During my soccer career (1957–1982), if I even had the slightest feeling we could have won, I would get really grumpy. Now I’m a fan of my 11-year-old grandson, R.

R. is a technically skilled and smart soccer player who wins most of his team’s matches. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t handle losing very well: grumpiness and even tears. Or could it be in his genes?

His parents feel that this sad behavior doesn’t belong with an athlete: A heated conversation ensues. An agreement is made clear: “Cheering for a win is always allowed, but you have to learn to deal with a loss.  But leaving the field in tears after a defeat -we’re not doing that anymore.”

Home game against SV Urk. Our boys are already in the middle of their warm-up when the opponents finally take the field. Those boys obviously had to get up early. It’s hard to say whether that takes its toll early in the game, but the home team is quickly up 2-0. Gradually, the game evens out; the teams are more or less matched. Our men play an exceptionally good game until barely five minutes before the end. By then, it’s 4-1.

Then the 4-2 goes in.  The home team collectively thinks that a two-goal lead is enough, but they’re punished for it: 4-3! I check my phone: Less than a minute left! I think, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, “It can’t be, can it?”  The ball goes out of bounds: corner for Urk. In a great hurry, the player runs with the ball under his arm toward the corner flag, quickly puts the ball down, and takes a run-up. High and sharp in front of the goal, the ball lands in a tangle of players, and as usually happens in such a match, the visitors have just thàt little bit extra: the ball crosses the goal line: 4-4! And it’s game over.

From a melee of players (the Urk players cheering and screaming, jumping and tumbling over and through each other), our men emerge battered and bruised. Not a win, not a loss.  My grandson R. comes trotting toward me: anger, disappointment, and frustration vie for dominance, erupting into a crying fit. I step onto the field to catch him. His head almost disappears under my armpit as I hold him close, comforting him. I understand exactly how he feels: I almost cry along with him.