When I was a little boy, I was a voracious reader. I read everything. I simply loved books.

I vividly remember a feeling of sadness coming over me as I approached the end of a great book. I knew I would finish the final pages and have to put it away. I remember that feeling heavy, for lack of a better word.

I also remember finishing those books and crying. It’s happened to me as an adult as well. I’ve finished a great book on an airplane, for example, and gotten emotional. I guess I just didn’t want the book to end, for I knew I’d miss the characters I’d become so invested in.

That dulling, heavy feeling has been omnipresent for me over the past few weeks, and I haven’t been reading a book. Instead, I’ve been acutely aware that the end of one of the best chapters in my life was nearing an end.

I realize it’s corny and sappy and maybe even a little pathetic, but the end of my son’s soccer career has made me more than a little nostalgic.

Over the last few weeks, as I’ve tried to process this feeling, I’ve realized that this is different. I’m not sad that his high school soccer career has ended. It’s not sadness that has moved me to tears on a neighborhood walk or run. Instead, I’ve realized that I’m overwhelmed by the gratitude that I have for what the sport brought me over the years. It owed me nothing, but soccer taught me so many life lessons, made me a better dad and provided a vehicle to build an amazing relationship with my little boy. He was kind enough to let me have a front-row seat for the entire journey.

I’ve never played soccer a day in my life and yet it will forever hold a dear spot in my heart.

I don’t remember the first soccer game Carson ever played. There’s likely a lesson there for young fathers and mothers, as he’s the youngest of our three and we were likely too consumed with all of our schedules to truly soak in the moment, but I simply don’t recall it. I would guess he was five or six years old when we signed him up for Oxford Park Commission soccer.

We have a photo of him all bundled up, wearing an Oklahoma City Thunder beanie, before a game out at what is now MTrade Park in Oxford.

I remember him being very good. I remember his mom, Laura, urging him to let the other boys score, too. I remember his coach telling us he had some real natural soccer skills and that one day we should seek out a higher level of competition.

If I’m honest, I just don’t remember much of that. He’s left-handed, and I probably was fantasizing about him one day pitching for the Phillies or the Dodgers or something. I suspect we were just doing that thing young parents do -- grinding through the days, getting ready for the next, failing to truly enjoy the moments.

Club soccer eventually came to Oxford and we signed Carson up. He loved it immediately. He drank in the coaching, the drills and the development. At the time, he loved baseball and basketball more, but it was obvious soccer was his best sport. We had a soccer goal in our side yard, and he'd go outside and kick for hours at a time, and over time, he fell in love with the sport.

One thing I learned about Carson quickly was while he looked just like his mom and acted just like her off the pitch, when he was on it, he was definitely mine. He’s competitive to a fault, fiery and intense. He hates losing far more than he loves winning, and on one Sunday morning, as a loud team from Louisiana was putting the finishing touches on a 10-2 beatdown over Carson’s team, he was on the cusp of losing it. He was fuming and when I looked over at his team’s sideline, his teammates were laughing, trying to knock fellow teammates off the bench. I knew what was coming, and I was right.

He got into the truck after that game and told me, “Dad, I can’t play with that team anymore.”

He was serious. I told him he couldn’t quit, that he had to finish what he started, but that I’d figure something out. There was another club in town, the Flood, that practiced on Highway 7 South, between Oxford and Water Valley. I reached out to their coach, Tim Murphy, and asked if Carson could train with them. Murphy had a reputation for being intense and he told me he coached hard. I said that was fine.

As it turned out, it was more than fine. For the next three months in the spring of 2019, Carson trained five days a week — two with his Oxford team and three with the Flood. He never complained. Not once. He just went to the practices, trained with boys who were mostly older than him, and put in work. He loved it and loved Murphy’s style. He became obsessed with the game.

That August, he finally got to play with the guys he had been practicing with. His first game with the Flood was in Jackson, Tenn. I made the trip with him while Laura and Caroline, our middle child, drove to Fayetteville, Ark., where our oldest, Campbell, had just enrolled in college. That Saturday was Bid Day at Arkansas, and a morning that began with the exciting news that the sorority she hoped to join, Chi Omega, had extended a bid turned into an afternoon where Carson played the highest-level youth soccer game I’d ever seen. He and his teammates beat a team from Kentucky, if I recall correctly. That afternoon, they played again. That night, we walked to Buffalo Wild Wings. Afterwards, he could barely keep his eyes open, and while he slept, I washed his uniform for the next day.

I was exhausted, sure, but I was happy. By then I’d seen the video of Campbell opening her bid card and seen the pictures of her with her new sorority sisters. I’d never seen her so joyous. There’s a cliche about you’re only as happy as your most miserable child. It’s true, and on that Saturday night in a Hilton Garden Inn just off Interstate 40, there was no misery at all.

Months later, that wasn’t the case. In March of 2020, COViD-19 hit. I had to go move Campbell out of her dorm on a Saturday morning. She wasn’t ready to leave.

Soccer season ended abruptly as well. There were no more practices or tournaments that spring. Murphy held some workouts, but even those were ruined by people reporting that the boys weren’t masking and keeping social distance during water breaks. There should be a life lesson there about screwing with kids’ lives, but I’m not going to digress into politics in this piece.

Without school and soccer, my happy 13-year-old started to retreat to his room. He played video games until all hours. I learned over time that the video games were his conduit to his friends, most of whom were soccer teammates. It’s how they communicated and he missed his buddies.

When Carson wasn’t playing video games, he was in the driveway shooting hoops. He’s always loved basketball, but he was never more than an average youth league player. That spring and summer, however, basketball became his outlet. He worked on his shooting and his dribbling for hours at a time. A local coach was giving private and semi-private lessons, and Carson embraced them. For fun that fall, he tried out for an AAU team. Somehow, he made it.

Balancing soccer and basketball was hard and that led to some confusion. As the spring of 2021 ended and tryouts for high school teams loomed, Carson knew he was going to have to make a choice. He leaned towards hoops.

The Flood was folding, the glamour of basketball was appealing and all of those COViD protocols regarding contact tracing had done one hell of a number on middle school soccer schedules. So Carson tried out for the OHS basketball team. He told me if he made it, he was going to give up soccer. I wanted what he wanted, but I urged him to stick with the soccer until he knew he had a spot.

One day, at a tryout for an Oxford club team, I decided to just watch. I had never really watched a practice prior to that day and I haven’t really watched one since, but on that day, I felt compelled to stand at a net and watch.

He was so graceful, so fluid. On that day, he was dominant. On a field full of good players, he stood out. I texted Laura and told her I was worried he was making a mistake. He was set to learn that night if he made the OHS basketball team, and he told me he thought he was right on the cutline.

Boys who were getting cut were told they’d get called by the coach, Drew Tyler, by 8:30 or something like that that night. When the appointed time came and went and Carson hadn’t heard anything, I felt sick. Laura did, too. We wondered aloud if we should’ve intervened. We were contemplating what to say to him.

Then Carson’s phone rang. It was Tyler. He was getting cut. I remember feeling guilty that I felt so incredibly relieved. Tyler spent almost 30 minutes on the phone with our son, telling him he was one of the very last cuts and offering him a spot at summer practices if he wanted it. Tyler has a reputation for being a phenomenal coach. On that night, I learned he’s an even better man.

Speaking of, I think Oxford’s soccer coach, Hunter Crane, really wanted Carson. I don’t know the details; I’ve never asked. However, I have a strong feeling Crane fought for him. If I’m right, I’m indebted. Tyler, Crane and the assistants charged with fielding teams and making cuts did the right thing.

As an aside, you know the songs and cliches about unanswered prayers, right? They resonated then and would continue to resonate for years to come.

That next week, Carson tried out for OHS soccer. I dropped him off for the first day of tryouts, and I could tell the coaches were excited to see him. He was received warmly. After one of the tryouts, he got in the truck and told me, matter of factly, he was going to make the team. That week, he was also scheduled to try out for a new club team, Tupelo FC, and we almost decided not to go.

After all, it was hot. He was tired and hungry, it was going to be a long night and we weren’t sure we were willing to commit to a club team almost an hour away. But we went. I’m so thankful we did.

He loved that tryout. Boys from Tupelo, Pontotoc, Amory, New Albany, Corinth and elsewhere mostly just scrimmaged for about two hours, and the coach instructed and taught the entire time. Carson got in the truck afterwards and told me if we were willing to do it, he would love to play for that club. That night, on the way home, Carson learned that he had indeed made the OHS team. Our family text lit up with congratulations.

Hours before Caroline’s high school graduation, the coach at Tupelo FC called with an invite. Carson accepted. Tupelo FC practiced three nights per week — in Tupelo. I won’t lie and tell you I didn’t sometimes cheer for rain or wonder why we’d signed up for this, but I will forever be thankful for the time those practices forced he and I together. Sometimes he’d sleep on the ride over. Sometimes he’d study. Most of the time, however, we’d talk.

He was starting high school, and on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday nights, either Laura or I would get 50 minutes with him on the way to Tupelo and another 50 back. Carson and I talked about lots of things — the Cubs, the Thunder, the NBA Draft, practices, school, etc. — but we often talked about life. He would quiz me about my childhood. He asked about politics. We talked about love, relationships, heartbreak, family and faith. We got to know each other. We developed, I think, an enduring trust. Mostly, I treated him like an adult. I think he sensed that and appreciated it.

Over the years, Carson got his driver’s license and started driving himself to Tupelo FC practices. Some of his OHS teammates saw his on-field development and joined Tupelo FC themselves. Eventually, I got squeezed out of those car rides, and while I don’t miss those hours of lap-walking at Ballard Park, I miss those talks. I’m so thankful for that time. It was a gift from God.

Tupelo FC also meant some weekend trips together. It’s something he and I have shared over the years, memories I cherish. We’ve taken “boys trips” to Chicago, Birmingham, Nashville, Cincinnati, Oklahoma City, Washington D.C., Atlanta and probably some other places I am forgetting. In Chicago, one of the highlights of those trips was going to the NIKE store on Michigan Avenue and buying a new pair of soccer cleats for the coming season. We’d look one day, and he’d contemplate for hours before we’d go back and make the purchase. He knew the shoes were expensive and he always took care of them.

I have such fond memories of those trips. Here’s one that might give you some insight into what a special kid Carson is:

One of his favorite places in Chicago is Eataly. One night, we walked from our hotel to Eataly for dinner. Normally, he crushed his meal, but on this night, he picked at it. He insisted everything was OK, and we got the leftovers boxed. On the way back to the hotel, he stopped and gave an apparently homeless man his food. Carson had seen the man on his way to dinner and wanted to feed him.

He had tournaments in Tennessee and Mississippi and Georgia. Soccer took us to Birmingham, Nashville, the Mississippi Gulf Coast and places I've likely forgotten. We discovered our mutual fondness for “Family Guy,” wings and streak frites. Sometimes friends would ask what I was doing that weekend and I’d tell them Carson had a soccer tournament out of town.

“Oh, that sucks,” one friend said once.

“No,” I corrected him. “It doesn’t suck at all. I get real time with him. I'll miss these weekends one day."

I’m not one to preach. I’m far too flawed of a human for that, but if you’re a young dad reading this, please remember to take your lawn chair, get some good sunglasses and put your phone away. Those tournaments can feel like weekend eaters in the moment, but you’ll miss them one day. Ask me how I know

Carson’s first varsity appearance caught me off guard. It was his freshman season, a Saturday in late November or early December, and Oxford was playing host to Jackson Prep. It was cold, and I was sitting in the stands, kind of watching the game and playing on my phone. Crane, signaled for Carson to warm up. Minutes later, he was in the game, playing against a talented Prep team. I could tell he was nervous, but he settled in and played well before Crane got the older midfielders back into the game for the finish.

Afterwards, he asked me what I thought. I learned with Carson if he asks a question, he wants the truth. So I told him I thought he played great but he clearly needed to get stronger.

“Yeah,” he said.

That was it. I worried I’d hurt his feelings. The next day, he said he wanted to join a gym. I told him I’d do one better and after the season, I’d hire a personal trainer for him. That March, he got started. By May, he was a different kid. He attacked the gym, lifting weights to get stronger and doing plyometrics to become more explosive.

I saw results on the field that fall of his sophomore season. When the Oxford season began that November, he was starting at holding midfielder. Most sophomores just shut up and play. Carson isn’t really wired that way. At times, he was the loudest voice on the field.

“First and second,” he would always yell. I had no idea what that meant. I still don’t really understand a lot of the nuances of the game. I just watched him.

That was a blessing, by the way. I played football and basketball and baseball enough as a kid to have some semblance of the hows and whys of technique. I’d covered enough of those sports to have opinions. I knew no soccer. I couldn’t help or give advice. I was just Dad. Sometimes I’d go chase the ball and kick it back to him or be a stand-in goalkeeper, but he never had to worry about my opinions. I was just Dad.

That season ended with a second-round playoff loss at Clinton. The defending state champions whipped Oxford, 6-0. It felt like 100-0. Carson took the bus home. I waited up for him. He walked in the front door, eyes red from tears, blood on his uniform. There was no debating the outcome. There was no officiating to blame, no bad luck to lament. His team had gotten its ass kicked by the eventual champs. To get where he wanted to go, he said, he was going to have to get to work.

The next day, he was off to Tupelo for club practice — obsessed. That loss to Clinton drove him. That summer, we knew where Carson was — at the gym or on a soccer field. He put in countless hours working on his game. Championships are earned. Nothing worth having comes easy.

Carson’s junior season was fun. That’s the word. Fun. He was stronger, more explosive, more confident, and his team was really good. They played a game at Brandon in December. Brandon led, 2-0, with about 16 minutes left, but Oxford was playing well. Then Oxford scored. Another goal came soon after. Finally, we took the lead. Former Ole Miss coach Matt Mott, now at Oklahoma, was able to make that game. His son, Will, was a senior, and he scored a key goal that night. Matt was always complimentary of Carson’s game and that night, after the match, he gave him some tips in the parking lot by the bus.

The Chargers got hot after that, winning a very difficult district with a 2-1 win over Hernando on Senior Night. Carson had a great year, assisting and scoring and emerging as a strong defender in the midfield as well.

Oxford beat Tupelo in the first round and met Madison Central in the state quarterfinals. The Jaguars were good. I personally thought they were the best team in the state that season. Still do. The game was a heavyweight fight. Madison Central scored first and then Oxford scored on Roy Gonzalez’s free kick. Minutes later, Carson’s corner kick was perfect, right to the back post. Everhett Van Every was there to head it in and we led, 2-1.

Carson got so excited. He sprinted towards the sideline and jumped in the air. Crane sprinted towards him and jumped simultaneously. It’s one of those moments I wish I had on video, but it’s emblazoned in my mind. It’s one of my happiest memories.

The second half lasted 10 years, or so it seemed. I was on crutches, having had knee surgery weeks earlier. When one of MC’s strikers unleashed a rocket toward the goal, I was convinced it was going in. Our goalkeeper, Davis Trout, jumped at exactly the right time and got a hand on the ball, pushing it over the goal. I jumped with him — I was most certainly not supposed to be jumping at that point in my rehabilitation — and I was sure I had destroyed my knee.

When the game finally ended, Carson got emotional. He was exhausted. He came over to the fence surrounding the field and hugged Laura and me. He kept thanking us for being his parents. It was just adrenaline and emotion pouring out, but it’s a moment I’ll remember forever. Our family text was going crazy that night. The girls were watching their brother on the livestream, living and dying over a sport they didn’t really understand. That playoff run was neat in that regard, too. Carson’s sisters were deeply invested and so proud of him. I could tell that meant a lot to him.

Carson was supposed to take the ACT the next morning. He didn’t. Instead, he went to dinner with his teammates and ended up at Will Mott’s house until the early-morning hours. A bunch of them sat in the hot tub and enjoyed being teammates.

Three days later, that same Hernando team came to Oxford, built a 3-0 lead and then held on. We rallied for two goals to make it 3-2 and had several chances to tie it, but their goalkeeper, Wilson Crane, was phenomenal. It just wasn’t meant to be. We lost, 4-2, and Hernando won the state title later that Saturday.

There wasn’t much to say that night or in the ensuing days. He was grieving, and there was nothing I could do but just be there if he wanted to talk. Championships are hard to win. Those windows open and close. He loved that team. He loved the seniors. The word “team” is precious, and Carson didn’t take that one for granted.

In the aftermath of the Hernando loss, the Oxford coaches told Carson it was his team now. I think he took that to heart, maybe too much. He wanted everyone to want to win as bad as he did, and it doesn’t work that way, not with high school boys or with anything or anyone, really. You can’t make something be as important to someone else as it is to you.

On the field, Carson can be demanding, of himself and of his teammates. He plays with an edge. A junior college coach once joked with him that he couldn’t remember seeing a game where Carson didn’t get a yellow card.

That edge was razor sharp that spring. At a club game in Memphis a few weeks after the Hernando loss, Tupelo FC was playing Darlington School. Darlington was loaded, and the referee was seemingly wowed by their talent. Tupelo FC was getting frustrated, and one of the Darlington midfielders took Carson down from behind. It should’ve been called a foul, but there was no whistle. Carson got up and sprinted down the field, chasing the ensuing transition from behind. When play stopped with a missed shot on goal, the referee took out a red card, ending Carson’s day.

When the game ended, he walked over to me. I asked him what he called the referee.

“I didn’t call him anything,” he said. “I asked him a question.”

“What did you ask?” I replied.

“I asked him if he was fucking blind,” Carson said.

“That would do it,” I said.

I told him he had 15 minutes to find a ride home or he was coming back with me. I wasn’t staying in Memphis all night to watch him sit on the bench. He found a ride and I left.

Carson sent me one apology text after another over the course of the next hour, but I was laughing out loud all the way home. It was difficult to blame him for his outburst. DNA was at fault. And in fairness, he was fouled.

That said, we talked about how that couldn’t happen in an Oxford game. He was going to be a captain. Younger kids were going to look up to him. It’s a funny story, but I think that red card — even though he got another one this fall in a club game in Springdale, Ark.; I wasn’t there, but from all accounts, it was a terrible ruling — was a turning point, a reminder that while it’s ok to play with fire, that fire must be controlled.

This past summer, Carson was selected to play in the state all-star game in Brandon. He played well, just missing on a 30-yard shot that would’ve put him in the MVP conversation. He had a blast getting to know some of the players he had been playing against the previous few years. He jokingly lamented that it was going to be more difficult to hate Hernando after spending some time with some of the Tigers’ players.

The next day, Carson took a junior college visit. He had picked up an offer weeks earlier and suddenly, he at least had the option to continue his playing career past high school.

He asked me what I would do. A selfish part of me wanted him to jump at it, to let the other junior college coaches in the state know that he was really interested. A selfish part of me wanted to, as Vin Scully said in one of my favorite movies, For Love Of The Game, “push the sun back up into the sky and give us one more day of summer.” Selfishly, I would’ve loved two more seasons to watch him play.

But I remembered, as I contemplated my answer, some of the conversations we’d had a couple of weeks earlier on our trip to Kansas City. We had stopped in Fayetteville for dinner with Campbell and Caroline before heading to KC. We went to a Royals game that afternoon and to an MLS game in Kansas that night.

On that Monday, we headed into downtown Kansas City to watch the UEFA Euro2024. It was hot but there was a huge soccer crowd at KC Live. They were, like us, heading to Arrowhead Stadium that night for the USA-Uruguay game in the Copa America tournament. France beat Belgium, 1-0, and then we watched Portugal battle Slovenia.

I went to get a beer. Out of the blue, I asked him if he’d ever had a Leinenkugel summer shandy. He smiled. I told him to just wait on me and proceeded to happily break the law. I bought my underage son a 32-ounce beer, handed it to him and enjoyed a world-class soccer match on a giant outdoor screen.

He looked all grown up that day. We had an incredible weekend, stuffing ourselves with barbecue and watching soccer. We also talked a lot, and I could tell he was starting to really think about college.

So when I answered his question following that junior college visit, I told him the truth. I told him I couldn’t make that decision. I told him I was never good enough to play college sports. I didn’t know what it was like to play in an all-star game or to be voted first-team all-district or all-state or any of that. I didn’t know what it was like to be one of the best players on the field. The furthest I got athletically was academic all-state in football, and The Shreveport Times badly misspelled my name in the story.

I also told him I didn’t know what was on his heart and how much he was willing to sacrifice the big-school experience to get up every day and do what was required to play junior college soccer, hoping that it led to a Division I or Division II opportunity down the line.

In short, I told him it was his decision, and whatever he decided, I would support him. I told him it was his life, not mine, and what he thought I thought really didn’t matter.

A friend with kids older than mine once told me your children prepare you for the empty nest. I have found those words to be true.

I won’t dive into specifics. That wouldn’t be fair to Carson, but sometime last spring, I noticed changes. After 2 1/2 years of basically wearing nothing but Oxford Soccer gear to school, Carson’s fashion sense began to branch out. He also began to find his people. He has an amazing girlfriend from an awesome family, and she and they have been very good for him. It’s not that he’s not still friends with his teammates; he very much is. It’s just that he began to find another circle of classmates that diversified his existence. For the first time, really, he wasn’t identified as just a soccer player. In short, he's growing up.

This fall, during Ole Miss’ open date, he went with me to Fayetteville. It was my last Chi Omega dad's weekend, and that Friday night, I went to dinner at Vetro 1925 with Caroline while Carson went to dinner with Campbell and her boyfriend, Brock. We then met a bunch of Caroline’s friends and their parents at Maxine’s for a bit before we headed to Tin Roof. When we got there, we ran into Campbell, Brock and a bunch of their friends. And there was Carson, holding a beer (and obviously some form of fake ID). He was enjoying time with his big sister, her boyfriend and their friends. He fit right in. He was wearing jeans, a blue fleece and a Ford Bronco cap. He looked like a college kid. He looked really happy.

Another junior college offer came in November, and he talked about it. Had that one come earlier, things may have been different, but I’m not big on hypotheticals. Things happen as they happen, and as his senior season progressed, Carson grew more comfortable with his decision.

Oxford had a good season, playing on its beautiful new field. Carson, battling a foot injury, got off to a slow start but he found his stride around the holidays and finished his career playing some of his best soccer.

At one point, he came into my office and told me the responsibility of leading the team was weighing on him. I didn't get that time at lunch every day, but sometimes, he'd get home from school -- he has early dismissal as a senior -- and sit in the co-host chair of the Clark Ford Studio and just talk. I’m not sure this was great advice, but I told him to quit worrying about leading and just go play. I told him to be selfish sometimes, to hunt for a goal here and there, to let the proverbial chips fall where they may. I’m not sure he followed that advice, but he appeared to play “lighter” from then on.

Early in the season, the Chargers struggled to put teams away. They tied Clinton, giving up an own-goal to blow a 1-0 lead. They blew a late lead and tied Brandon. They gave up a late sloppy goal and ended up losing to Tupelo on penalty kicks.

They beat Hernando at home and got whacked at Lewisburg. On Jan. 9, as snow loomed, they fell behind at Hernando, 3-0. Then Oxford scored a goal and then another one. In the game’s final minute, a ball got loose in the Hernando box. Colton Webb got a foot on it but slipped, and what could have been a 3-3 game and extra time ended with a Hernando win.

There were fireworks, the first I’d ever seen of those at high school soccer game. I’ll be honest; they pissed me off. I’m not the world’s best loser. When I saw Carson, he had pulled his jersey off and was fighting back tears of pure anger.

I didn’t try to comfort him. There was no point. Instead, I fed it.

“Let it be fuel,” I told him. “If that doesn’t motivate you guys, nothing will.”

He took the team bus home. We never discussed that game again, but I could tell something flipped. He had a quiet intensity about him the rest of the way.

Oxford beat Lewisburg in overtime the following Tuesday. Our family is hosting an exchange student this year. His name is Eikka Lindström, and he’s a 17-year-old from Helsinki, Finland. He’s a great kid, very outgoing, intelligent and charming. He’s also 6-foot-4, and he’s a weapon in the box on corner kicks. Against Lewisburg, with the game tied at 1-1, Carson sent a corner kick sailing into the box. A sea of bodies jumped toward it, and I saw the ball go into the back of the net.

I celebrated, knowing how big of a moment that was in the game.

“Neal, that was Eikka,” Will Nordstrom’s dad, Tim, yelled at me.

Eikka and Carson got home afterwards and we watched replays. As they ate a late dinner, Eikka laughed that the ball caromed off his face more than him expertly heading it in. We all got a big laugh out of it. It was a neat moment.

Two nights later, Carson scored on a 30-yard shot — The Oxford Eagle called it a “screamer” — to give us a lead versus Horn Lake. We ended up winning, 3-1 in overtime.

We played a beautiful game on Senior Night versus Southaven, winning 4-0, and then ended DeSoto County’s season a few days later with a 6-0 win at their place. Crane pulled the starters fairly early in the second half, and we watched with pride as they cheered on the younger guys. It was a passing of the torch in some ways. The parents of the younger guys were so excited to see their boys get real varsity minutes. We were entering the playoffs with health and momentum, but the regular season was over. The playoffs, and all they entail, were around the corner.

The end came sooner than expected. Oxford lost, 4-3, in a first-round game versus Starkville.

The Chargers trailed 3-1 at halftime and came back to tie the game at 3-3. However, Starkville scored on a throw-in to take a 4-3 lead and then fought -- literally -- to the end, preserving the lead and advancing to the state quarterfinals.

Just like that, it was over.

I didn't shed a tear. I'm not sure Laura did, either. We didn't sit together at the game. I paced, moved around, etc. She said next to her friend Corey Martin, Colton's mom. Carson played well and played hard. He led. He had a couple of opportunities, but they just weren't meant to be. So did several of his teammates. Sports can be fickle.

When it ended, I just watched him. He was upset for a moment, but then he went from teammate to teammate, comforting them. He congratulated every Starkville player, thanks his coaches, trainers and the athletic director and then hugged us and thanked us. He thanked my parents for coming and then hung around for a bit.

Late in the game, there was an altercation near the Starkville bench. An Oxford player was hurriedly trying to chase down a loose ball for a throw-in. A Starkville manager intentionally got in the way. There was a push. Then there were punches. Then there was chaos. Two years ago, I suspect Carson would've been in the middle of the fracas. On Tuesday, he was a peacemaker.

I'm not sure who deserves the credit for that maturation -- it's not me; I can tell you that -- but it struck me afterwards. Leadership isn't for everyone. It's difficult, and often, it's thankless. One can argue Carson's soccer talent level, I suspect. No one can dispute what kind of leader he is. Soccer enhanced those qualities. He took that captain's armband seriously. I hope he finds a way to utilize that gift in future exploits.

The boy who walked onto the field for tryouts as an eighth-grader walked off of it four years later a young man. He gave the program, his coaches and his teammates everything he had. He emptied the tank. He left it better than he found it. If he does that in the other aspects of his life -- and I fully believe he will -- he will go far.

I write about sports for a living, and sometimes it's easy to fall into the championship-or-bust trap.

I remembered on Tuesday night asking Jaxson Dart about the 2024 season being College Football Playoffs or bust. We were in the Manning Center at the start of preseason camp. The Ole Miss quarterback thought about the question and said he didn't think it would be fair to make it that simple. He and his teammates put too much work in, both on and off the field, to make it that easy to simply dismiss.

Dart's right. Carson leaves Oxford without a championship, sure, but that doesn't mean his journey was a failure. Far from it. He learned about sacrifice, about playing for others, about showing up when he was hurt. He learned about paying his dues and about showing grace to others. It's not my verdict to render, but I suspect he left a legacy.

On Tuesday night, one younger player after another thanked him for his leadership and his kindness. That night, at home, he was at peace, ready for what's next. Laura and I were more proud than words can express.

I’ll miss soccer. I know that. Laura will, too, but life has seasons. It’s someone else’s turn now. Carson gave some soccer lessons to a middle school boy last spring and that boy made the OMS team. His dad reached out to me several times expressing appreciation for Carson’s tutelage. I’ve thought about that boy and his dad some recently, hoping soccer helps them make the memories for them that it did for us. They were there Tuesday night, supporting the Chargers.I was touched.

For Carson, it’s time for a new life season now. There are new friends to be made, new experiences to have. I’ll selfishly hope he plays club soccer in college, just so maybe I can watch him play again. Much more than that, I pray he one day has children of his own, and I’ll selfishly hope they play soccer. I hope they reimburse him, if you will, for all the joy he gave me watching him on the pitch. I damn sure can’t pay him back.

Of course, I don’t get to control any over that. My job is simply to love and support and be his dad. My job is to be there when he needs me, knowing that if all goes well, he’ll likely need me less and less as the years pass.

Next fall will be different. For the first time in as long as I can remember, there won’t be any club tournaments consuming our weekends. There won’t be any Tuesday and Thursday late nights after club practices. There won’t be any frigid OHS games or nights driving back from Horn Lake, Southaven, Lewisburg or Hernando.

I’ll miss it all. I’ll miss cheering for Carson, Jeremiah, Asiel, “Nordi,” Eikka, both Colton and Colten, Emeka, Jackson, both Williams, Michael, Davis and the rest. I’ll miss their parents -- the Martins, Nordstroms, Dudleys, Atchleys and more. Parents of some of the younger guys have told me Carson was so good to them as their boys began their OHS journeys. I wasn’t surprised, but I was so proud of that. I hope their sons build on what Carson and Co. accomplished.

I’ll miss being a fan. I’ll miss nervously pacing. I can cover a game that comes down to a last-second field goal or a 3-pointer at the buzzer and my pulse doesn’t change. At an OHS game, I’m a nervous wreck and usually can’t sit still. I hope and trust the Chargers’ future is bright. Coach Crane and his wonderful staff do a great job and it’s obvious they love and care for the girls and boys in their program.

Soccer in Mississippi has improved dramatically in recent years. The quantity of good teams and the quality of players has jumped exponentially over the last six years. I’ve gotten to know some of the coaches who have competed against Carson. It’s an awesome community.

Laura and I have to find something to fill the void, and I have no doubt we will. Today, there are still some tears bubbling near the surface, but they’re happy tears. They're grateful tears. Soccer was a beautiful chapter in our lives, and we just reached the last page. That's all..

God willing, Carson and I will go to the World Cup when it comes to America in two years. I hope to one day take him to London to see his favorite team, Chelsea, play. There are memories, soccer-related and not, I hope and pray, still to be made.

But a cherished chapter in the book that is my life is closing, and as the final pages approached, I was reminded of a saying I once heard. It’s a saying I’ve thought of often throughout my life and it’s resonated over the past few days as the final match neared.

Every good memory is tainted with a goodbye.

Still, all great books eventually end, and when they do, you close the back cover, reflect for a bit and then move on to a new one, hoping it draws you in like the last.

So, at least for now, goodbye soccer. Thank you for the memories.