I was watching some little kids play soccer. These kids were only five or six years old, but they were playing a real game -- a serious game -- two teams, complete with coaches, uniforms, and parents. I didn't know any of them, so I was able to enjoy the game without the distractionof being anxious about winning or losing. The teams were pretty evenly matched. I will just call them Team One and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first period. Then came the second quarter. The Team One coach pulled out what must have been his first team and put in the scrubs , except for his best player who now guarded the goal. The game _ . I guess winning is important even when you're five years old -- because the Team Two coach left his best players in, and the Team One scrubs were no match for them. Team Two packed around the little guy who was now the Team One goalkeeper. He was an outstanding athlete, but he was no match for three or four who were also very good. Team Two began to score. The lone goalkeeper gave it everything he had, desperately throwing his body in front of incoming balls, trying bravely to stop them. Team Two scored two goals in quick succession. It angered the young boy. He became a raging maniac -- shouting, running, diving. With all the strength he could gather, he covered the boy who now had the ball, but that boy kicked it to another boy twenty feet away, and by the time he repositioned himself, it was too late -- they scored a third goal. I soon learned who the goalkeeper's parents were. They were nice, decent-looking people. I could tell that his dad had just come from the office -- he still had his suit and tie on. They yelled encouragement to their son. I became totally absorbed, watching the boy on the field and his parents on the sidelines. After the third goal, the little kid changed. He didn't quit, but he became quietly desperate and futility was written all over him. His father changed, too. He had been urging his son to try harder -- yelling advice and encouragement. But then he became anxious. He tried to say that it was okay -- to hang in there. He sorrowed for the pain his son was feeling. After the fourth goal, I knew what was going to happen. The little boy fetched the ball from the net and handed it to the referee . He just stood there while huge tears rolled down both cheeks. He went to his knees, and he cried the tears of the helpless and brokenhearted. At that moment, I saw the father start onto the field. His wife seized his arm and said, "Jim, don't. You'll embarrass him." But he tore loose from her and ran onto the field. Suit, tie, dress shoe, and all -- he charged onto the field, and he picked up his son so everybody would know that this was his boy, and he hugged him and held him and cried with him. I've never been so proud of a man in my life. He carried him off the field, and when he got close to the sidelines I heard him say, "Scotty, I'm so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son." "Daddy," the boy sobbed. "I couldn't stop them. I tried, Daddy, but they scored on me." "Scotty, it doesn't matter how many times they scored on you. You're my son, and I'm proud of you. I want you to go back there and finish the game. I know you want to quit, but you can't. And, son, you're going to get scored on again, but it doesn't matter. In my eyes, you are the winner! Go on, now." The little guy ran back onto the field -- and they scored two more times -- but it was okay. Now in all viewers' eyes, he is the Winner. When you're all alone, and you're getting scored on -- and you can't stop them -- it means a lot to know that it doesn't matter to those who love you. In their eyes, so long as you don't give up, you are the winner. And they are always proud of you. The best title for the story is   _  .
A Proud Father An Amazing Game The True Winner The Magical Encouragement