pass shoot.
The other team scored.
Two minutes into the game.
Cheers came from one side of the field.
“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.” Cried a defender.
Her team reassured her it wasn’t, even thought they all knew it was.
“C’mon guys, it’s not over, we can win this.”
One girl whispered.
Everyone was back in position.
They were ready to strike back.
Except their centre midfielder.
She could feel her knee acting up again.
She reminded herself to not limp, or else,
she would have to get of the field, and helplessly watch the game.
She could see that smirk.
The smirk on the opposing team.
“How dumb.” She thought.
“They think they’re going to win.”
The whistle blew once more.
She received a pass.
Passed it back.
This was how it continued.
Running, passing, stealing the ball, taking a shot on net.
They made sure to not make it easy for the other team.
She ran but unknowingly, she limped.
She had the ball,
She raged up the field.
No one could catch her now.
Her knee throbbed, but she ran on.
“Kick her in the knee.”
She heard the other team hiss.
Right then she passed the ball to her centre striker.
Then, there was the pain.
A hard blow to her already aching knee.
Her knee buckled.
She collapsed onto the field.
She could think of nothing but the pain.
It was overwhelming.
But then there was the anger.
She wanted to stand.
She wanted to tackle the girl who had kicked her.
She wanted her revenge.
But it wasn’t possible.
She was done.
No more playing soccer.
No more living.

# data[].attributes.body
In the U.S.A., soccer tiz
A game to be played more by kids.
Hard ball to sell as money biz
In the sports world of profit grids.
For U.S.A., the point is score.
We the People do like to win,
And do so entertained galore.
So supply is priced to cash in
On demand of fans who expect
Instant gratification by
Bang for the buck in sport select.
Soccer’s fun free, but not to buy.

Selling soccer in U.S.A?
Not enough drama play to pay.

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A Boy Juggling A Soccer Ball By Christopher Merrill

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A Boy Juggling A Soccer Ball By Christopher Merrill

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After practice: right foot
to left foot, stepping forward and back,
to right foot and left foot,
and left foot up to his thigh, holding
it on his thigh as he twists
around in a circle, until it rolls
down the inside of his leg,
like a tickle of sweat, not catching
and tapping on the soft
side of his foot, and juggling
once, twice, three times,
hopping on one foot like a jump-roper
in the gym, now trapping
and holding the ball in midair,
balancing it on the instep
of his weak left foot, stepping forward
and forward and back, then
lifting it overhead until it hangs there;
and squaring off his body,
he keeps the ball aloft with a nudge
of his neck, heading it
from side to side, softer and softer,
like a dying refrain,
until the ball, slowing, balances
itself on his hairline,
the hot sun and sweat filling his eyes
as he jiggles this way
and that, then flicking it up gently,
hunching his shoulders
and tilting his head back, he traps it
in the hollow of his neck,
and bending at the waist, sees his shadow,
his dangling T-shirt, the bent
blades of brown grass in summer heat;
and relaxing, the ball slipping
down his back…and missing his foot.

He wheels around, he marches
over the ball, as if it were a rock
he stumbled into, and pressing
his left foot against it, he pushes it
against the inside of his right
until it pops into the air, is heeled
over his head- the rainbow! –
and settles on his extended thigh before
rolling over his knee and down
his shin, so he can juggle it again
from his left foot to his right foot
– and right foot to left foot to thigh-
as he wanders, on the last day
of summer, around the empty field.

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Kick me again
And watch me deflate-
A once new soccer ball
Promised fair play,
But stomped on, defaced,
And crushed out of shape-
Just kick me again
And watch me deflate.

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Soccer, The Beautiful Game By Derek Jensen

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Soccer, The Beautiful Game By Derek Jensen

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The Beautiful Game, inflamer of passion,
Maker of legends and timeless skill;
The sport of the world, whether rich or poor.
From the packed dirt streets of Africa,
To the green grass pitches in England,
Is that matchless, extrordinary, game of games played.

It’s a game of running, yet not always all out.
It’s a game of passion, yet under harness and rein.
It’s a gae of team, of passing and sharing.
It’s a game supreme, this Beautiful Game.

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I love you more than my old soccer cleats,
The ones I’ll never give up.
I love you more than the perfect field,
The one I use to warm up.
I love you more than my soccer ball,
The one that’s perfect for amazing passes.
I love you more than me running along those different types of grasses.
I love you more than the cheering crowds,
The stands made out of plaster.
I love you more than that perfect kick,
That I have yet to master.
I love you more than my soccer cleats the ones that hold all reason.
I love you more than my coach, my soccer team and my season.
I love you more than winning that world cup,
That we have yet to reclaim.
I can’t believe I love you more than the beautiful game.

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To play on the field
There’s no yield
my friends, my coaches, and me
Wide open space
To run free
Do some moves
‘Round the players
Here we go
Let your passion show
Shoot some goals
One by one
What’s that
You’re having fun! !
She shoots….
SHE SCORES! ! !
You just won your season
Your fans scream:
LET’S GO TEAM! !