This is about 50 words over the 300 words suggested. I'm having trouble cutting it down...please help!
I know every curve of Old Farms Road. The narrow spots, the short bridges that span the creeks and, above all, the exact moment the car will burst out of the trees into the glare of sunlight and continue down the straightaway towards Fisher Meadows. After driving through dense trees, the sight of open fields is an abrupt change. Soccer nets dot the wide expanse of grass, and I can see river in the distance. However, instead of fixating on these larger objects, my eyes are drawn to places that others would consider insignificant. The spot on the grass at the bottom of a slope where I received my first trophy. The goal in front of which I caused two penalty kicks in one game. And, finally, the pavilion under which my nine-year-old self started to discover that life and people could be unfair and unjust. I sat under that pavilion while waiting for my first travel soccer tryouts to begin. I was full of nervous energy and excitement; I played my best, and then all I could do was wait. Deep down, I expected to make the team. However, when the letter arrived, it didn't hold the news I expected. I was shocked, my old coaches were shocked, and my parents were shocked. I was ready to never play soccer again, but they wanted to know why I had been cut. And, a few days later, we found out. The coach of the team, as on all the teams, was the father of one of the players. His daughter happened to play the same position as I did, and therefore, I couldn't make the team. I easily could have quit then and there. However, I soon discovered that my passion and love for soccer far outweighed any frustration and disappointment, and I didn't have to be on the A-team to play. So, when I drive by Fisher Meadows now, I look out the window and see my team. Not the A-team I expected to be on, but the B-team that turned out to have been the best teams soccer could have given me.
I know every curve of Old Farms Road. The narrow spots, the short bridges that span the creeks and, above all, the exact moment the car will burst out of the trees into the glare of sunlight and continue down the straightaway towards Fisher Meadows. After driving through dense trees, the sight of open fields is an abrupt change. Soccer nets dot the wide expanse of grass, and I can see river in the distance. However, instead of fixating on these larger objects, my eyes are drawn to places that others would consider insignificant. The spot on the grass at the bottom of a slope where I received my first trophy. The goal in front of which I caused two penalty kicks in one game. And, finally, the pavilion under which my nine-year-old self started to discover that life and people could be unfair and unjust. I sat under that pavilion while waiting for my first travel soccer tryouts to begin. I was full of nervous energy and excitement; I played my best, and then all I could do was wait. Deep down, I expected to make the team. However, when the letter arrived, it didn't hold the news I expected. I was shocked, my old coaches were shocked, and my parents were shocked. I was ready to never play soccer again, but they wanted to know why I had been cut. And, a few days later, we found out. The coach of the team, as on all the teams, was the father of one of the players. His daughter happened to play the same position as I did, and therefore, I couldn't make the team. I easily could have quit then and there. However, I soon discovered that my passion and love for soccer far outweighed any frustration and disappointment, and I didn't have to be on the A-team to play. So, when I drive by Fisher Meadows now, I look out the window and see my team. Not the A-team I expected to be on, but the B-team that turned out to have been the best teams soccer could have given me.