My father's eyes danced with mischief whenever he would find the time to play a game with me he called hut-hut. My mother would cringe with fear and imclearbluemediately begin her warnings to him to be careful and not to be too rough with me. I would light up like only a two year old girl can light up when her dad has singled her out for attention.

The game was simple enough to play and the rules were changed to fit the needs of whatever circumstance arose. Dad would grab a throw pillow from the couch, press it into my tiny arms and say, "Your ball." All I had to do then was find a way to run past my father and touch the wall behind him and I would score.

Of course I never took a direct route to the wall. I would run from room to room, go backwards, hide behind things {especially Mother's protective arms.} and generally run my dad ragged as he tried to catch me from his self imposed handicap of always having to remain on all fours.

Dad would sometimes get close enough to grab me but he would often times just bang his huge hands on the carpet, yelling Hut- hut and off I'd go, believing myself about to be tackled.

When Dad would corner me he'd lift me in the air with ease and begin screaming, just like an announcer on one of the Sunday football broadcasts, and describe in great detail the effects of the ensuing tackle.

This was when mother became her most concerned, but Dad would continue his verbal onslaught until he had laid me down as gently as any Dad could. After he had tickled me to the point of total bladder concern he would say, "still your ball. Second down. Hut-hut."

And the game continued until I scored and won. We played that game hundreds of times and I was so busy enjoying it I never thought of the lessons my Dad was teaching me about life, relationships, love and most importantly, he was teaching me about over coming obstacles and never being too entranced with rules.

As time passed the game I shared with my Dad and once thought was invented just for us ceased to be played. He was busy making a living and I was busy growing up. When I turned fourteen and began to embrace the feminine nature of my genes and consequently drifted farther from my dad and the need for his attention, I found myself trying out for my school's soccer team.

Soccer was new to America and few people were lining up to play this sport that the rest of the world had long embraced as the only sport.

It was no surprise that I made the team since we were to short of players to actually field a complete team, but when my dad learned I was on the team he couldn't wait to see me play in an actual game. Not that dad was a fan of the game. He didn't understand it and it seemed awfully slow to him but he promised to come and see me play the first chance he had. But Dad was busy making a living and I was busy growing up so it wasn't much of a surprise when the season had dwindled to just one remaining game and my dad still hadn't seen me play.

We were a terrible soccer team. Not only had we managed to lose every game we were also the only team in the league not to have scored so much as one goal. Our last game would be with the team that had already won the championship of our conference and to say we were not looking forward to this addition embarrassment would be quite an understatement. Our morale matched the weather conditions that cold rainy night when we took the field for what we were sure would be our final humiliation.

The bleacher seats were nearly empty for this contest and most of the parents had taken shelter in their cars or vans except for the lone figure who stood at the very top of the stands and shouted, Hut- hut when we took the field. My Dad had made it to the game! I guess you could say I was glad and maybe even slightly proud that he had come. So what if we were the worst team in our league, maybe in the entire country for that matter, tonight my dad would see me play!

As the game progressed and the rain fell harder and the temperature sank to near freezing so did my level of pride and gladness. Dad had watched from his perch as we fell behind by one goal and then two and three and finally four goals separated us from our opponents. All the while dad was shouting American football encouragements such as; huddle up, throw a screen pass, run an end around, and the ever popular Hut-hut.

I was being embarrassed on the field and insulted from the stands. By my own father's lack of understanding for the game, no less! My teammates were asking who is that guy as they ran past me and I would quickly tell them it was my dad. I was surprised when most of them yelled back at me, "neat!" Sure, it wasn't their dad making an idiot of himself.

Near the end of the game most of the other parents had come to the stands to offer some show of support for this rag tag outfit of inept young girls who were about to finish the season winless and goal-less.

Some had even picked up on my dad's cheers and added their own. One man kept shouting, "come on girls! you got them just where you want them, way ahead and over confident!"

Another man was shouting, "just wait till we get to bat!"

Amazingly my dad had turned a miserable crowd into a very involved fan mass. Even the mood on the field had changed. My teammates were now smiling and by the look on their faces most were enjoying the odd encouragements being rained down on them from their own parents.

Maybe our attention should have been focused on the game still being played on the field instead of the comments from the stands. Our opponents were attacking our goal and we were totally out of position to defend it. The striker let loose a kick that struck the top of the goalpost and careened back towards me. I smothered the ball with my left foot and sent it back to our goalkeeper with my right. On a normal night our goalkeeper would have picked up my pass and sent it to mid field with a swift kick. This night wasn't normal and our goalkeeper was very much out of her game. We watched in stunned disbelief as the ball rolled into the center of the net while she busily waved to her father in the stands.

Incredibly I felt myself being lifted in to the air by a pair of powerful arms. I heard the whistle of the official and the cheers of the crowd as my father hoisted me as high as he could and shouted, " You scored! Hut-hut!" He carried me all over that muddy field laughing and shouting to everyone who would listen. I kept telling him that the goal was unintentional and that it counted for the other team, but he would just look up at me with a momentary pause of puzzlement on his face before continuing his victory dance. Eventually the game ended without order being restored and nobody seemed to mind that there were still a few minutes remaining on the game clock.

Fourteen years have passed since that night my father saw me play soccer for the first time. It's been even longer since I shared a game of Hut-hut with my dad. Among the many souvenirs and keepsakes of my life is a yearbook from a school I never attended. My dad gave it to me after I married the man of my dreams. There on page twenty-nine listed in the sports section of that teams soccer accomplishments for the year is my name {goal by M. Mused...credited to K Stearns}. On the last page is a simple inscription from my dad to me...

So do I dad, and I love you, too...

All rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Authors note: I hope my daughter will forgive the liberties I took in creating this story. I hope more fervently that she will remember the game of Hut-hut and the feelings I have for the precious child she was and is...

Jericho J.Mused