We played our first game of the fall season today, played quite well, in fact. I managed to keep a clean sheet, helped a great deal by my team, who spent most of the game hammering at the gates of the other team's goal. We won 3-0. The other team was gracious and played well, they just couldn't impose their will on us.
Longer-term readers of the blog might remember me mentioning muscle-tits and other characters from previous seasons of play in this league. Well, it appears that muscle-tits and his team are no longer allowed to play in the league, something I must say was a bit longer than it should have been in coming. That said, I am content with the league's decision. The reason I say it was a bit too long coming was that Muscle-tits had an incident with the refs at one game. Another incident with a different team led one ref to ask the league to bar a player from play. When he didn't get a prompt response, he walked away from the league. Well-liked by his peers, many of our other refs walked away too. I understand the response, I just wish people were a bit more patient all around.
So now the league needs referees. They pay, if anyone reads this and is interested.
Ah, well, one must take the good with the bad. At least muscle-tits won't be screaming invective at me or anyone else in the league. Hyper-competitive pricks can find somewhere else to masturbate upon their self-recognized magnificence, I'm playing soccer!
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Showing posts with label Playing Soccer Again Is Such Sweetness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Playing Soccer Again Is Such Sweetness. Show all posts
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Reputation
Yesterday was a good game of soccer. Not that I, as an individual, played that great a game, as I let in three. But we were fairly matched with our opponents and stuck to the style of play that has served us well.
As individuals we may not look all that stellar. Which is not to say we don't have our stars, because we do. No, what sets us apart is our consistent play as a team, regardless of whether we're winning or taking an ass-kicking. I think it might have a lot to do with our fall season last year, where we never knew if we'd have enough players for substitutes or enough ladies to take the field. We grew accustomed to fighting hard for everything, while simultaneously recognizing that we were there to have fun and enjoy the game of soccer. To do otherwise would have driven us crazy. We rarely had cause to complain at the refs, knowing they were there, doing the same as us; making do, doing their best, and showing up.
We won best sportsmanship nods for our play last fall. We didn't win much else that season. We didn't like that aspect, but dealt with it and came back stronger. This year we've done much better, with more players making it more frequently. The lessons learned last year made us stronger, more willing to trust one another and just play through. We have continued in sportsmanship, avoiding the whining and cry-baby antics that do no one any service and generally detract from the game.
It's been reflected in our record this year: winning all our regular season games so far.
Wow, listen to all the happy, sappy, horseshit I'm spewing! I often post negative observations about the opposition here, and this post won't be an exception. I just wanted to start off with my thoughts on why we've done better this year.
Last year, when we played the same team from yesterday, there was quite a kerfuffle, with a player from each team being thrown off. Our player publicly resolved to avoid such an event this year, regardless of provocation.
As with many teams we've played, there seemed a few players who just don't want to subscribe to the idea that it's just a recreation league game, and not that fucking important. These players become increasingly puckish the more their teams get behind usually by becoming more strident in their complaints, etc, rather than playing better.
This year, our team played our game, and Hypercompetitive was far less mouthy with us than last season. However, several others on that team's defense did make quite a bit of noise at the refs and, as the game progressed, even each other. Their keeper, who volunteered to play for any team in need of a keeper, was yelled at by his own team mates regarding his play on at least three separate occasions.
I did not recognize one of our refs, and believe she was new. At one of the breaks I heard from our players that the young ref had made a few poor calls, but nothing to write home about. At the end of the half, as I was making the lonely walk to my goal, the refs were conferring (there's shade behind it). The younger one was upset and trying to manage it while the older reassured her.
"Thanks, refs," I said.
"Lot of grumbling going on," one of them said.
I stopped short, "Not from us, I hope. We kinda pride ourselves on taking our lumps in silence."
"No, not you. Thanks, though," the ref said as they started to take the field.
"Seriously, though."
"No, it isn't you guys. Not at all. Thanks."
Twenty minutes later, their captain was thrown off for arguing with the senior ref over one of his calls.
As this is my damn blog, I'll reveal a deeply-held opinion here: Arguing with a ref is the single most counter-productive thing a player can ever choose to do, both for themselves and their team. It's stupid, wins you no games, and can fuck the rest of your team sideways as it focuses the ref's attention on you, your team, and any and all bullshit you might be pulling.
This is not say that Refs aren't making poor–or missing entirely–calls. But the refs are there to ensure fair play, not actually play the damn game. Dealing with them is like dealing with the weather: sometimes it's the shits, but more often than not, shouldn't have anything to do with how the game is actually played.
And no matter what, complaining or, heaven forbid, arguing with a ref during a match is like screaming at the sun to cool off. It ain't gonna happen, and there's no use in getting one's shorts in a bunch because it makes you hot. Doing otherwise gets you saddled with a reputation for tilting at windmills.
Oh, and not only did we win 6-3, we were ahead the whole game.
Go Purple!
As individuals we may not look all that stellar. Which is not to say we don't have our stars, because we do. No, what sets us apart is our consistent play as a team, regardless of whether we're winning or taking an ass-kicking. I think it might have a lot to do with our fall season last year, where we never knew if we'd have enough players for substitutes or enough ladies to take the field. We grew accustomed to fighting hard for everything, while simultaneously recognizing that we were there to have fun and enjoy the game of soccer. To do otherwise would have driven us crazy. We rarely had cause to complain at the refs, knowing they were there, doing the same as us; making do, doing their best, and showing up.
We won best sportsmanship nods for our play last fall. We didn't win much else that season. We didn't like that aspect, but dealt with it and came back stronger. This year we've done much better, with more players making it more frequently. The lessons learned last year made us stronger, more willing to trust one another and just play through. We have continued in sportsmanship, avoiding the whining and cry-baby antics that do no one any service and generally detract from the game.
It's been reflected in our record this year: winning all our regular season games so far.
Wow, listen to all the happy, sappy, horseshit I'm spewing! I often post negative observations about the opposition here, and this post won't be an exception. I just wanted to start off with my thoughts on why we've done better this year.
Last year, when we played the same team from yesterday, there was quite a kerfuffle, with a player from each team being thrown off. Our player publicly resolved to avoid such an event this year, regardless of provocation.
As with many teams we've played, there seemed a few players who just don't want to subscribe to the idea that it's just a recreation league game, and not that fucking important. These players become increasingly puckish the more their teams get behind usually by becoming more strident in their complaints, etc, rather than playing better.
This year, our team played our game, and Hypercompetitive was far less mouthy with us than last season. However, several others on that team's defense did make quite a bit of noise at the refs and, as the game progressed, even each other. Their keeper, who volunteered to play for any team in need of a keeper, was yelled at by his own team mates regarding his play on at least three separate occasions.
I did not recognize one of our refs, and believe she was new. At one of the breaks I heard from our players that the young ref had made a few poor calls, but nothing to write home about. At the end of the half, as I was making the lonely walk to my goal, the refs were conferring (there's shade behind it). The younger one was upset and trying to manage it while the older reassured her.
"Thanks, refs," I said.
"Lot of grumbling going on," one of them said.
I stopped short, "Not from us, I hope. We kinda pride ourselves on taking our lumps in silence."
"No, not you. Thanks, though," the ref said as they started to take the field.
"Seriously, though."
"No, it isn't you guys. Not at all. Thanks."
Twenty minutes later, their captain was thrown off for arguing with the senior ref over one of his calls.
As this is my damn blog, I'll reveal a deeply-held opinion here: Arguing with a ref is the single most counter-productive thing a player can ever choose to do, both for themselves and their team. It's stupid, wins you no games, and can fuck the rest of your team sideways as it focuses the ref's attention on you, your team, and any and all bullshit you might be pulling.
This is not say that Refs aren't making poor–or missing entirely–calls. But the refs are there to ensure fair play, not actually play the damn game. Dealing with them is like dealing with the weather: sometimes it's the shits, but more often than not, shouldn't have anything to do with how the game is actually played.
And no matter what, complaining or, heaven forbid, arguing with a ref during a match is like screaming at the sun to cool off. It ain't gonna happen, and there's no use in getting one's shorts in a bunch because it makes you hot. Doing otherwise gets you saddled with a reputation for tilting at windmills.
Oh, and not only did we win 6-3, we were ahead the whole game.
Go Purple!
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Don't Be A Dick
Played a good game of soccer on Sunday. Would have been a great game, but for one guy on the other team. One guy, who rather screwed up what would have been an otherwise pleasant competition for everyone.
First contact: I am in goal. I block a hard shot but the ball rebounds from my chest and out of my arms. I collect it as I collapse on it. As I'm getting up, punk says, "You better catch that first time out or I'm gonna score all day."
I get up, I don't comment. He's a dick, that's clear.
Second time: Their wing fires a cross that is just a bit off. It goes out, rebounds off my thermos and re-enters the field, where it bounces from my leg and out again.
"Corner!" dick shouts.
"Yeah right," I respond.
"Sure looked like it. I mean, I could hardly tell the difference between your the uprights and your white-ass legs."
His comment is among the most racist things anyone has ever said to me while out of uniform. So now I know we're dealing with a racist dick.
I stuff a couple more shots.
He takes a dive when one of our defenders wins a challenge. He whines to the refs.
A whiny racist dick.
He gets tangled up with one of our women, loses and fouls the shit out of her, taking her out of the game with a sprained ankle. No card from the ref.
Ah, a whiny, racist, hyper-competitive dick.
A few minutes later and he tangles with another of our ladies, loses again, takes a dive and shoots his mouth off at the refs.
On the next play, he fouls our ball handler so badly that everyone shouts some variation of "Oh!"
He gets up and shouts "Fuck you, guys!" and goes on to rant about being taken out three times. The refs come together and confer, and give the screaming whiny racist hyper-competitive dick a yellow card, sending him off for a bit to cool off.
He comes back in the second half, and now he's screaming invective at his own team-mates in two languages. It gets to the point where they are all hanging their heads each time he opens his pie-hole.
Ah! He's a bi-lingual screaming whiny racist hyper-competitive dick.
Now, in the mean-time we'd scored four goals against them, so his team was already feeling down, but to have him calling them all sorts of names while himself failing to do even the slightest bit of good for the team must have been exceptionally frustrating.
I don't even know what to call that. Petulant, perhaps?
We win. I get my second clean sheet of the season. I am late coming off the field as I had to collect my kit. As I was late, I go among the opposition to shake hands and congratulate them.
I leave the bi-lingual screaming whiny racist hyper-competitive dick for last.
I extend my hand to shake, he raises a fist for a fist-bump, I suppose. I grip and shake it, saying, "Sorry, I must be too white for that."
Petty, I know. I hope nobody but him thought me a dick.
Don't be a dick.
First contact: I am in goal. I block a hard shot but the ball rebounds from my chest and out of my arms. I collect it as I collapse on it. As I'm getting up, punk says, "You better catch that first time out or I'm gonna score all day."
I get up, I don't comment. He's a dick, that's clear.
Second time: Their wing fires a cross that is just a bit off. It goes out, rebounds off my thermos and re-enters the field, where it bounces from my leg and out again.
"Corner!" dick shouts.
"Yeah right," I respond.
"Sure looked like it. I mean, I could hardly tell the difference between your the uprights and your white-ass legs."
His comment is among the most racist things anyone has ever said to me while out of uniform. So now I know we're dealing with a racist dick.
I stuff a couple more shots.
He takes a dive when one of our defenders wins a challenge. He whines to the refs.
A whiny racist dick.
He gets tangled up with one of our women, loses and fouls the shit out of her, taking her out of the game with a sprained ankle. No card from the ref.
Ah, a whiny, racist, hyper-competitive dick.
A few minutes later and he tangles with another of our ladies, loses again, takes a dive and shoots his mouth off at the refs.
On the next play, he fouls our ball handler so badly that everyone shouts some variation of "Oh!"
He gets up and shouts "Fuck you, guys!" and goes on to rant about being taken out three times. The refs come together and confer, and give the screaming whiny racist hyper-competitive dick a yellow card, sending him off for a bit to cool off.
He comes back in the second half, and now he's screaming invective at his own team-mates in two languages. It gets to the point where they are all hanging their heads each time he opens his pie-hole.
Ah! He's a bi-lingual screaming whiny racist hyper-competitive dick.
Now, in the mean-time we'd scored four goals against them, so his team was already feeling down, but to have him calling them all sorts of names while himself failing to do even the slightest bit of good for the team must have been exceptionally frustrating.
I don't even know what to call that. Petulant, perhaps?
We win. I get my second clean sheet of the season. I am late coming off the field as I had to collect my kit. As I was late, I go among the opposition to shake hands and congratulate them.
I leave the bi-lingual screaming whiny racist hyper-competitive dick for last.
I extend my hand to shake, he raises a fist for a fist-bump, I suppose. I grip and shake it, saying, "Sorry, I must be too white for that."
Petty, I know. I hope nobody but him thought me a dick.
Don't be a dick.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Updaterage
The last few weeks have seen some major changes:
I went to advanced officer training last week. In past years, AO has stunk like BO. This year was a vast improvement, with useful classes taught well.
I did very well in FATS (FireArms Training Simulation). I found it interesting that I was among the best at it; not the shooting, necessarily, though I did well enough at that. No, I was able to regurgitate, with a greater degree of detail than anyone else in the squad, exactly what had gone on in each scenario. I'm not sure why. It certainly isn't being more used to computer screens and the like, as many of the squad were in their twenties, and surely played more games than I. It might have been the roleplaying games, or the fiction writing, or it might simply be the ADD that shoves part of my brain into record mode as I game everything out in my head; one part interacting with folks, another analyzing their responses and attempting to predict and push toward the desired outcome. As I write this, I think it must be the ADD.
The week of AO ended on Thursday, beginning my vacation. Plans for said vacation include: playing some Star Wars Old Republic, some roleplaying, and generally goofin' off.
My writing is no longer represented. Things just turned out that way. My agent was unable to represent me in the way we both wanted. I say that without rancor or upset. I am saddened, but look forward to the future. So much so that I sent The Last Captain off to Baen books on Friday night. Work on the Fantasy project continues apace, and I think I am doing well at it. As in all things, we shall see.
Today was the first of the scrimmages that precede the regular season for the coed adult soccer league the Coolness and I are in. I made sure not to over do it and end up with another brutal hamstring tear like last year. As it is I played half the game and did well enough, pulling some pretty saves. I need to work on my punts and goal kicks, however. I shanked quite a few off course. Isabelle sat behind me in goal and gave encouragement, even when I blew it. The Coolness had a good game as well, though both of us need some serious conditioning.
I went to advanced officer training last week. In past years, AO has stunk like BO. This year was a vast improvement, with useful classes taught well.
I did very well in FATS (FireArms Training Simulation). I found it interesting that I was among the best at it; not the shooting, necessarily, though I did well enough at that. No, I was able to regurgitate, with a greater degree of detail than anyone else in the squad, exactly what had gone on in each scenario. I'm not sure why. It certainly isn't being more used to computer screens and the like, as many of the squad were in their twenties, and surely played more games than I. It might have been the roleplaying games, or the fiction writing, or it might simply be the ADD that shoves part of my brain into record mode as I game everything out in my head; one part interacting with folks, another analyzing their responses and attempting to predict and push toward the desired outcome. As I write this, I think it must be the ADD.
The week of AO ended on Thursday, beginning my vacation. Plans for said vacation include: playing some Star Wars Old Republic, some roleplaying, and generally goofin' off.
My writing is no longer represented. Things just turned out that way. My agent was unable to represent me in the way we both wanted. I say that without rancor or upset. I am saddened, but look forward to the future. So much so that I sent The Last Captain off to Baen books on Friday night. Work on the Fantasy project continues apace, and I think I am doing well at it. As in all things, we shall see.
Today was the first of the scrimmages that precede the regular season for the coed adult soccer league the Coolness and I are in. I made sure not to over do it and end up with another brutal hamstring tear like last year. As it is I played half the game and did well enough, pulling some pretty saves. I need to work on my punts and goal kicks, however. I shanked quite a few off course. Isabelle sat behind me in goal and gave encouragement, even when I blew it. The Coolness had a good game as well, though both of us need some serious conditioning.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Mindgames, Soccer, and Hypercompetitive Pricks
Sunday morning, The Coolness and I had an early game.
We played well and our team won the game, though not without some drama: one player from each teams was given a red card for fighting. I do not generally approve of such conduct, but this was a bit of a special case.
The player from the opposing team was a bit of a drama queen, trying to make calls for the refs and generally being a hyper-competitive prick. So much so that I shall call him Hypercompetitive.
I don't say that lightly, as I have been called such in the past.
Nay, I have examples: I made a clean save on one of his shots. He took four more paces, ramming me after I'd cleanly collected the ball. It wasn't a hard hit, or even something he should have been called on, it was a simple attempt to intimidate me, get inside my head.
The refs and I recognized it for what it was, and him for what he was.
He apologized in a tone that begged me to look at him and call him a liar.
I grunted, punted, and my teammate scored two passes later.
Because, well, fuck him and such mind games.
I stopped a few more of his shots that half. He was good, just not as good as he thought. They had a female striker who was that good, and she was a complete pain in my ass because of it! I was sure one of her shots was going to miss, and pulled my hand back to avoid giving them a corner. Bang! off the upright and in.
My midfielder, in the second half, got tangled up with Hypercompetitive. My player snatched the ball and, as he turned to run up field, his counterbalancing arm slapped the opposing player across the thigh.
"Aww, come on!" Hypercompetitive screamed, raising an arm like he'd been intentionally slapped on the pee-pee with a lead-weighted hand. The drama was palpable.
The refs ignored it, but my players, being good sports, hesitated. We play for fun, after all.
"No whistle! Play on!" I bellowed. Again, because, fuck Hypercompetive and his mind games.
We moved the ball out.
The next time down, Hypercompetitive blew past my fullback, the same midfielder from the earlier altercation hot on his heels.
I came out, cutting the angle.
Hypercompetitive found the near crease of six inches and sent a sweet shot past me to score. I turned to track the ball, so I missed whatever happened next.
"Dirty playing fuck!" Hypercompetitive screamed, returning my attention to the cock.
My player isn't backing down, shouting at him to calm down and play.
Hyercompetitive keeps it up, howling and beating his chest.
Eventually they are both given red cards and sent off.
He spends his time cheering his teammates and telling them to take shots, much as any team player should.
We score three times more. Them, twice. They had more than ten shots on frame, most from Blonde Striker of doom.
A quick break and Blonde Striker that made life in goal such an adventure is open in the middle. The player with the ball sees a chance though and shoots. I was on it, ready to stuff it. She stabs a foot out, deflecting the shot out of my reach and, thankfully, over the goal.
She collapses, face in hands, "I can't believe I played goalie for the other team" she grouses.
I had it, I could have said or, if I wanted to slip the blade in deeper, Thanks. Instead I helped her to her feet and kept my mouth shut.
Because I might be hyper-competitive, but I try not to be an asshole about it.
After the game, I went and told them both they'd played a good game. Hypercompetitive was gracious, Blonde Striker, not so much.
Ah well, I still had fun. And I hurt less than I did the last two times, despite a few full-extension and fall to the ground saves.
We played well and our team won the game, though not without some drama: one player from each teams was given a red card for fighting. I do not generally approve of such conduct, but this was a bit of a special case.
The player from the opposing team was a bit of a drama queen, trying to make calls for the refs and generally being a hyper-competitive prick. So much so that I shall call him Hypercompetitive.
I don't say that lightly, as I have been called such in the past.
Nay, I have examples: I made a clean save on one of his shots. He took four more paces, ramming me after I'd cleanly collected the ball. It wasn't a hard hit, or even something he should have been called on, it was a simple attempt to intimidate me, get inside my head.
The refs and I recognized it for what it was, and him for what he was.
He apologized in a tone that begged me to look at him and call him a liar.
I grunted, punted, and my teammate scored two passes later.
Because, well, fuck him and such mind games.
I stopped a few more of his shots that half. He was good, just not as good as he thought. They had a female striker who was that good, and she was a complete pain in my ass because of it! I was sure one of her shots was going to miss, and pulled my hand back to avoid giving them a corner. Bang! off the upright and in.
My midfielder, in the second half, got tangled up with Hypercompetitive. My player snatched the ball and, as he turned to run up field, his counterbalancing arm slapped the opposing player across the thigh.
"Aww, come on!" Hypercompetitive screamed, raising an arm like he'd been intentionally slapped on the pee-pee with a lead-weighted hand. The drama was palpable.
The refs ignored it, but my players, being good sports, hesitated. We play for fun, after all.
"No whistle! Play on!" I bellowed. Again, because, fuck Hypercompetive and his mind games.
We moved the ball out.
The next time down, Hypercompetitive blew past my fullback, the same midfielder from the earlier altercation hot on his heels.
I came out, cutting the angle.
Hypercompetitive found the near crease of six inches and sent a sweet shot past me to score. I turned to track the ball, so I missed whatever happened next.
"Dirty playing fuck!" Hypercompetitive screamed, returning my attention to the cock.
My player isn't backing down, shouting at him to calm down and play.
Hyercompetitive keeps it up, howling and beating his chest.
Eventually they are both given red cards and sent off.
He spends his time cheering his teammates and telling them to take shots, much as any team player should.
We score three times more. Them, twice. They had more than ten shots on frame, most from Blonde Striker of doom.
A quick break and Blonde Striker that made life in goal such an adventure is open in the middle. The player with the ball sees a chance though and shoots. I was on it, ready to stuff it. She stabs a foot out, deflecting the shot out of my reach and, thankfully, over the goal.
She collapses, face in hands, "I can't believe I played goalie for the other team" she grouses.
I had it, I could have said or, if I wanted to slip the blade in deeper, Thanks. Instead I helped her to her feet and kept my mouth shut.
Because I might be hyper-competitive, but I try not to be an asshole about it.
After the game, I went and told them both they'd played a good game. Hypercompetitive was gracious, Blonde Striker, not so much.
Ah well, I still had fun. And I hurt less than I did the last two times, despite a few full-extension and fall to the ground saves.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Pain Can Be Such Pleasure
In a lot of pain just now.
Twenty-one years ago I played my last soccer game. The family had moved to Switzerland for my last two years of high school. I played just as hard and fast as I had for my Varsity squad in Peoria. I received a yellow card each game. The cards, coupled with the language barrier that prevented me getting to know my teammates, killed my desire to play. Instead I played rugby a few times, thoroughly enjoying it.
But I didn't continue to play rugby when I returned to the States, and never returned to soccer either.
Most of the soccer leagues I might have attempted were a little hard-core for me, as out of shape as I was and with my concern that I not hurt myself, preventing me from working.
Last week The Coolness played in a local coed 30+ league. I watched as her team played their asses off. They had no bench and insufficient bodies to cover all positions.
Regardless, both teams had lots of fun, and had great attitudes.
I was in.
This week, I played goalie for The Coolness' team. I showed up kitted out and ready to play in that position, as last week's goalie had pulled a calf muscle and couldn't play.
As I was warming up, I hear, "Barber."
I look over and it's one of my Academy classmates, who lives south of SF, but comes out to play most weekends. Small world.
Warmed up, I stepped on the field for the first time in 21 years to play a position I don't recall ever playing in a real match. The opposing team had us outnumbered and outclassed, shooting five shots for every opportunity we had. It wasn't a matter of lack of skill: once again we had less than a full squad, and no relief.
I discovered exactly how poor my conditioning is. I am so glad I wasn't playing in a position that might have required me to actually run for extended periods.
I made about twelve saves, a few of which were quite good. My daughter watched the entire game, mostly from a seat behind me in goal, offering encouragement and fetching balls that rocketed past.
I did let four pass me by: Two were simple errors I pray I won't make again. One was a beautifully arranged shot that the player slipped in over my head, and the fourth was a free kick that the ref called but that could have gone either way.
We scored no goals.
The opposing team will certainly remember me. I unintentionally put a player from the other team out with one of my punts. Trying to clear the ball to an open forward, the ball left my foot like a rocket and connected with the guy's face six feet from my foot.
So now, I smell like a mint julip, hurt like I haven't in ages, and am happy as a clam.
I feel so good.
Twenty-one years ago I played my last soccer game. The family had moved to Switzerland for my last two years of high school. I played just as hard and fast as I had for my Varsity squad in Peoria. I received a yellow card each game. The cards, coupled with the language barrier that prevented me getting to know my teammates, killed my desire to play. Instead I played rugby a few times, thoroughly enjoying it.
But I didn't continue to play rugby when I returned to the States, and never returned to soccer either.
Most of the soccer leagues I might have attempted were a little hard-core for me, as out of shape as I was and with my concern that I not hurt myself, preventing me from working.
Last week The Coolness played in a local coed 30+ league. I watched as her team played their asses off. They had no bench and insufficient bodies to cover all positions.
Regardless, both teams had lots of fun, and had great attitudes.
I was in.
This week, I played goalie for The Coolness' team. I showed up kitted out and ready to play in that position, as last week's goalie had pulled a calf muscle and couldn't play.
As I was warming up, I hear, "Barber."
I look over and it's one of my Academy classmates, who lives south of SF, but comes out to play most weekends. Small world.
Warmed up, I stepped on the field for the first time in 21 years to play a position I don't recall ever playing in a real match. The opposing team had us outnumbered and outclassed, shooting five shots for every opportunity we had. It wasn't a matter of lack of skill: once again we had less than a full squad, and no relief.
I discovered exactly how poor my conditioning is. I am so glad I wasn't playing in a position that might have required me to actually run for extended periods.
I made about twelve saves, a few of which were quite good. My daughter watched the entire game, mostly from a seat behind me in goal, offering encouragement and fetching balls that rocketed past.
I did let four pass me by: Two were simple errors I pray I won't make again. One was a beautifully arranged shot that the player slipped in over my head, and the fourth was a free kick that the ref called but that could have gone either way.
We scored no goals.
The opposing team will certainly remember me. I unintentionally put a player from the other team out with one of my punts. Trying to clear the ball to an open forward, the ball left my foot like a rocket and connected with the guy's face six feet from my foot.
So now, I smell like a mint julip, hurt like I haven't in ages, and am happy as a clam.
I feel so good.
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