For me I think it probably began in that field behind the townhouse in Maryland. Our backyard led out into that open field that gave way to the woods. My father in his blue shorts, his long muscular calves and thighs exposed to the summer sun. Big white puffy clouds dance across the afternoon sky as he punts that black and white paneled soccer ball directly upwards. My neck cranes to follow the orb as it soars. I let out a giggle and plead for him to do it again.
I think that’s where it started for me. The fascination with the ball, the love for the game.
I sometimes curse my father for sharing this game with me, especially after a tough loss which leaves me wishing I didn’t care about the sport. But, the game has given me so much, and without it, I’m not entirely certain life would be worth living.
But, I don’t play anymore. Perhaps I should say, currently I’m not playing. Some recent trips to my local rec center have me wondering if I will soon pull out my old pair of Adidas Copa’s and walk out on the pitch again.
My relationship with the beautiful game has morphed over the years, I’ve turned from player to spectator, or perhaps football fanatic is the correct term. Guzzling beer, nervously smoking cigarettes, and screaming at the television is how I spend far too much time. I’ve been to my share of live football as well, but I’ve yet to make it across the pond to North London, to watch Arsenal in the flesh. One day.
Although the life of a fan is at times brutal, it has its highs as well. Some special moments are permanently etched into my psyche. Certain goals, when I see them played back, bring the memories flooding through. I remember where I was, who I was, life forever frozen in a moment of jubilation.
But it’s not quite the same high as running through memory lane, thinking of my own playing days. I used to have a few old video tapes, highlight reels of my saves. Because I’m a goalkeeper. Although I love the game, it’s really goalkeeping that has always been my passion. Figuring out how to keep that flying ball out of your net.
That last time I pulled the laces tight on my boots, and strapped the gloves on, must have been 2017. The Clarke County High School Alumni game.
That’s a long time ago now.
But I still remember their winger whipping in an early cross, shuffling my feet, a slight jump, both hands reaching to claim the ball, and then the fall back to earth.
That fall back to earth is always easier with the ball grasped in your gloves. When the ball flies past your outstretched hand and into the net, gravity seems to catch up to you all too quickly, the ground less forgiving.
My true fall to earth was the day I gave it all up.
There was never a moment where I said to myself, you’re finished, but I know there was a day that something died inside.
Hope.
It’s interesting because I never stopped loving the game, never stopped enjoying just playing. But I’d also become addicted to winning, addicted to competing. I wish I could tell that 20 something to just keep playing, just keep training, just keep living, because the game has a way of giving back. But logic told me there was no path forward, told me I couldn’t make the cut any longer. And maybe I was just tired. Did I really need to prove to anyone else that I was a stellar goalkeeper? Hadn’t I made enough jaw dropping saves, hadn’t I won enough trophies?
And yet here I sit, 16 years after my last competitive match, wondering what could have been. Where the game may have taken me, if I could have simply played for the joy of it all.
Goalkeeping though, at least for me, isn’t about joy, it’s serious. Even after making a splendid diving save that garners groans or cheers from the crowd, there just isn’t time to relish in your moment. It’s quickly back to your feet, repositioning yourself and organizing your defenders, before another ball comes barrelling towards your goal. It’s imperative that you keep your mental focus, keep reading the play, keep positioning yourself in relation to the game. Be ready at all times.
It’s only after the final whistle blew that I’d feel something close to joy. I’d made it through another match, another test. And yes, there is nothing quite like keeping a clean sheet, especially if you’d managed to pull off a few crucial saves in the process. The post match meal is when I would analyze my performance and revisit the saves in my mind.
Even after all these years, I can still revisit certain moments. Saves that will live on in me forever. And for me, there is something beautiful in that.
As a fellow ex semi professional soccer player, I felt every word. That what if never really fades, does it?
I also have a personal question I wanted to ask, I left it inbox, when you have time please check it out.
Peter, that was a wonderful piece of writing. It reminded me a little of "Field of Dreams," since it was a tribute to the joy of the sport. Neither my sons or I have any decent eye-hand control. In high school I did track (I can still run fast), my older boy played his guitar to several girls, my younger son joined the school's ultimate frisbee team. BUT, my older son has two daughters and the younger, June, is an ATHLETE. I wish my dad was alive to see her in action. She's also a dancer. Coordination had to turn up sooner or later.