I hadn’t played soccer in 25 years so they chose me to be the goalie. I was outfitted in stretchy shorts, Spandex sleeveless tee, new white cotton socks, and Reeboks with a sprinkle of Gold Bond medicated for good measure.
“Let’s go team!” was my warm up cheer. No one was listening. Suddenly everyone on the field was running and yelling. The other team started moving the ball down the field in my direction.
I was crouched and ready—pacing back and forth, up and down, with my arms poised outstretched, ready to grab the ball midair. (I’d seen the World Cup guys do that.)
A kick! The ball was hurling right at me. The ball arched, I arched. I caught it against my chest, hard against my chest. Saved!
Holding the ball in my left hand, I dramatically waved my teammates back with my right—I was gonna kick it. “Back, back, get back, this baby is gonna fly!” It sailed high and fast, a thing of beauty, but it dropped long before halfway.
The other team intercepted the ball and again they started moving it toward me— fast. I got ready again.
Like slow motion, I saw one guy make a superb pass to his brother who was lined up ready to make the shot right into the box. I leaped forward trying to out-skirmish him, but he had superb footwork.
It was clear he had played plenty before today. He wasn’t even sweating.
Where were my teammates? I kept yelling, “Help me, I’m all alone! Come on, somebodyyyyyyy!” No one came.
Suddenly he danced around me, and I didn’t see the kick but I heard it. I knew it had been perfect, and it was—goal #1.
As the other side high-fived, my teammates lay sprawled in the grass.
My friend, who at one time had been a world-class player (that also was 25 years ago) and who had almost gone pro, was the other goalie.
Even from far away his face looked pasty, and he had taken off his rubber-soled sandals to dribble the ball better. When my team finally got the ball close enough for our first goal, he tried to maneuver the ball out of the danger zone but fell on the grass.
A new player joined the other team while someone took a lemonade break. This gal looked good: aggressive, pushy, determined, and focused. I watched as she warmed up by using her toe to lift the ball up from the grass to her chest and then back down to her right foot as she casually demonstrated a smooth banana kick.
“Time out!” I yelled. Boy oh boy, we needed to have a strategy or at least somebody had to foul her so she couldn't play!
I hobbled to the sidelines. Every muscle I never knew I had was suddenly alive and kicking and crying out for BENGAY.
Back into the game and the ball was flying down the field and toward me at bullet speed. I blocked the ball from making it into the net with my shin and it immediately turned black and blue (my shin). No goal!
Then, from out of nowhere a ball whizzed right past my head and into the net. I never even saw it! Ah ha!—that new girl!
Then it all happened so quickly—goals 3 and 4. My team gave up and moved to the shady area where the cookies were. The winners kept prancing around the field, passing the ball to each other and making goals just for the fun of it.
My friend and I looked at each other, and he said, “Why did I think we could outrun 7-year-olds?”
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in Connecticut. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
