I've mentioned before that I love, and play, hockey...I also love baseball and have mentioned already that I'm currently playing on a co-ed softball team...I am a big fan of football, which I (kind of) played when I was in junior high and high school. I've even competed in Park n' Rec flag football and basketball leagues. Hell, I've even thought about joining a volleyball team. Out of all of the sports I think I've played, basketball is VERY VERY CLOSE to being my least favorite, but I'm definitely awarding the dubious honor of "Derek's least favorite sport" to the tradition-rich sport of soccer.

No, not golf, "soccer."

Now, before I'm quickly attacked and stomped down by a drunk, chanting mob of angry Irishmen or Brazilians, allow me to explain...It's not that I hate EVERYTHING that soccer stands for and wish for it to be abolished from the athletic landscape for all time, I just don't like playing it. At least, I don't like playing it anymore...I was reminded recently of my having participated in this masochistic pastime while reading a blog that I like to check in on from time to time. The writer is a gravedigger in Portugal and Portugal, understandably, is one of those "soccer-mad" countries. In commenting on one of his posts, and responding to a comment about my initial comment, I realized that I had the makin's of a story...So here we go...

First off, there's a whole lot of running in soccer. People that play soccer know this. People that watch soccer know this. Hell, I'm convinced that embryos in the womb know that soccer involves too much running. Zygotal awareness of the INSANE amount of running associated with soccer wouldn't surprise me much. "Soccer, the sport where you run WAY TOO FUCKING MUCH" would be my idea of a marketing campaign for the World Cup...I think that the single best quote about soccer comes from the movie Dogma in a scene where the Matt Damon character tells the Ben Asslick Character that "Any moron with a pack of matches can set a fire. Raining down sulphur is like an endurance trial, man! Mass Genocide is the most exhausting activity one can engage in, next to soccer. "

I've never given mass genocide a whack, but soccer? yeah..it's tiring...

My first exposure to soccer, like with most sports, was on the playground in elementary school. Kicking a little ball around without the hindrance of rules or structure was, and is, a lot of fun. We played actual organized games of soccer from time to time in P.E. class, which weren't overly unenjoyable. When I was in 6th grade, however, things changed for me. I was placed on a Park n' Rec soccer team in a youth soccer league. I actually had to learn the rules. I had to play as part of a team. I actually had to compete...

I actually had to run...

I despise even the basic IDEA of "running." I could skate all day if I were allowed to, but running? Hell no. If I had to "run for my life" from anything, chances are quite good that I simply wouldn't make it. I'm not built for speed, folks...I run like a fat cartoon duck with bad knees and a poorly developed sense of direction. "Running" simply isn't something that I prefer to do. I've heard of "runners" tell of the glorious "runner's high" that one gets after they've run for an extended period of time. Well yeah, goofball! You'd HAVE to be "high" to want to run that damn much!..Anyways, I had to run...Not as much as the other kids, maybe, but I had to run. I was initially a left wing, but the coach nixed that idea when I kept drifting across center into the right half of the field...I was then made into a "halfback," which is a more defensive position on the soccer field...I liked that ok, but really wanted to try being a goalie. I remember doing ok at that, in fact I think that I remained a goalie for the rest of that soccer season...

And that one little soccer season was it...No more soccer for me, at least until I was in my 20s...

I had a friend in elementary school named Sean. Sean and I had gradually lost contact, but he found me on some "classmates" style list and got in contact with me. We chatted about various things, he talked about how much he liked playing indoor soccer and I told him that I was having fun playing hockey. When he found out that I was a hockey goalie, he offered "well you should come play for our indoor soccer team...It's like hockey, so you should do pretty well." I, stupidly, agreed to give it a try.

Derek's Soccer Rule #1: "Don't believe the hype"...

Soccer is like soccer, folks...I don't care if it's indoors, outdoors, underwater or on ice, IT'S NOTHING LIKE HOCKEY! NOTHING! THE TWO HAVE VERY LITTLE IN COMMON. Of course, I figured THIS little fact out right after the first goal of my first indoor season was scored on me...I was also a wee bit rusty where the rules of "indoor" were concerned, having not participated in any manifestation of soccer since I was, oh say, 12 years old...I asked the other players on the team for some helpful hints and I got such nuggets of weesdom as "use both hands," "don't grab the ball outside of that circle-thing" and, my personal favorite, "just be aggressive."

"Just be aggressive"...I can do that...I'm good at that...Apparently TOO good...

I found out that "soccer aggressive" and "hockey aggressive" are two very different animals. Indoor soccer players apparently don't appreciate being bumped around, elbowed or otherwise reduced to a pile of human rubble on the astroturf...I made more contact with "aliens" during my first 2 games at the indoor facility than Jodie Foster at an observatory...It was during my 3rd game, I think, that I received my first little red-colored card. The events surrounding this...event...went something like this...

We were playing a team that consisted entirely of Spanish-speaking players...I'm of the opinion that they were speaking the Spanish, less because it was their first language, and more because it SOUNDS like a "soccer language..." What I'm getting at here, is that they figured they could make us BELIEVE that they were better players than they really were by trying to make us believe that they were all "fresh off of the soccer boat" or something. I mean, c'mon...I went to high school with 2 or 3 of these guys...I KNEW they could speak English...But, instead, they insisted upon jibber-jabbering in Spanish, insulting everyone on our team, as if we couldn't understand them. (we couldn't). They also played the game with quite the "tortilla chip" on their collective shoulders, putting the body into our smallest players at every turn. I personally was getting more than a bit fed up with their dirty play by about midway through the first period...

It was about that time that one of their larger players shoved one of our smaller players face-first into the wall at my end and kicked him in the ribs...I instantly sprung into action, tearing across to where he was gloating over my fallen teammate and giving him a beautiful Tito Santana-style "flying forearm"...This knocked HIM backward into the wall and, understandably, a fight ensued. As I began gleefully pummeling this particular opposing player about the head and shoulders, 4 or 5 of his smallish teammates leapt onto my back and did their level best to pull me away. Once my pummelee was able to get enough space between himself and my "windmill of destruction," he did, apparently, the only thing that soccer players know how to do in this situation...

He kicked me...

I was dumbfounded...I couldn't remember having actually been kicked outside of some playground somewhere when I was, like, 6. I instantly snapped into a kind of "hulk been kicked and must smash" rage and went after him as best I could, what with 6 or 7 little mejicanos hanging on to me for dear life. I imagine that it must've been quite the sight, me churning after him, carrying half his teammates with me, while he ran like hell for the bench area, spouting insults at me in Spanglish.

After things calmed down a bit and I had shed my "second skin" of soccer players, the official charged at me and presented me with a little red card. I took it from him and looked it over. He glared, wide-eyed at me as I asked the very pointed question "so what's this?" Completely taken aback, he stammered "it means you're out of the game. You have to leave." "Ok, ok" I replied. "Can I keep the card? Is it like 'the Scarlet Letter?' Do I get to wear it like the 'Red Badge of Courage?'" I asked. "NO" he shouted, as he snatched his little card back, "NOW GET OUT OF HERE!"

I certainly couldn't ignore such a pointed directive as that, so, cardless and still kinda hepped up on adrenaline, I left. On my way out, I stopped at the door to let a couple of the opposing teams "fans" know that, not only could I understand most of what they were saying to me, but that it would be a very bad idea to follow me that night...With that, I turned my back on the game of soccer forever. Frankly, it's for the best. Soccer is better left to...well...Soccer people, I guess. Discretion is the better part of valor, after all...And, anyway, my Mother isn't ready to become a "Soccer Mom" at this stage of her life...

Postyscripty: There's a guy that works at the agency named Frank who plays the soccer at the same facility as the one I got kicked out of...He tells me that, not only is the same team that I "rumbled" with still there, but that they still play quite dirty. I don't know, I guess I kind of feel vindicated by this. I doubt that they'd play "cheap" if more people reacted to their shenanigans the way I did...

Of course, if that were the case, the poor official would run completely out of his colorful little cards...

Labels: hockey stuff, indignities, lame stories, me roots, sports