I recently stood behind a pint-sized soccer net, arms crossed tightly to brace myself in the cold rain, hunkered under my raincoat hoodie. I looked on in awe as my 5-year-old – along with several other tots in brightly colored shirts which contrasted the gray day – fumbled and stumbled over a sopping, grass-streaked soccer ball.

I observed as he aimed and kicked the ball adjacent to the net rather than inside it.

He had a determined, but joyful look on his face, a skip in his step as he ran back to join his teammates.

He may have missed his goal, but I made mine.

Exactly one year ago, soccer was an entirely different experience.

As a 4-year-old, he’d so wanted to participate in our local rec league for 4- and 5- year olds.

As much as my husband and I encouraged him – having played soccer ourselves – we didn’t force the venture.

But oh, how our little man pined for it, gleefully parading around his room in his tot-sized shin guards the moment he donned them.

And it felt like the crack of dawn indeed when the first day’s practice was upon us. My husband and I stood field-side eagerly, coaxing on our son.

Overwhelmed by the mass of kids who ran onto the field, our son stood suddenly disinterested.

His fast enthusiasm ahead of practice had rapidly deflated into a pout of extremes as soon as soccer kick-started.

In this sport, there’s kicking, as family-fans stand screaming names encouragingly.

But on Day One of soccer last year, it was a kicking-and-screaming scene of a different and embarrassing sort.

He’d made up his mind. He didn’t want to play. He wouldn’t even try. Our boy wasn’t having any of it, but my husband and I weren’t having any of this.

We knew it would be a long season if our kiddo kept up his quitting attitude.

It’s difficult to expect copious amounts of cooperation of a tiny tot. He’d just started preschool; emotions were running full steam throughout our family.

We’d kicked around a big, plastic Winnie-the-Pooh motif ball along the shore late in summer before soccer season had begun, and how excited our boy had been.

My husband and I’d chatted – lengthily – about teamwork, commitment, sportsmanship.

Where did we go wrong?

It grew worse as weeks progressed. Some days he fought us tooth and nail and shin guard, refusing to leave the house. On those days, I felt reduced myself, as though I were experiencing my own personal Deflategate.

On days we managed to reel him onto the field among enthusiastic others, the pouting, the kicking, screaming, fighting-tooth-and-nail-and-shin-guard would ensue, roiling up into one big hot mess of Saturday mornings. Finally, the very last day of soccer had arrived. Marvelously, he participated, and he saw that it was fun. During that crisp morning, he replaced his dogged stubbornness with embrace of participating in a sport for which he’d willingly signed up.

He finally got it.

Because it was the last day, all teammates were given medals and certificates.

I watched as our boy posed for photos, holding them up beside his toothy, charming grin.

Had he truly, honestly achieved this? I decided to let it go and breathe deeply.

Perhaps the lesson of learning to stick to commitments had to be learnt organically on its own.

But my husband and I would continue to push this valuable lesson.

Because here’s the thing about sports for children.

It really doesn’t matter if you win or lose. Really, it doesn’t.

It’s about sticking out a responsibility, rocking good sportsmanship, and reaping those bonus benefits of fresh air and exercise with your teammates. This year, I witnessed how we’d come a long way, in a heartwarming moment despite the cold rain as I continued to duck drops of rain beneath my blue hood.

I glimpsed my 2-year-old beside me, happily hopping around in the rain and cheering on big brother. Or maybe he was just cheering on the rain.

He’ll be next on the field in a few years – if he wants to be.

Perhaps we’ll skip the immensely stubborn quitting attitude next time ‘round.

But on second thought, we probably won’t.

So all we can do for now is dance in the rain and celebrate mini-wins as they come.

Not necessarily soccer wins, but the win of signing up for something – and sticking to it.

And when that happens, that’s how I get my kicks.

— Michelle Cote is the creative director of the Journal Tribune and a nationally-syndicated columnist. She enjoys cooking, baking, and living room dance-offs with her husband, two boys and a dog. She can be contacted at mcote@journaltribune.com.