There’s a particular kind of focus that comes with doing kick-ups. Not the frantic, cluttered focus of trying to finish something before a deadline, but something quieter. Sharper. A focus that fills your entire field of vision until there’s nothing but you, the ball, and gravity.
I spent my youth on soccer grounds, running around with friends, playing pickup games that lasted until someone’s parent showed up or the sun went down. But whenever I had time—before practice, after school, waiting for others to show up—I’d pull out a ball and start counting.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Rhythm Takes Over
Kick-ups have this way of pulling you into a rhythm. Left foot, right foot, maybe a thigh, back to the feet. Each touch needs to be just right—not too hard, not too soft, angled perfectly to keep the ball dancing in that small column of air in front of you.
At first, you’re hyper-aware of everything. Your technique, your balance, the wind, someone walking by. But if you stay with it long enough, something shifts. The counting becomes automatic. Your body finds the pattern. And suddenly you’re not thinking anymore—you’re just there.
It’s meditative in a way that doesn’t require stillness. Your mind empties out while your body stays completely engaged.
The Gradual Climb
My record was 1050.
It didn’t happen overnight. It was hours and hours of incremental progress. 100 became 200. 200 became 400. Each milestone felt impossible until suddenly it wasn’t. You’d push through the burn in your thighs, the ache in your hip flexors, that moment around 300 where your concentration would usually slip.
The hardest part wasn’t the physical toll—it was maintaining that razor-thin focus for so long. One lapse, one stray thought, one blink too long, and the ball would hit the ground.
The Day It Happened
When I finally hit 1050, my eyes were streaming. Not from emotion (though that came later), but from keeping them open and locked on the ball for that long. No looking away. No blinking more than absolutely necessary. Just unwavering attention on that sphere moving up and down, up and down.
When the ball finally dropped and I realized what I’d done, the tears were already there. All those hours, all that repetition, all that solitary practice—it had built to this one moment where everything clicked.
What Stays With You
I still think about that feeling sometimes. That state where time doesn’t quite work the same way, where your entire world shrinks down to something small and manageable. Ball, foot, repeat.
There’s something powerful about finding flow in repetition, about discovering that focus isn’t always about thinking harder—sometimes it’s about thinking less and just letting your body remember what it knows.
Kick-ups taught me that. One touch at a time.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I still enjoy it from time to time:
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