Futbol of Life

Weaknesses are difficult for us as humans to confront directly, an evolutionary trait passed down from our primal ancestors, manipulating us into presenting our better side to the world and shunning that which is counter-productive to our agenda, attaining power, status, security, and fucking the best mate possible. This isn't a totally unconscious experience however. In our minds we play out many possible weakness-revealing scenarios, and judge whether its in our best interest to play cards we our dealt, chancing exposure to a possible information leak. Or always the easy option remains, throw them back to the dealer, pattern-side up with a quiet smirk of dignity. Over time we become content playing the same strong self-perceived starting hands. Why play life poker any other way? On the flipside, never developing a hand range for fear of losing our table image is perhaps the greatest gimping one can undertake for his life potential. Don't continually improve, and you're going backwards. Somewhere, there exists a trade off between being divulging flaws and pushing your skill set forward. It seems so far that this blogpost is going to be serious and self-examination. Nope, this is just my pompous introduction to my first game of football (note to readers: I call it football, not soccer, despite being a dumb gringo).

The reasons why I decided to play deserves its own blog post, but the idea came from my roommate who insisted that at least once, I should come down to his Monday football game and partake in a social kick-about. Now, I don't consider myself an athlete. I'm like a pretend nerd; I surround myself with everything that makes me look nerdy, glowing computer cases, random tech products, Star Trek:TNG box sets, even dressing the part with over-sized shirts and 60's throwback style glasses, who in the end is as dumb as a box of nails and couldn't do algebra or re-wire a circuit if his life depended on it. That's how I feel about my athletic prowess, I enjoy sports and part of that is being sporty myself, working out at the gym, running to stay fit, and playing a variety of sports I have interests in. I'm tall, muscular, and by all accounts look like someone who should be talented and useful. I can hold my own in certain sports, but when I mention to people that I play rugby, and hear the all too frequent first response of "so did you ever go pro?", I know somewhere there's a disparity between what people perceive my ability to be and the actual, embarrassingly quaint truth. This is made worse by my Dad, who is an ex-circuit Tennis professional, and now days a kick-ass golfer, who must have just plum forgot to pass down that gift, but never forgets to casually mention to friends that he has a son who is 'serious about his rugby'. Sporting talent isn't as passed down via genetics as much as what people think, so I tell people. So when faced with an opportunity for a false athlete like myself to play probably my weakest sport with a tight-nit group of football regular, and remembering my instinctual fear of sucking in the presence of an audience, I went into the tank for this freshly dealt hand.

About 4 days had passed since the roommate first brought the idea up. "Just join the facebook group, post the next number and you'll be signed up". His casual attitude (not to mention his presumption that I had already decided) swayed me to log on to facebook and join the team. The game itself was pick up style, 14 guys turn up, teams were selected by balancing abilities, and the game goes on for an hour or so with no logged scoring. Ok, maybe this will be fun. I've never kicked around a football since I was 10, the closest is a Rugby ball, and perhaps a Basketball once fucking around with some eccentric H.O.R.S.E game. My footwork is what you'd expect from a nonathletic 6"5 guy who has stuck to hand based sports - clumsily hilarious and potential stardom on youtube if filmed by some sadistic person. Fortunately for me, cameras have more important business elsewhere than some random Argentine sports center. I committed myself for Monday and living true to my life ineptitude, I made no special preparations or training. This will be interesting, I thought Sunday night, eating a fatty lomito and fries.

Monday night rolls around. The starting time is a late 11 o'clock, typical Argentine scheduling but thanks to my transformation into a night-dweller, its close to optimal. The roommate and I pack our provisions and head down to the corner to meet up with the other guys, all of who I've met before. Whether this induces confidence or adds to the pressure I can't tell at this point. A short cab ride later we arrive at the complex, consisting of one or two large outdoor pitches, an indoor kiosk/waiting area acting as the entrance to a impressive half sized indoor soccer arena. Men are drinking beers, which is slightly reassuring - the great Australian tradition of post-match ales is more universal than I thought. "Perhaps this attitude applies to other areas", I optimistically ponder in an official top 5 'world's craziest soccer' country. The pitch is a strange mix of AstroTurf and chunky artificial dirt, combining to form as surprisingly good surface, not too slippery but a good mix of traction and softness. The arena is carved as a stomach between two heavy rail tracks, loudly rumbling every 10 minutes or so, occasionally cloaking in 'I-can't-hear-shit-mode' when two trains happen to pass alongside simultaneously. A few practice kicks later and I'm thrusted into battle. Up against me is a tall Australian guy, lankier but more skillful than I. He knows what he's doing, a stark contrast to me indeed. Cross out the 'I'm a tall gringo in a game of midgets' excuse from the list. Damn, I really wanted to use that one. The first 'quarter' goes well, I focus on my defending, using my size and speed to apply what I think was pressure. "Never be flat footed" my roommates voice narrates from above, over and over. I occasionally press up looking for space, and fortune must favor the brave, because I was rewarded with an easy goal, a cross that missed everyone, most importantly the keeper. I strike the ball into the thread-loose netting, being careful not to 'claim' the goal with any kind of celebration; its a bad omen in sport. My first football goal, 17 years after my first game - not that my younger self ever gave a shit. After few mistakes, a couple of easy turnovers, and masses of midfield calamities (and another goal, courtesy of a header), the game was over. The others untied their boots, re-organised their bags, made small talk - business as usual. I sat their disecting my performance, difficult in the shroud of self-doubt. Did I play good or bad? Was I burden on my team? What did I do right? Is it worth trying this again? I was certainly a burden on the team, but I was at least better than the other teams worst player, which is consoling. Will I play this hand next time around, or does it go into the muck? No one ever dips their toe into water, only to dive in the moment it touches. Nor does it leave them pancake-like blisters the next day. But I'm definitely buying a football.