The reason is that soccer's familiarity tempts unattainable mastery that hinders pursuit. Sometimes he groans when he sees Michael Uhle miss a sitter from three yards out. It's one thing to see the ball come to your feet, it's another to do the same and hear everyone around you groan. On the other hand, when I do well, I repeat his POV in my head for the next three weeks and say to myself: “He had the perfect technique to finish that slow roller while he was 15 yards out from the goalkeeper’s position. It just rolled into me and BAM – what a great finish.”
a noble and just endeavor
In the last year of my 30s, I pursued mastery of soccer and ended up on the newest team in the South Jersey Masters League. Our team manager assembled the players to bring together a variety of parents and coaches from the wide range of clubs where I coach my son's team. A noble and just endeavor. The coach knew I was still playing and was excited to have me on the team and immediately tried to temper my expectations by saying, “Kyle, you know, a lot of these players… I've never played before.”
We had our first game last weekend. The skipper had said we would be playing on a grass field at a local high school, so my various teammates, and even people I had never met before, all made comments like, I watched the field in awe as I did so. field. It's big. It's really big. But it's a good field. ” There was a sense of excitement and tension among the friends, wondering what was going to happen next. one of my new teammates asked timidly, slipping on a pair of cleats he had just removed from a shoe box with a receipt from Dick hanging out. “So, have you guys actually played before?”
It wasn't until a traveling women's team showed up on the same grass field and started warming up that we realized that the captain had misplaced our field, and we plodded along with slumped shoulders. I headed to the “stadium'' where I would be playing. It used to be a grass field, 75% of which was under 1 inch of water, with a drainage canyon running alongside it, so a ball kicked from the fan sideline would find its way into the brisk drainage stream. Several descendants enthusiastically retrieved it. My teammates' mothers were horrified.
I loosely introduce myself and organize my feelings. The introductions range from barely audible growls to verbose life stories, and the entire playing experience foreshadows misty-eyed memories of previous high school glory. The manager asks, “So who's doing well and wants to be at the top?” No one would volunteer – but come on – it was a two-part question. Who is in their late 30s to 40s, in good shape and aiming for the top? Knowing a bit about our situation, I played a standard centre-back and immediately faced It has chosen to act as a bulwark against the potential onslaught.
Let the game begin!
The game begins. The field is literally like running through the shite. It's a purine-like substance, and I'm more concerned about ACL, PCL, and even all CLs than I am about zone clearance.
Possession? what's that? We attack the ball hard while the opposing team, who we have played against for the 10th season, moves through the valley and plays together. positioning? Hogwash! At one point during the match, I screamed. Even if they wouldn't have used the normal colors if they were within the city limits, “Why are there three left-mids?” The center of our field, ironically the driest part, lacked any friendly color.
The goaltender, who hasn't played since high school, will take another early and first of many tests. He delivers low shots to his teammates with incredible agility for a man of his size. After that, he tried to make a fast break to the side, but despite having three left-middle players on our side, we couldn't control this and the opponent went wild in the box again. I was able to clear the ball, but Pillsbury Doughboy and Michelin Man Aiko pushed me down from behind in slow motion. I can feel the cool wetness of the swish mud on my face as Otis applies the rolling pin to my body. he apologized. I groan, combing the mud from my beard with my fingers. The game continues.
It's not half time
The team's best player scored his first goal with a superb drive from outside the 18 area to the far post, and soon the first quarter whistle blew. Yes, in this league he has four 20 minute quarters. the goalie asked me as I walked back to the sideline. “It's halftime, right?'' I informed him of the league rules, and his jaw dropped open. “It was like 20 minutes? That took forever.” Everyone on the sideline is generally positive. “1-zero…not bad. Let's keep it up,'' the coach says positively. On to the next quarter…
When the whistle blows, the opponent attempts a route 1 ball using a variety of balls against the charging attacker. The latest in a rotating procession of players to play at centre-back for the first time in 20 years will race to win one of these balls, with a charging attacker and an attempt to return the ball to the keeper eight yards from goal. Shows amazing speed when. I couldn't help but shout “NO!” And the keeper scrambled the ball out of bounds. I jog up to my opponent and use my coaching voice as if I were coaching a member of my son's 8-year-old team. The next time you do the same thing, you'll feel the pressure. Kick the ball over the sideline. ”
He replied, “I was trying to hit it back at the keeper.''
“I know…please don't do it again.”
They scored another goal on a breakaway late in the game, and went into halftime with a two-goal lead. “Hey, these guys have been playing together for years, and 2-nil isn't bad. But we don't need any more goals,'' the coach encourages.
I pipe up. “Guys. I don't know if you've noticed, but we're not what you'd call 'good' people. And, believe it or not, neither do they. Don't aim for the ball like Puyol, just keep them in front of you. They'll mess up, I promise. ”
The third frame begins and no one listens to my advice. Our striker loses the ball in midfield and chases it. You can tell by his expression and angle that this is a typical men's league revenge tackle. Unable to defeat the opponent on the first tackle, he yells “EASY!” I still can't reach my goal in the second challenge. “Easy!” The third one finally clips the ankle and knocks the player down. There was a fair amount of pushing and shoving, and I yelled, “OVER 40 MEN'S SOCCER!” Not worth it! ” This clarity succeeds in suppressing the intimidating display and play continues.
When our opponent took a shot with our keeper on his side, he knocked the ball down like a father clapping the hands of an 8-year-old trying to reach for a vase in an antique store. They try another tackle and hurt the keeper. He made a save with his fingertips, but the ball fell behind him and rolled toward goal. The only thing that stopped the ball's progress was the small pond in the goal mouth.
Shortly after that, in what felt like the 150th minute of the game, we conceded a corner kick and the ball went into the box at just the number six, with a player in the perfect position to head the ball away. That's when I realized it was our timid player in fresh Nikes who seemed to have wandered into the area without knowing what he would do in this situation. She ducked to avoid the ball and it landed at the feet of the attacker, who I was supposed to be marking at the back post. I lunge. lonely. they score. I could see its paws begin to slide through the pasty brown substance that was once this soccer field, and I felt it enter a deep crevice. As my opponent celebrated, I froze in place, closing my eyes and taking stock of what I had done to my body.
A zookeeper came up behind me and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I'm just checking… everything still seems to be in order. Please wait a moment.”
Finally, start clicking
Toward the final round of the game, the team's lack of distribution ability weakened my ability to be involved in the game from the midfield, so the manager brought me in as a center back. He's a hard-nosed guy from Mayfair and he plays like that. We are able to stop most attacks that come our way, but that may have been due to lack of interest on the other side rather than our actual ability. A penalty kick goal from a chicken wing hand by the right back made it 4-0.
Another flare-up occurs when the oldest player, at least the one with a head full of gray hair, is clumsily tackled. Some enthusiastic pushing follows. I tried to live up to my “over 40” mantra, but only the referee's intervention with a yellow card calmed the situation down.
Now our veterans are angry. He took a five-minute break on the sideline and returned to the game. He collected the ball on the left sideline and charged up the field. He got past the first defender in quick succession. The team stands there and watches as our nation's elder statesman crosses the finish line. He took a shot and it went into the corner. They took advantage of the first attacking chance of the match.
I jog into the box but stay on the other side near the top of the box. Eight years ago, after receiving a headbutt from a fellow teammate during a corner kick and subsequently receiving 10 stitches in my forehead on the eve of an important interview, I no longer feel like getting so “disrupted” by an air ball. there is no. A corner kick came in, bounced once at the penalty spot and went cleanly to me. There are no defenders near me. He picked up the ball with his chest and took a shot from the air with his left foot, sending the ball back into the goal. He skipped once at the pond in the 6-yard box and stood in the corner. As I celebrate with an enthusiastic but subdued fist pump, out-of-breath men trot out to give me high-fives and fist pumps. Shortly after, the referee mercifully ended the match.