C-Sectioned Faces And Wonky Balls That Go In When They Should Go Out...

When I was college-going age, I sat hung-over in a college cafeteria in Dunedin, New Zealand, with a group of hung-over Dunedin University students- all of us looking vacuous and hungry- and one particular student walked up to our table and reached over and slugged my arm.

“Nice singing, there, Yank!”

I wasn’t singing. I looked at this guy who had sat down. I sort of recognized him from the night before. It had been a dark pub, and there were many of THEM, but only me. I didn’t remember the scar he wore on his face or the pronounced veins down a fit arm, but I roped it all together and knew he was one of the rugby players who got me singing a drinking song (“Blow-job Girl”, sung to the tune of “Dirty Bop Girl”) in a circle with those flubbing up forced to down their pint and go get another.

These were rugby players after all, and the lyrics we invented were risqué to be kind, and flat-out raunchy to be honest.

“I put her on her back, and I stuck it in her crack…”

(Everybody) “She’s a blow-job girl, she’s a blow-job girl…”

“They call me King Kong, when she’s sucking on my dong…”

(Everybody) “She’s a blow-job girl, she’s a blow job girl…”

Like that. And the scary thing is, I REMEMBER all the lyrics invented that drunken night, though I’ve only had that song run through my head and never across my lips all these twenty years that have since passed.

You think it is easy being me? Ha! Think again. That song’ll drive you to church, I swear to God, man!

Anyway, when I was thirteen years old and had lived in Florida for the most part of a year, I played goalie for a local all-star team that made its way to the State Championships. Had we won, we would have traveled as a team to St. Louis and played in the National tournaments, which we would have done exceptionally well in, considering Florida produces some gosh darn good soccer teams what with all the Bermuda grass and flat lands and Cubans and fine weather and all…

We lost. Which was good, in a way, for our family, since we were supposed to move to California two weeks after the tournament we finally lost, and two weeks before I would have been slated to play in the St. Louis tournament had we won.

In other words, I would have had to have let my family down, or let my team down, if we won, so it was good that we lost, 1-0, even though I still dream in my dreams about how I could have stopped that ball and can see the whole moment in my mind still, like it happened just minutes ago.

You think it is easy being me? Try stopping a break away shot on goal, one on one with you being the goalie, a crowd roaring in one ear, the little sport's voices telling you what you should be doing in the other ear, the opposing team’s best and fastest player coming at you with the ball under foot, the goal mouth a lot wider than you are, the ball, a lot faster than you are, the opposing player barreling down hard and not making the mistake you are watching for…

Run THAT through your mind a thousand times and see if you can make it better…

I told the rugby player all about that moment twenty years ago, because he had that scar, which started on his forehead and made a big arc under his mouth across his cleft chin and headed back up his cheek as if attempting to complete the circle. I sat hung-over in a cafeteria in Dunedin and told this guy I barely knew how I was half an inch away from being a hero, and how the ball spun crazily, and how the world had slowed down to where it was all about a spinning, slowly rolling ball…

When I finished, the rugby player with the scar that made him look like an avid Chicago Cubs fan, shook his head, not once, but many times. He smiled at me in that sporting-knowing way and just said “Damn. That sucks.”

“You’re damn right it did!” I told him. “We lost by a half an inch!”

The rugby player got that scar lifting weights. An end collar had come loose while he was laying on his back doing two handed dumbbell presses with one heavy dumbbell over his head. Basically, a ten pound weight had fallen on his face, but to make matters worse, two ten pound weights had landed on top of the first one as it struck. These were cheaply forged weights with burrs still in the black painted iron from where they came out of the mold. Nobody had bothered to polish these off and they dug into his skin and tore a perfectly formed C.

“Cool huh?” the guy said while he winked. He was a rugby player after all.

I told him how that had sort of happened to me, and how, because of a loose collar on a set of dumbbells, I had ended up standing in front of maybe 5,000 people, waiting for the best player on the opposing team to get to me and take his shot.

I told him that the collar had come loose while I was doing stand-up curls, and I dropped a ten pound weight on top of my left foot, which was clad in flip flops at the time, as I was a kid living in Florida and all…

I told him how it had hurt like hell.

I told him how I had been playing for a really crappy local team made up of mostly 13 year old Jewish boys (which was fine except for all of the freaking Bahhh Mitzvahs I had to buy presents and wear a stupid white suit for), and how the coach kept begging me to NOT pass the ball and try to keep up with the other team’s scoring by doing it all myself.

I told him how I lost the toe-nail on that toe and how the top of my foot was bruised badly, and how the coach got upset when I told him I couldn’t play until the stupid foot healed. (I don’t mean any offence but this guy had a whole bunch of Jewish mother’s to deal with when we lost, and it sure wasn’t pretty!)

I told him that I told the coach I may be able to play goalie for a bit, and he just shook his head.

“No. We need you playing forward. Who else we got?”

“Sorry coach. I can’t kick with my left foot at all and it hurts some to run.”

“You can’t just play with your right foot?”

He thought about this for a bit, and then saw what you all just saw. Not very likely…

I told him I talked the coach into letting me be in the box and then he set the team to shooting practice and I found myself suddenly diving all over the place, deflecting shots, catching shots, tipping shots up over the bar…

If there ever was a perfect fit for an athlete and a position to be played, this was it. I was already very good and I had just stepped into the box for the very first time. My coach’s eyes lit up, and I suddenly had a new position that I seemed a natural for (which came- a few days later- with a new goalie shirt and a whole bunch of chirping amongst the Jewish moms who came to watch us play).

I told the rugby player about how our crappy team never got the ball past the center line. I told him about all the shots on goal the other team made, and the saves I kept having to make. These Jewish moms started keeping and handing me tallies of my saves and most of our games were either zero-zero at the end (we had ties due to sharing the fields and scheduling) or we lost 1-0.

46 saves… 52 saves... 39 saves…

I told the rugby player how much practice I was getting.

My coach approached me at the end of the season. He had his soccer protege and he was anxious for big things for me. I told him our family was moving back to California and this made him actually sad. He told me he had a friend who coached the all-star traveling squad, and that he wanted me to play goalie for them in the upcoming tournaments. I said I could do that, up until we moved.

Summer started and I found myself on a team of great soccer players. My coach introduced me to everybody, and their coach gave a talk as to why they wanted me on their team, which had been together as a team for almost two years, I found out soon enough.

The new coach handed me a ball and asked me to punt it.

“Far?”

“Yes. Far.”

I punted it 50 yards. (I was a 13 year old kid, mind you).

The new coach looked at his team and smiled.

“Instant offense.” he said.

The team of boys all smiled and saw the potential there.

They put me in the box and started shooting practice. Two lines, the coaches rolling balls into the box, the running boys shooting on goal...

There was no let up. I was nervous and thought I had to save everything, and the balls came at me with just time to stand and dive, stand and leap, stand and… I let an easy roller go through my legs…

“He let the ball go through his legs,” I heard one of the boys backing up the goal say.

“Oh jeez.” I thought. And I tried harder.

A few got through but what can you expect? Direct shots on a goal much wider than I am, with no let up?

Other than the roller through my legs, I think I won everybody over, especially the guy who had been playing goal keeper. He so much wanted to vacate the job and play sweeper, where he belonged.

I told the rugby player that my new coach was not only young and fit, but he was a semi-professional soccer player himself and was totally into running our asses off.

We had a three hour practice every morning, which consisted of nothing but running. Remember, these guys had been doing this for two years, and I had just stepped in from your basic two nights a week soccer team where we yakked more than we practiced.

I was now running till I puked, and then running some more, and I was determined not to be the guy who lagged behind everybody else, though for the first week, I most certainly was.

I told the rugby player how I would go home from these practices and just sit in a hot bath for an hour afterwards. So much blood was spent in repairing and feeding muscle tissue, there was nothing left for my little boy pee pee. I didn’t tell this rugby player how I would sit there in a sort of physical shock, covered in dirty water with grass floating in it, wondering where my pee pee went…

No. I didn’t tell him that.

Then we had three hours of evening practice. Yes. In the same day. I told the rugby player all about that. My new coach had friends who played for the Miami Torros professional soccer team. Their goal keeper coach would come around a few days a week and work with me and teach me things. He had drills he made me do that were brutal, and if you were me you would remember them with a sort of pained pride.

He would put a soccer ball about six inches away from each of my outside ankles. One ball on each side with me standing between them. He would blow a whistle and this meant that I was to prepare my feet by chattering up on to their balls and off my heels. It is sort of like running in place but you don’t want your feet off the ground because you need to push off of one or the other of them instantly. You can’t be flat-footed either so you have to “chatter” them in a kind of running in place vibrato…

Then the goal keeper coach would point left or right, and I would have to dive without moving either ball. This meant I had to dive OVER the ball and couldn’t drag my ankles. Full committed dives. That is what he was after. He was trying to teach me to land like a banana, which meant I would dive with my arms outstretched until I hit the ground. There was no flinching and trying to protect yourself halfway through this exercise. If you did you had to get up and sprint to the sidelines and back and then get back in between the two soccer balls.

This coach would make me do this for up to half an hour.

Dive. Get up. Run back. Chatter your feet. Dive. Get up. Run back. Chatter your feet. Landing wrong knocked the wind out of me but that didn’t matter. Dive. Get up. Run back. Chatter your feet…

I would sit in the tub in the evenings and wonder where my pee pee went.

I told the rugby player all about our tournament. Our team was well coached and in great physical condition and we kept winning. I made a few saves on one game that got me tossed on my teammates shoulders. We rolled along as summer flew by, and we were to play Key Biscayne for the Florida championship.

This team was really good and they had this guy named Ricardo who was supposed to be awesome. It was an under fourteen league and I was thirteen and still waiting for pubic hair. This guy Ricardo was Cuban, was almost six foot, and had a mother fucking mustache. He was their fastest guy. Their best ball handler. Their top scorer.

I told the rugby player that our coaches were so serious about our games, they sent SCOUTS to the opposing team’s games and got back reports. They made a plan to put our fastest guy on this Ricardo guy. Our fastest guy who was one of our best defenders. All game he was to do nothing but shadow this Ricardo guy. Stay right alongside him, never give him an inch. That was it.

When I had played in the field, other coaches used to do that with me sometimes, and it was a pretty good strategy. It limited the amount of ball handling you were able to do. It tired you out. It frustrated you when your team wouldn’t pass you the ball…

We got game plans drummed into us like we were professional athletes. The coaching was intense the week before this game. It was a two hour drive to a big stadium and a big deal. There would be a huge crowd come to watch us all play. The best teams from all age groups and their fan bases were going to be on hand, and winning meant a trip to St. Louis.

One of our guys fell on his skateboard while nervously goofing off the morning of the game. He knocked out his two front teeth. His mother put them on ice and brought him to the game. It was THAT big a deal. He would get the teeth sewn back in AFTER the game. He now whistled when he talked.

It was scary being in the goalie box with so many watching. It took time for the dry mouth to go away. We had some scares early but I managed some saves, and the first half was hard fought on both sides, and we were tied, 0-0, moving off the field for half time.

Ricardo had been stymied. He had been awesome but frustrated. He had one guy who never left him. He was double teamed immediately when he got the ball. We had a few good chances to score but one struck the crossbar and bounced away. The other was a great save by their goalie. It was the most intense game I had ever been in. Every moment seemed like a do or die moment.

At half time our coach decided that we were going to push more men forward during the second half. He felt we could win if we could just score. Our guy was doing a good job on Ricardo and he wanted this to continue. We just needed more scoring chances, more pressure, more guys pushed up front.

That’s how it happened.

The ball was cleared quickly with all of our guys pushed up for a corner kick. The ball went to Ricardo who was marked by our guy. Our guy got his feet tangled and FELL DOWN!

Suddenly, their best and fastest guy had the ball at midfield. Twenty or thirty feet behind him was the guy supposed to be defending him. He was barreling down the right side of the field at full speed with the ball tucked in neatly in front of him. Only a great player at that age can run full speed and not turn into a kick and run machine. Most kids would kick and chase the ball, which led to the ball getting too far ahead of them, which was when I would make my move and rush out at full speed and force a collision with the other player and the ball. I would always win these collisions. It was my job to go in low and take out the full speed runner and deflect the ball any which way possible.

But this man with his mother fucking mustache would not let the ball get out in front of him. He toed it along gracefully and our defender was in no way near able to catch him before he got to a shot on goal.

The crowd started cheering and roaring in my left ear (they took up only one half the stadium) and in my right mind I was telling myself sporty things like “shit, fuck! Wait. Fuck! Shit! Move out some, cut off the angle fuck shit!”

Ricardo came down and I moved out of the penalty box and tried to cut off his angle to the goal. If I came out too far, he could simply kick and run right around me- he had all the momentum going in that direction and I had none. If I stayed in too close, I couldn’t cover the goal with my body.

I broke toward him when I thought I should, chattering my feet and readying to react to his shot. He shot across his body, right foot to my right side, about waist high, the shot hard and accurately placed. I dove.

This is where the world slowed down.

I dove and found myself flying to my right in the shape of a banana. The ball was zooming harshly by and I managed to get half my hand on it. I had done it! I had dove and stopped the shot!

The ball had been kicked hard, however. The ball had struck only my fingers. My fingers had been bent back by the impact, and the ball had been deflected, but its momentum still carried it forward.

I landed. Whoopf!

I turned my head.

The ball had picked up an enormous spin from my hand and was traveling to miss the goal mouth by six feet or so. I had done it!

But no.

The spinning ball was rolling on the grass and spinning crazily and CURVING!

I was on my belly watching. Ricardo had shot and then fallen to his right.

The ball was rolling and curving and rolling and spinning and our guy who had chased Ricardo was running full speed at it as it rolled and spun and rolled and curved and hit the far post with our guys foot just missing it.

The ball hit the post and, still spinning crazily, weebled in the goal. The ball had just sort of trickled in the goal and sat on the end line. The ball was definitely in, but not decisively in. Everybody was in disbelief. I was laying on my belly in complete sport’s remorse. The ref blew his whistle and called it a goal and that damn Ricardo dude with the mustache took his shirt off and ran around like an idiot waving it like a Cuban flag.

I told the rugby guy that had I gotten half an inch of hand to go with those fingers, the ball would not have found the net.

He could see that it had affected me. He had had those moments himself.

“Damn. That sucks,” is what he had said.

“You’re damn right it did!” I said. “We lost by half an inch!”

I held out two fingers to show him how much half an inch was.

We fought bravely and gallantly but were never able to score.

We lost 1-0.

Our whole team cried as we left the field. I was having recurring dreams of half an inch before I hit the sidelines.

The guy assigned to mark Ricardo took the full brunt of the blame, though it was harmless and undeserved.

Two weeks later, I got into a station wagon full of brothers and sisters, and we drove to California.

California with a capital “C”…