One day in 1998, early in the wee hours of the morning, I was sitting on my couch in my townhouse apartment, watching Dr. Joyce Meyer through a thirteen inch black-and-white TV. During her telecast, which was then titled Life in the Word, she mentioned that if you’re seriously struggling with an undertaking, it’s likely that God did not call you to it.
That was it! That was what I needed to hear in order to bid good riddance to medical school. I was a biology student in college, aspiring to be a doctor. But I was not enjoying my course of study. In fact, in 1997, I had enrolled in a medical program in the Medical College of Virginia. My performance in the program was fair but not anything to be excited about. Besides, I did not like it. I loathed the cadavers, their formaldehyde smells, and I slept through Dr. Sybel’s class about 95 percent of the time. The class felt like a movie theater, since the surgical genius switched off the lights and ran slides of the intricate details of human muscles.
After I received as confirmation what Dr. Meyer said, I knew exactly what I was called to do. Dr. Meyer had also mentioned that you would have a passion for what you were supposed to do. And what I knew I was to do, I had a strong desire for it, alright. There was no question whatsoever in my mind what my calling was. I felt like kicking myself. I should have known all along what my destiny was. And thanks to the Bible teacher, it was brought to my attention. I was going to be a professional soccer player. Yipeeee!
By the way, I came to that conclusion after two unsuccessful walk-on tryouts for the Virginia Commonwealth University’s (VCU) men’s soccer team. After my divine revelation, I went for tryout number three. Approximately five days a week, about fifteen to twenty minutes each day, with the Rocky song, Eye of the Tiger, playing in my head, I jogged about two miles around the block where my apartment was. I also worked on some ball control and ball joggling skills.
In the fall of 1998, yours truly went for my third tryout. With my newfound inspiration, determination, and experience from my first two tryouts, I played my heart out to make it to the team. About forty-five minutes later, with my left knee grazed and bleeding from a nasty contact with the artificial turf, my muscles screaming for oxygen, my chest burning from exhaustion, I sat on the turf with my legs apart like the letter “v,” with my hands barely able to hold my aching body up, amid five other formidable contestants and about a dozen onlookers.
The head coach of the VCU Rams soccer team whispered into the ears of the team’s Canadian goal keeper-trainer and ex-Rams goalie who assisted him with the tryout, and he walked off. My body was telling me that if this was what it felt like playing for VCU, count me out! But my pride said otherwise. My ego was hoping that I would be picked. After three tryouts and telling everybody from my friends to my parents that soccer is my calling, they had better pick me, I thought.
The goalkeeper coach pointed to two other guys as a gesture to let them know that they were picked for the squad. He also nodded in my direction and thanked the others who did not make the cut for their efforts. The goalkeeper trainer told me and the other two guys who passed the walk-on test when to come and join the team. I limped home with joy galore, but my enthusiasm was short-lived.
Training was no laughing matter. It was business! Other than a friendly introduction from our freshman goalie, who through a twist of fate was charged with the humongous task of being the starting goalie, I did not get any welcome-to-the-team pleasantries from most of the other squad members. Instead, I was welcomed with cold stares and an overdose of adrenalin. During practice, my ankles were met with crunching tackles, my ears were bombarded with expletives when I gaffed on the football pitch, and my body frequently kissed the grass when I got bumped.
Passing the tryout was phase one. Trying to break into a team shirt was phase two, not to mention a position “on the bench.” Because the season had already started, I could not officially play for my school. About a week after I joined the team, thanks to the rigorous training and the mandatory “red shirt” the other two walk-ons and I had to wear, it wasn’t long before I was the only walk-on left. The other two guys quit!
1. O. J. Toks, Rejected for a Purpose (Paoli, PA: Elevator Group Faith, 2010), 143-145.
