I have always been my father’s little puppet. Influenced by the tugs and pulls of his strings.

I was supposed to be a boy and my father’s desire for that outcome remained with me throughout my childhood.

My father introduced me to the fine art of cars, sports, and graphic video games. He got me to despise the color pink as he deemed it to be too much of a ‘girly color.' He convinced me to leave cheerleading camp after the first day, claiming that even cheerleading was too girly for me to pursue.

At the age of three, he handed me an Xbox remote and introduced me to the art of playing Grand Theft Auto and FIFA.

In grade school during football season, he would let me wear his extra large military green Jets jersey, and before bed I had to watch "G.I. Joe" and "Avatar the Last Airbender."

By the time of high school, he did not allow me to date or even invite guy friends to our house. In his mind, I had no contact with subjects of the opposite sex. He would always say, ‘You can’t get married until you’re 35, capito AnnaMaria?’

As a child, making my father happy made me feel like I had succeeded. However, the one and only thing that made my puppeteer satisfied was soccer.

Like planets orbiting the globe, my father revolves his life around soccer. He played all his life. He lives, breathes, and dreams about calcio (soccer). During his sophomore year of high school, his skill granted him college offers from top-notch universities. One of them even included Florida State, the school I currently attend.

Even though he never went to college after high school, he did not let that crush his dream. Using his passion and skill for the sport, he headed straight into the soccer minor leagues. However, when it was his time to make it big, he injured his knee and had to quit the sport forever.

Living under this unfinished legacy, I always felt like I carried a huge weight on my shoulders. At the age of three, my father enrolled me in soccer. At this age, I barely knew how to finish singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" without mumbling the majority of the words. However, he deemed it more important to learn how to kick a ball than to learn how to read or write.

By the age of eight, he became my soccer coach and for six years of my life, I had to obey his commands in the house and on the field. When he said 'clean the dishes', I cleaned the dishes. When he said 'run', I ran as fast as I could.

He always set the bar higher for me than the other girls. When I missed a pass, he would make me run a lap. When I missed the ball, he would make me run after it and try again. The other girls got away with everything. They would chat on the sidelines and sit down on their ball after completing each exercise. Meanwhile, I had to remain serious at practice and run the field with a boulder on my shoulders and chains on my feet.

Despite all of this, I always felt like I never lived up to his expectations. My punt was never far enough, my defense was never as strong, and my passion was never as large. I spent years playing for teams, signing up for high school soccer, refereeing games, and coaching teams just to receive that look of affirmation on his face. I loved soccer, but there was a part of me that did not find enjoyment from playing.

My mother understood that playing soccer was not where my true passion resided. At the age of fourteen, I built the courage to tell my father that I would not play for his team any longer. I saw the frustration on his face I could tell that he was hurt; this reaction made me reconsider. Eventually, we came to a simple compromise. I would play soccer for my high school team and he would focus on his new title of President of the local town soccer league.

High school soccer felt forced. I was surrounded by girls who actually wanted to continue into college with a healthy soccer career. The girls judged me for not taking things seriously. They would cry upon losing a game, however, my expression would remain stoic and unmoved. My coaches were rough and they all knew my father and (of course) always expected the most out of me. My father came to most of my games, and still, I received those classic chilling looks and critical commentaries on the car ride home.“You let that girl get the ball from you,” and “Why didn’t you shoot the ball when you had the chance?”

On the other hand, my mother, supportive of my true passion, granted me vocal lessons at the age of 14. There, in the calm and highly decorated music room, I practiced opera, jazz, and musical theater. That cozy atmosphere in which my teacher, formerly and well-renowned opera singer, decorated the environs with gold ornaments and endless amounts of sheet music. This became my escape from the harsh and competitive world of female soccer and an escape from my strict puppeteer.

The fall season of my senior year was the last time I ever played. I ended up quitting midseason to focus on my real passion for singing. When I approached my father with what I had built seventeen years of courage to do, he surprisingly did not show any signs of disappointment. He was glad I had found my own dream to pursue and he wanted me to chase it before it became too late. I could not believe what I was hearing. It seemed so alien to me.

One time, in an effort to show his excitement and support for my dream, he even drove me into New York City to sing in front of The Voice TV producers during a rainy and cold Manhattan April. I remember him sitting in the audition room as I belted out the notes to Alicia Key’s “Real Women” in front of a tall brawny tattooed man. After the audition, my father complimented me on my success and courage and treated me with a chicken wrap (the key to my heart) from a vendor nearby.

Despite this long childhood struggle against the chains binding me to a false dream, I can not say that soccer is not present in my current life. Eight months ago I was still coaching and during my time abroad I would spend weekends attending soccer tournaments.

I admit that I still have that excitement for soccer that my father impressed into my being. From time to time we Skype over the phone, watch the Serie A, and talk about team transfers. My father is still extremely proud of me despite the fact that I quit playing. I am a singer, a writer, a history buff, and an intelligent girl who he is extremely proud to have raised. I am fortunate to have a father that wants me to follow my dreams. I can proudly announce that his puppet has finally cut off her strings and discovered her own story to perform.