Francisco Valle-Victorino died yesterday.
And his death gives me pause.
Just who is Valle-Victorino, you ask? Some famed painter? Sure his name sounds artistic, but no, Francisco was not an artist. Was he a heroic figure in the ERA in Spain? Not quite. Francisco was a champion, but not on foreign soil. OK, so who is Francisco Valle-Victorino and why should I have heard of him? you are now asking.
Actually there is no reason you should know who he is. Maybe you would have heard of him sometime in the future, but not now, for all his promise, potential and possibilities have gone with him.
You see, Francisco Valle-Victorino was a 17 year old soccer player in Louisville, Kentucky, who died yesterday morning after taking a direct ball hit while goalieing for his school team during a Monday game.
Perhaps, like you, I would have looked right past any news tidbit about him too, but I have two daughters - avid soccer players, both. And one of them is a goalie. That is why his death caught my attention.
Soccer is an exciting sport. And no, I am not even thinking about the kind played on Spanish television where the announcer lives only to scream, “Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!“
Frankly, that’s stupid. So stop.
Rather I am referring to the level of soccer played around the world by children as young as 4, up through high school. For me I love watching my kids become stronger players from one season to the next - growing more confident, fearless and intelligent about the game.
My twelve year old has played for six seasons now and has morphed from a frightened rabbit on the field (I don’t blame her - she is very small for her age - I would be afraid of some of these two ton 12 year olds barreling down the field) to a decisive, unafraid, unrelenting force. So committed to “sticking” (not backing down when advancing on the ball in the face of opposition) that one coach nicknamed her “The Little Ball of Hate”. The worst thing the other team can do is write her off because of her size. The second they do that, they are done for.
And while I am incredibly proud of her and excited to watch her play each game, it is my nine year old who sprang directly to mind when I read of Francisco’s death.
Carson is a goalie. No, scratch that. Carson is a born goalie. For while one can learn the technical pieces of the goalie puzzle, no one can teach the fearlessness and recklessness one truly needs to play the box.
As my husband, a collegiate soccer player in his youth, has told me, Goalies are a little bit crazy.
And he’s right. Carson is more than a bit crazy in her daily life - she is spontaneous, energetic, a kook. On the field, it serves her well. Whatever “crazy” switch gets flipped in her head, she rocks. Throwing her body across the goal, making spilt second decisions, and diving for the ball - even when a foot is coming straight at it, and her head.
It is in those moments that I find myself doing an odd combination of things: Cheering with pride (That’s MY daughter!) holding my breath (will she, won’t she save it?), and fervently praying (Dear God, PLEASE don’t let her get kicked in the head.)
As any soccer parent knows, it is rare for a game to be completed in which someone hasn‘t stopped the ball with their face or groin or hasn’t had a train wreck with another player, resulting in everyone else on the field “taking a knee” while the referee and coach assess the possible injuries.
It happens. It’s essentially a game in which the sub-game of chicken is played repeatedly - who can get to the ball first? Who will pull back before impacting someone else head-on? Who is standing in the wrong place when someone boots the ball with all their might...right into that person's stomach or head?
Francisco, at 17, had played the game for enough years to have become accustomed to the bumps and bruises of his position. His parents had adjusted to the terminal sense of stress during each one hour game.
After all - how bad could an injury be anyway?
Sadly, Francisco dove for a ball at the same moment an opposing team player gave it a solid kick - it slammed into his throat and he collapsed - Francisco died at the hospital.
At his funeral he will trade playing in one box for a permanent resting place in another.
Yes, I know these occurrences are rare. Yes, I know that 17 year olds kick harder than 9 year olds. And yes, I know that I cannot shield my children from every possible accident in life.
I know these things as much as I know that after today, we will probably never hear of Francisco again.
Francisco Valle-Victorino was not a hero, a renowned artist or even a famous sports figure. But from this day forward, for as many years as she chooses to play, every time my daughter dons her jersey and gloves to enter the box, I will pause to think of him and say a prayer for them both.
In memory of Francisco Valle-Victorino.
Hey I am 15 and I attend western h.s in louisville kentucky! the same school Franciso attended! he was a great student and a great athlete! He is missed dearly and you writing this story about him was very nice and thoughtful! Thank you, and I hope for the best to your daugthers!
Cadie Greene
Posted by: cadie Greene | Wednesday, October 19, 2005 at 03:46 PM