Post Traumatic Soccer Disorder

Remember those tests you had to take in school? The ones that asked you which of the following did not fit? They went something like....

A. Pen
B. Pencil or
C. A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's rich and thick syrup.

The choice was usually quite obvious. Here's another one:

A.) Jackie Robinson
B.) Bo Jackson or
C.) John Brookbank

Some things just stand out. Since the day I was born I have never been mistaken as a "sports type". Twice I've been mistaken for a girl and several times as gay but never has anyone EVER suspected that I played sports. I once tried to lie to a group of strangers, telling them all that I took karate classes every Monday night, upon which somebody immediately called my bluff, stating, "YOU take karate? Yeah, right." Are sports types born or bred? Who knows. All I can say for sure is that ever since I was a small boy on the playground, I was never one to chase after baseballs or footballs. Perhaps an occasional four-square and today I can be found on the mini golf course from time to time, but that's about as close as it comes.

I've tried, though. I've tried to be straight with sports. I've experimented.

During my junior year in high school a friend talked me into joining intramural volleyball. It was coed and was supposed to be pretty relaxed. This would be my first foray and would turn out to be an experience that would highlight all of my jockular fears. My friend Tom and myself showed up late, which, by this point in my life was sort of becoming my MO. I was now regularly spending almost all of my Saturdays in Saturday School due to tardiness. Saturday School was basically a punishment along the same train of thought as The Breakfast Club movie, minus the marijuana scene. We walked in and I was, if it was possible, underdressed for a casual volleyball game. While most of the kids sported sharp Nike shoes, Adidas shorts and Champion t-shirts, I merely wore a pair of Chuck Taylor's, cut-off shorts and a black Friday the 13th t-shirt bearing a picture of Jason Voorhees hockey mask, lying in a pool of blood with a knife shoved through the eye. On the back it read, in a haunting scrawl, "MADE IN HELL". I really was something else.

Teams were split up and, according to The Fates, Tom and I were to be on opposite teams. I was alone and horrified. I didn't even know the rules to this dumb game. We started and I tried to grasp what everyone was doing. I tried to watch the person who served. How did they hold their hands? What did they say before the serve? How did I know WHEN to serve? The ball came to me and I hit it. I HIT IT! I HIT IT! YES!!!! Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all - and it landed outside of the playing zone on my side of the net I am an idiot.

The team didn't really say anything, but you could sort of feel their silent guffaws as they judged me and my cool t-shirt. Things were off to a rocky start and pretty much stayed that way, me just running around the court, trying to avoid the ball and when it finally DID come to me, I tried to just bunt it (or whatever it's called) to another player. If I could just get it to someone else, someone who knew what they were doing and they got a score, I COULD BE HELD RESPONSIBLE! BEING GUILTY BY ASSOCIATION WOULD FINALLY HAVE IT'S MERITS! Just as I was initializing my plan, I found, to my utter and supreme horror, that it was my turn to serve. Everything went into slow motion. Somebody tossed the ball to me and I missed it. I chased it down and took my spot, blushing, hot and red in my face. I held out the big white ball, cocked my arm back and POW, released, sending the sphere CLEAR UP and out and RIGHT INTO THE NET I am an idiot what was I DOING here how did this happen? How close was the door? Could I run? Would they notice I'd left? Would the circle just rotate and someone else fill in for the vacant server, nobody even mentioning my absence?

A girl rolled the ball back to me, being polite not to embarrass me again by trying to make me catch. I swiped at the damned thing again, imagining myself looking like some kitten playing with a ball on a piece of string, mindlessly, hopelessly swatting at the air. This time it doesn't even arrive at the net. This time it veers off to the left and lands next to a teammate. The girl just decides to carry the ball over to me for some reason. Then my basic grammar teacher (who was playing on the opposite team) tries shouting a few pointers to me. "Make a fist! Hit it with your fist! Keep your arm straight! You can do it!"

I can DO IT? Oh. Problem solved.

I was humiliated for the first half of the game until Tom (who plays volleyball just fine) got bored and asked if it was okay if we split out early.

Sure, Tom. Just fine.

I understood that sports were not my niche and probably never would be. Later in college I'd realize just how far this problem stretched when I found that I couldn't win a game of foosball no matter who or what I played. I was at a party and had drunk three beers when I challenged a guy named Patrick to a friendly match. Patrick had helped finish the better part of a keg before topping it off with a handle of vodka followed by losing his pants somewhere. Certainly he was playing at a handicap and somehow still managed to beat me. If he knew what was happening, I would have felt shame.

A few years later, my wife (who was then my girlfriend) and I moved to Glendale, California where we met a photographer's assistant named Rachel. Rachel had tattoo sleeves on both arms and short hair ala Mia Farrow in "Rosemary's Baby" meets an early emo kid. She wore it well and was dead set on clawing her way through the assistant world into the actual photographer realm. In the meantime, she dated a boy named something or the other but for some reason I want to call him Gavin.

Gavin played soccer for a local team that, according to Rachel, consisted mainly of married couples that got together on Saturday afternoons at the local schoolyard, drank some beer and played some football (that's what soccer is called in Brazil. Are you impressed that I knew that?). None of them REALLY played so we'd fit in just fine. Jade and I were hesitant, but after some haranguing via Rachel, we decided to give it a go. What could go wrong? A bunch of idiots on a soccer field sounded like the story of my life.

We showed up on Saturday and it was The Volleyball Incident replayed to a tee. The team consisted of mostly males, none of whom were married, all of which brought their own cleats, knee pads, jerseys, etc. For warm up they bounced the ball back and forth using only their feet. As it turns out, they were all a little more experienced than "barely at all". It came time to pick teams. The captains stood before us and began to fire off names. Anderson. Rob. Steve. Beakman. Gavin. Pauly. Until finally there were only three. Rachel, Jade and myself. The choosing team stopped the rapid-fire names and just stared at us, unsure of what to do, probably sizing up our respective abilities. They chose Rachel. Probably because Gavin, Rachel's boyfriend said, "Choose Rachel".

Just me and Jade.

They stared at us. Everyone stared at us. Who were we? What were our names? Where did we come from? How did we get here? The captain points at Jade and says, "You". I stand there, not sure if I should even bother walking over to my team, who obviously didn't even want or desire me. I was the loose change that you don't bother picking up off the cement. I was the dirty kleenex. I was the last one picked, more of a hinderance to the game play than a desirable commodity. Even if they knew how to use me, I wouldn't understand what they were trying to say.

We began playing. At first I just ran back and forth with my team, trying to look busy. Trying to look like I knew just what was happening. I cheered at all the right spots and kicked the dirt in frustration when, what I could only assume was the other team, scored. Eventually, as it had to be, the ball rolled to me. I stopped it with my foot and began to tap it over to the opposite end of the field. People began shouting at me, everybody saying something, their guttural shouts drowning into a cacophony of noise. A wall of sound. One voice stuck out. It said, "Blue shirt! Blue shirt! Kick it!"

Blue shirt. Upon other circumstances this may have been an endearing nickname given to me by my friends or coworkers. Today it was neither endearing nor a nickname, but rather just an adjective used to distinguish me from the rest of the pack as no one had even bothered to ask my name. "Kick it, Blue Shirt!" I pull my leg back and release. I make a beautiful connection with the ball and it soars a few feet before being blocked by a Neanderthal that must have been in the Marines at one point in his life. The grass is wet and my shoes have no laces or traction. They are slip-ons and the only pair I own. Church / work / soccer. It's all the same shoe. It slips off and flips into the air, traveling higher than the ball ever dreamed of. My other foot slips on the grass and down I go, embarrassed and again red faced and hot.

But wait. There was no, "Oh, Blue Shirt! Are you okay?" or "Blue Shirt! Nice!". There was just nothing. The game went on as though I weren't there.

Someone had the ball. Someone was kicking it towards me. Not TO me, obviously, but just in my general direction. The Neanderthal grabbed the ball holder by the collar of his shirt and stole the ball. The guy pushed the Neanderthal and shouted at him, "WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM!" The Neanderthal pulled his entire arm back and cold cocked the guy across the mouth, knocking him to the ground. He then proceeded to mount the man and slam his fists one after the other, into his teammate's white, skeletal face. The skinny guy tried blocking the blows, but it was useless. The flesh cannonballs continued their assault until a group of roughly seven guys jumped in and pulled The Neanderthal off, leaving the science teacher looking guy with broken glasses, a bloody nose and black eyes.

People tried to explain to The Caveman that this was just a game and that we just played for fun. They tried to explain that, at this field, we did not hit. A young black girl tried to explain things to him. Tried to reason with him. His response, while it couldn't be mistaken for "polite" was certainly to the point. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.

Fuc_ you, Nigge_.

I hush fell over the crowd. The pandemonium died. I'd never heard a black person called that to their face before in real life and I didn't know what to expect. I think we all half assumed that she was going to shed her skin, become some sort of lycanthrope and tear all of our white throats out. No. In a very anti-climactic scene, she just said nothing. Instead, one of the guys just said, "Hey, hey, hey. I don't think we need to go there - we're just here to have fun".

The Neanderthal then tried to explain, mainly in cave paintings, how he'd just gotten back from the war and demanded respect. We all tried to soothe-say him, tried to calm him down. He eventually cooled his jets enough to storm off the field, jumped the fence and disappeared towards the parking lot. The game was only half done but everyone decided to call it off. Most of us were concerned that he was going to return with an array of semi-automatic weapons, perhaps a sherman tank.

The team captain glanced around and asked if it was okay if we just ended early and went home.

Sure, Tom. Just fine.