I'm not going to beat around the bush on this one — I hate losing. Some might even call me a sore loser. Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am a fierce competitor and won't hesitate to bend the rules to ensure my victory in any sport, game, or competition.
I once was defeated in a game of HORSE, and proceeded to punt the ball over the neighbor's fence while muttering, "Looks like your game is over." After I came up short in a not-so-friendly game of Mario Party on N64, I pulled out the cord and demanded my peers leave the house. What I am trying to say is you could have probably imagined my will to win when I decided to play Intramural soccer this spring.
Now, I haven't stepped foot on a soccer field since fourth grade when the Dominators took the LMYA travel league by storm, so I confess that I may have been a little rusty. And I'll be the first to admit that the only thing David Beckham and I have in common is the ability to make a room of teenage girls scream (for different reasons, unfortunately). Nevertheless, I made my way onto the field determined, excited, and more confident than David Abernathy. (He performed open heart surgery in a crowded opera house with only a ballpoint pen, you know).
Before I could actually make an on-field appearance, I figured it would be wise to pickup a rule book for the simple fact that "have fun!" was the only criterion that existed during my soccer days. I eventually obtained my desired rule book and good thing I did; turns out soccer has more rules and regulations than a middle school dance (I hope those aren't your hands on her hips!). Soon, I was lost in a world of direct and indirect kicks, offside calls, and penalty shots. This was going to be harder than I thought.
I figured that if I was going to put on a good show, I'd have to look top-notch, as well. Headband? You bet. Long black socks? Of course. Wrist bands? Why not? Finger bands? Hell, if Allen Iverson can do it, so can I. After a successful trip to the mall accompanied by my Mom's credit card (love you, Mom!), I was finally ready to go.
Next up for me was months of hardcore practice and extreme physical training. And by months of hardcore practice and extreme physical training, I obviously mean a grand total of two practices which consisted of roaming the soccer field aimlessly, taking water breaks every other minute, and screaming "Zidane!" at random times while attempting to head-butt my teammates (see: World Cup 2006).
Finally, my intense preparation was over and it was time to lace up the cleats for our team's first game. During warm-ups, I glanced over to the other side of the field to observe our competition, and suddenly realized they are practicing bicycle kicks and juggling two balls at once while our side is freestyle rapping and rating the "soccer moms" in the crowd.
As the game started, surprisingly, something amazing happened — we started winning. Seemingly out of nowhere, we were playing good defense, making the right passes, and taking advantage of our opportunities. Led by team founder and captain Jon Yoder, we took the lead going into halftime.
The discussion of the second half is a little bit of a touchy subject, so bear with me. Early in the half, I received the ball on a pass and then proceeded to perform a number of moves which could only be perfected as a result from watching countless hours of YouTube soccer highlights. As I made my way toward the net, shot, and scored what I thought was my first goal, the opposing defender performed his best Vlade Divac impression and flopped over acting as if I had elbowed him in the chest. Somewhere in the middle of this drama, the ref decided to metaphorically pee in my Cheerios and call me for a pushing foul and therefore erased my much-deserved goal.
What happened next was a series of events that I hope to forget in the near future. Obviously unhappy with the call, I decided to approach the ref with a few choice words and one choice finger that led to my ejection of the game in which we eventually lost. Whatever, red is my favorite color anyway. I can't tell you what prompted me to get so angry at a questionable call by an official, but I can tell you one thing; I'm never playing soccer again.
So, I guess soccer isn't my sport. Oh well ... anyone want to play a friendly game of HORSE? Someone will just have to fetch the ball; I think it's over in the neighbor's yard.
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