Stretch
I played soccer growing up. Not just the occasional “let’s kick the ball around” kind — I mean the whole deal: the team shirts, the Saturday morning fields that were always somehow both dewy and dusty, and the great suspense of which color we were assigned each season. That was serious business. If we were the blue team, we were the blue team. Identity. Brand. Swagger.
The rest of the week was mostly me kicking a soccer ball against the garage door with the accuracy of a kid who believed that maybe this was how pros were made. (It also happens to be how siding gets dented and fathers get irrationally upset, but that’s another story.)
I played travel soccer, then high school, then four years in college. I had the highs: championships, big wins, locker room celebrations where you felt like the world was bending in your direction. And the lows: sitting on the grass with a knee that suddenly decided to take a leave of absence.
But the consistent message through all of it?
If you want to get better, you have to stretch.
Now, stretching was never my natural gift. I stretched because we were supposed to. I’d lean forward, give a half-hearted reach toward my toes, look vaguely pained, and hope nobody was paying attention. Every once in a while, coach would stopand say, “Mod", if you could try for even one honest stretch today, that’d be great.” I’d nod like, “Of course, coach, right away,” and then return to my regularly scheduled stiff, wooden movements.
And then there was The Stretching Circle.
If you’ve ever played on any team, you know this formation. Everyone sits in a circle on the grass, legs out, toes allegedly reachable if you're some kind of contortionist. It’s calm, quiet, very reflective… until someone tries to be a hero.
We had a guy on my college team — we’ll call him Tim, because that’s his real name — who insisted he could always reach farther than the rest of us. Every single practice, there he’d go: toes? Too easy. Palms flat to the ground. Then past his toes. Then somehow wrapping himself into a shape that defied standard bone structure.
One day, Tim decided he was going to demonstrate proper stretching form. And right there in our pre-game circle, he overextended, made a noise no person has ever made voluntarily, and rolled backward like a lawn chair folding itself. Everyone just froze. No one knew if we should laugh or call a priest.
Coach jogged over, knelt down, and said, “Tim. Why?” And Tim, still holding the back of his leg like a medieval battle wound, said, “I just wanted to push myself.”
We still talk about that.
And the funny thing is, that’s the lesson. Minus the pulled hamstring and the dramatic collapsing.
Before any game, we usually went in thinking one of three things:
- We’re definitely better than these guys.
- We’re probably not better than these guys.
- This could really go either way.
The most memorable games were always that third category. The “let’s see what we’ve got today” games. Those were the warm-ups where the joking slowed down. Where the stretching circle wasn’t a charade. Where you could feel everyone reaching — physically, mentally — for a better version of themselves.
We didn’t always win those games.
But when we did?
Those were the ones you remember.
Somewhere along the line, I realized that stretching doesn’t stop when the season ends.
In business.
In faith.
In marriage.
In parenting.
In leadership.
In just trying to be a little less of a knucklehead than I used to be.
Stretching shows up everywhere. It’s the uncomfortable thing that makes the harder thing possible.
And I don’t do it perfectly — not even close. If you charted my stretching efforts, emotionally and otherwise, it would resemble a heart monitor. But overall, over time, the trajectory keeps inching upward. Trying. Reaching. Learning.
So the real question to ask — for me, for you, for all of us — is: Where are we stretching?
Not the theoretical “I’ll do it when life slows down” version.
Not the dramatic overhaul of everything.
Just small, steady stretches.
In the direction of better.
In relationships.
In habits.
In patience.
In discipline.
In how we show up.
Because if we want to reach farther, we really do have to stretch.
And for the record…
I still don’t like stretching.
But I like who I become when I do.
Let’s keep reaching.
Let’s keep stretching.
And let’s try not to pull a hamstring in the process.
Mark J Modzeleski, CFS, CLTC, AIF
President, Legacy Wealth Advisors of NY