The boys and I play a lot of soccer out back. One of our favorite games is one-on-one-on-one, where one player is offense, one is goalie, and one is defense. The offense starts with the ball from the fence and simply tries to score. After he does (or doesn’t), we rotate positions.

It’s fast and fun, good exercise for me and good skill-building for them.

On Saturday, however, we had one can only be called a Turning Point.

My oldest son had the ball and I was on defense. He dribbled forward, made a hip fake, then drove hard toward the goal. I didn’t bite on the fake, and instead swung my foot at the ball.

My foot hit it at the exact moment when his hit it.

Historically, this has been a moment where my son went flying to the ground, followed by me apologizing and helping him up.

Not this time. He has gone a lot this past year. He’s now almost as tall as me.

When our feet hit the ball, I was the one who went flying. I hit the grass hard, surprised, then rolled over on my back. Both boys were staring at me, stunned expressions on their faces.

I flailed my arms and legs. “Daddy Down!” I shouted, “Daddy Down!”

They started laughing, and I climbed creakily to my feet.

Backyard soccer just got a whole lot more interesting – and dangerous.