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Here is a story revolving around a soccer game. It is also a story that mentions my soccer playing son.  However, it is in fact a story about neither soccer nor my son.

It is a story about being in the wrong place at the right time. Or perhaps it is a story about being in the right place at the wrong time. Either way, as with many things in life, timing is everything, and the way the events fell into place on this now infamous day, it was an opportunity for me ‘to pay it forward.’

A little over a year ago my son’s collegiate soccer team came north to play in a tournament, a real treat for me as I only had to cross one state line via a huge suspension bridge to see the team. A bonus occurred after the game when the team hopped on their chartered bus and crossed the same bridge in the reverse direction to have dinner at our home.

It was an entertaining evening of camaraderie, conversation, and…rain. Torrential rain that arrived with a vengeance and didn’t quit for 24-hours. And although this story is not about the rain per se, the weather played a minor role in how the events of the next day unfolded.

As Day Two of the tournament got underway, I once again made the trek across the state-line and the suspension bridge. The weather was not keeping me away.

And if you have never watched a soccer game outdoors during a Nor’easter, this is precisely what you are missing:

Umbrellas. Everywhere. So much so that you cannot identify any of the fans hidden beneath the comfort of their colorful canopies.

Wet, water-logged fields.

Wet, water-logged players.

Blinding rain, making it impossible to discern one player from the next.

Sound like fun? Dedicated parents get it. We are all crazy!

While the team was slip-sliding its way to a victory, I noticed one player on the sidelines, head titled back, holding a towel to his face. He was walking quickly down the sidelines, obviously in a state of distress, with a trainer in tow. I did not notice the collision responsible for his injury amidst the raindrops, but I had the keen ability to zero in on his altered posture.

From the distance and the conditions, I could not pick out which player was injured. And to be fair, many of the boys on the team have the same lanky build and dark hair.

I turned my attention back to the game to discover it was halftime and saw another player frantically running to our side of the field.

Number 24. My son.

He sprinted across the field to ask if any parent could drive the injured player to the Emergency Room. One sweet mom replied she would, but she had a flight to catch after the game. Then silence. No takers for this adventure.

My son turned to me. He knows I have it in my heart to take his teammate for medical attention; he knows I have done it for him countless times. Selfishly, I want to stay until the end of the game just to give my son a hug before he departs for the airport.

I relent. In the end, it must be me. I am the only local parent in the stands. And of course, I am happy to assist, yet I can’t figure out the logistics and maneuvering let alone where I parked my car. I’m practicing Calm as I have little hope that I can make it back to the field before the end of the game.

I load up the trainer and Injured Player who is soaking wet, holding a towel to his face, and gingerly asking the trainer if he thinks he will be able to play in the next game.

The trainer has the personality of a rock and speaks only when spoken to. Injured Player is calm and polite, profusely apologizing for the mess he is making all over my car. It’s a miserable drive to a nearby Urgent Care facility but Injured Player is taken back for x-rays right away so I’m hopeful I will get back to the field in time for a hug.

As I keep track of the minutes passing by at a rapid pace, I watch the trainer come out of the examination room to call the coach. I then watch the trainer go back to the examination room without looking in my direction. I feel myself get up out of the chair and go ask the stoic trainer for an update.

It’s doublespeak because he has no idea of the status but doesn’t want to admit this to me. He is also busy trying to figure out how he can get back to the field, so he doesn’t miss the flight.

More excruciating minutes pass before Injured Player appears. Final diagnosis, his nose is broken. He has spoken to his father, and his father wants him to go to U of Penn to have his nose set.  I stare blankly at Injured Player. Okay, I think, but where is U of Penn? How is he going to get there? A million thoughts streaming through my mind, the least of which is that I am still the chauffer on this mission.

I snap out of my stupor and load my charges back into the car as I realize where Injured Player is asking me to take him; of course, it is the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, duh, and it’s on my way home, in a round-about way.

Back over the suspension bridge we go, crossing the state line, making our way to the ER where a doctor will be waiting for Injured Player. This young man could not be kinder and more appreciative of my attention, and in the absence of his own momma, I’m happy to have stepped in.

By the time we get to the ER entrance, the coach has somehow miraculously arrived before us. How is this even possible?

The trainer and coach quickly change places, and I’m dismissed as if I played no role in this rescue mission. The coach has made it clear my services are no longer needed. I am suddenly sad to leave Injured Player as I’ve grown quite attached. I give him a quick Momma Bear hug before he is whisked inside the sterile environment where I know he will be treated well.

I’m left stunned and stupid at the curb. The team bus is long gone and headed to the airport. The trainer calls for an Uber to hightail it to the airport. I call my son to apologize for not having a proper good-bye, but we both know where I needed to be on this rainy afternoon, and no apology is needed.

A few weeks later I fly south to see the team play on their home field, and sure enough I have a chance encounter with Injured Player who is no longer injured but still not suited up for the game.

His nose looks perfect. His gratitude is real, and once again, we hug it out.

It will forever be our story to tell, Injured Player and me, and every time I have seen him since that fateful day, it’s our shared silence about the events that keeps us bonded.

Wrong place, right time? Right place, wrong time? Yes, I was exactly where I was supposed to be on that miserable, wet day.