SOCCER IT TO ME

If I were to pick one word to sum up my outlook on life right now, it would most definitely be, "Ouch."

You see, I made a major mistake recently, and that was to not recognize that I have a 26-year-old body and 137 year-old knees. Instead, I opted to play a soccer game with a bunch of people far younger and, as was quickly proven, in far better shape.

It all started when a friend of mine conned me into playing in an Alumni Soccer Game. Basically, the concept was this: some former soccer players from my high school would come together and play the current boys and girls teams for a charity event. In retrospect, the charity maybe should have been the construction of the all-new Alumni Orthopedic Ward.

At the start, it all seemed like a great idea. I’d get out there and flex the old soccer muscles and maybe teach these young punks a thing or two about the game. Funny thing about those young punks. Seems that somewhere between 1989 and 1999, they kind of learned how to play soccer.

You see, when I played soccer, back in the olden days, it wasn’t so much a team sport as it was a place for people who really wanted to play sports but couldn’t make the baseball or football team. That’s not to say there weren’t a lot of really talented athletes on the soccer team. It’s just that the baseball and football teams were stacked with talent, perennial winners who drew huge crowds. The soccer team, on the other hand, had about the same chance of winning a game as I had of winning Miss Universe. (For one thing, that tramp from Brazil is such a kiss-up.) We tried our best every game. Unfortunately, the other high schools did the same, and had much more to offer in the whole soccer ability category.

So I figured that the soccer teams of the high school today took the same approach I did to soccer, which was to have fun, and to learn to deal with losing a soccer game 18-0. Well, they don’t. And I think high school kids are bigger than when I was in high school, too.

About six seconds into the game, I was already bent over, holding my shorts, coughing and wheezing. And the ball hadn’t even come my direction yet. I watched as the high school kids zigged and zagged down the field, passing to each other in a crisp, efficient manner unbeknownst to the teams of my youth. I was playing sweeper, which is the last line of defense before the goalie. Basically, a sweeper is the last defender that everyone remembers getting beaten when a goal is scored, so it’s kind of the Bill Buckner of soccer positions.

Amazingly, however, we held the boys’ team scoreless for most of the first quarter, thanks in no small part to the goal post, which blocked, by my estimate, around 600 shots. In the second quarter, the girls’ team took the field, which worked as a major psychological factor against the alumni team. First off, you don’t want to knock down a 15-year-old girl, even if you are on opposing soccer teams. Second, and more importantly, you don’t want to be knocked down BY a 15-year-old girl, especially if friends and family are in the crowd. So, the second quarter saw much more passing on the alumni side of the ball, as we were trying to get it into somebody -- anybody -- else’s possession, lest you forever be labeled Alumni Who Got Schooled by the 15-Year-Old Girl and taunted by your friends and, even worse, your wife, who calls you women’s names for the rest of your marriage and, when there is a noise late at night, offers to protect you since, "If you’re gonnna get knocked down by a girl, you don’t stand a chance against a burglar, Gladys." So, you can see the concern.

As the final whistle blew, I stood there, grabbing my knees, wheezing like a 1982 Datsun. I could have been the poster child for the This is What Happens When you Reject Clean Living campaign. Despite this, we found that age and experience and 20-30 extra pounds apiece could indeed overcome youth and exuberance, as the alumni would come out on top by a score of 5-3. Granted, it helped that several members of the alumni team were 19- and 20-year-olds who were still defying the will of time. It was a well-played game, with flashes of brilliance on both sides of the ball, and flashes of potential cardiac issues on one side of the ball. (And, despite what you may have heard, we let those girls score that last goal. We felt sorry for them. Honest.)

Although I feel like I have spent an evening being interrogated by Khmer Rouge, I think the night was a success. Sure, I can’t get out of a chair right now without the help of one and sometimes two or more adults. Sure, there is roughly the same amount of skin on my knees as there is out on the soccer field. It’s all part of the game. It’s all part of giving back. In fact, I’m really looking forward to next year’s game. I just hope they’ll let me coach.