Cleats in the Kitchen
A foray in women's soccer teaches a new mother what she is capable of doing ... or not.
With Valerie tucked in her crib and my husband, Jeff, studying his newest computer manual, I whipped up a quick dinner of scrambled eggs and toast. My cleats squeaked against the linoleum with every turn. After tonight's soccer scrimmage, I felt I'd earned the right to wear them forever like some badge of courage.
This evening, I was sure I'd experienced to a tiny degree that moment of screaming terror soldiers must feel as they face the enemy in battle. Assigned as right quarterback in my very first soccer action, I found three men on the co-ed team ready to flatten me. The women on that team were titans as well. As the opponents charged toward me, my shin aching from an earlier play, my Little Voice whined in my ear: "Are you sure you want to play soccer? You may get killed out here."
I blame this madness on the film "Victory." As the players flew through the air in slow motion, volleying the ball from heel to chest to brow, or bouncing off one another with the grace of ballerinas, my fantasies grew with visions of myself doing the same. This evening, though, taught me the harsh reality of just how hard the ground is. And anyone who thinks a woman is soft and cushy should crash into one at 45 miles an hour.
A few weeks prior to this scrimmage, not knowing how much it would hurt, I inquired into joining a local women's soccer league. Laurie, my husband's colleague, had just finished playing the summer tournament on a team that won the cup. Her enthusiasm filled me hope that I could become the soccer player of my imagination.
Laurie gave me other bits of assistance, too. We practiced in the park a few times. As my infant daughter toddled about, Laurie and I dribbled the ball around her. She provided an excellent lesson on kicking the ball while watching out for other team members. On that account, my sessions with Laurie were tailor-made for a mother of an active child. No babysitter necessary.
It was also non-confrontational. Athletics, however, is never without conflict. Its main purpose is to clash, to prove one's skill and courage against worthy opponents to see who is the best. I realized when I was ten years old and forced to enter the annual hopscotch tournament that I do not have a competitive soul. Thus, I had to overcome my basic personality if I wanted to succeed at soccer.
Connecting with a team also met with setbacks. Twice, Jeff and I reported to the park where practice was scheduled. Nobody ever showed -- at least no one on the women's teams. We had fun passing between each other. That revealed how our stamina had withered with our sedentary lifestyle. It was a shock to see how much that thirty pounds I'd gained during pregnancy had stolen my energy. I couldn't breathe, even at sea level. And my legs felt like pillars of cement.
With that epiphany, we considered side-stepping team play until next year while we built up our bodies. Instead, Laurie reinstated me on the original course.
A week or two later, we packed up the ball and baby and met Laurie and her teammates for their first practice since the summer playoffs. About eight women showed up, passed and dribbled for an hour, then ended with a run around the track. That lap truly tested my resolve as I struggled to keep up with the next slowest teammate. Out front was a long-limbed woman whose graceful movement resembled a swan in flight. It both inspired and shamed me. I ran like a sack of potatoes … Texas russets to be exact.
When I collapsed after my lap, I found the others planning a campaign to attract more women onto the soccer field. Apparently, the league organizers had failed to follow through with recruitment. The summer teams were in jeopardy of dissolving if action wasn't taken immediately. If we wanted to play soccer this winter, we would have to stoke the fires ourselves. We all agreed to contact the local media, distribute flyers, call friends who might be interested, and lure people from the summer teams back in for winter games.
The plan worked, spontaneous as it was. Members from three of the summer teams met at the park this evening scrimmage -- enough for a king-sized pileup.
That's when the cleats really dug into the grass. Oh, kicking the ball around was fun. I even got pretty cocky practicing goalie and kicking the ball in my bare feet. Getting out there and playing a real game? I didn't even remember the rules that well. Besides that, I was jinxed tonight … accident-prone.
No sooner had I stepped into the practice circle than I kneed the ball right into my face and broke my glasses. In the first play of the game, I collided with another player and whacked my shin so hard, I was afraid I had cracked the bone.
Limping to the sidelines to fetch my shin guards, I pondered the consequences if I returned to the game. My bio-rhythms were all fouled up. My leg would certainly break with one more play. I couldn't trust my glasses to stay on. Oh, I had all kinds of excuses.
Suddenly, the referee marched toward me, his Viking face red with rage. "What the hell you doing off the field? I don't care if you're bleeding to death. Get out there! And the next time you leave the field, I'll card you." I stood in shock, properly chastened and terrified. The sharks were circling.
As I inserted my shin guards into my socks, Laurie appeared. "What's really going on with you? Are you just afraid to play?"
I nodded.
"That's tough!" She dragged me back onto the field. "You're right quarterback! Keep the ball from going into the net. That's your job." She pointed to a spot where I was to stand and returned to her position as center.
To my surprise, I was able to hold on fairly well, though I thought myself totally useless most of the time. Once or twice, I managed to pass the ball successfully to a teammate, or avoid being trampled. One particular woman, a tiny juggernaut called Peaches, extracted herself from a pile-up, screaming with fists held high, "Get out of my way." She probably stood as tall as my shoulder, but her fierce attitude would later give me nightmares. Athletics takes a lot more than skill and muscle. Facing hostile opponents who scoff at the taboo against murder is where courage comes into play.
Most of the women on Peaches' team wore their sweatbands as a fashion statement rather than a necessity. There were so many on that team, their coach replaced them every five or ten minutes. Meanwhile, barely enough of our members showed up, requiring all of us to play the entire game without rest. While I barely moved far from my assigned spot, I was losing energy and wondered if I'd make it to the end. Just standing there most of the time was exhausting. Now I was convinced my OB/GYN had switched my powerful pre-preggers body with something from the morgue.
An occasional glance at my husband got me a "thumbs up" signal, a badly needed bit of support from a man who had suffered his own disasters in sports. His experiences encouraged him to seek a life of the brain rather than the brawn. Hiking around an archery course, for example, was his favorite exercise program. Targets don't shoot back.
Then in a miraculous moment, I rose up to meet my chance at glory. Someone down field kicked a high ball. As it sailed toward me, I planted my feet firmly where I knew it would land. "It's mine," I roared to all charging toward me. I assumed the fists-clenched position that Peaches modeled. My spirit and power coalesced for one "there is a God" flash when everyone stopped mere feet away from me. The ball descended in that beautiful arc toward my poised and waiting brow. I connected, sending it back to Laurie who cheered as she claimed it with her knee and made the goal at the other (and vacant) end of the field.
Laurie told me I'd done very well. Coming from her, I knew time and hard work would actualize my dream. I told myself I had the right stuff if I continued reaching far down into my gut to retrieve it. It was quite the pep-talk I gave myself.
One thing I did discover, though, was that I had enough gumption to continue playing that day, regardless of my tender shin or confusion over rules. The only way I'd succeed at this grand folly would be to burst through that barrier between spectator and participant. I needed to face my fears.
One way to do that was to push back my dread of authority figures. That referee's anger toward me seemed over the top. It was just a scrimmage, for Pete's sake. Was it so difficult for him to enforce rules without being a tyrant? When I saw him weeks later at a local coffee house, his malevolent glare at me from across that crowded room told me there were other issues involved. I must've reminded him of someone he hated.
Also, during one lesson in the park with Laurie, a man suddenly appeared. He stole the ball and dribbled it around me, jostling against my shoulder, and kicking the ball between my legs. His expression said, "let's see whatcha got, girlie."
My entry into soccer happened in the early 1980s, an era when men were unwilling to cede their athletic territory easily. A woman's place was in the cheering section. Since then, things have shifted considerably in women's sports and female athletes have shown their competence in the game. Women like Peaches, the ones who already have a "chew 'em up" attitude, are better suited to succeed in competitive endeavors, whether on the field or in the board room.
That kind of woman is not who I am; so I sought more solitary or cooperative careers. Writing, caring for seniors or animals, coordinating literacy and ESL programs fulfilled me more than athletics. My most physical endeavor was riding my spooky appaloosa through bear-infested forests. Strangely enough, that never inspired nightmares. Clashing with women on the field or in the workplace, though, has been a constant struggle in my personal success.
Back in the kitchen, as I scrambled the eggs into a fluffy mound, I relived that evening's scrimmage and felt the worst was over. Maybe my playing soccer was madness. Maybe my fear of conflict would throw emotional obstacles constantly in my path, but now I had a notion what was expected and what my capabilities were. I was content to be a star even for just one miracle play. That would be enough.
My soccer career only lasted one season. At least I survived that long until nightmares haunted me so much, I bailed from the league after the final game. Apparently, I didn't have an abundance of the right stuff, but a major epiphany toward self-awareness was attained. No future challenge would be inaccessible because I proved to myself that, win or lose, quit or carry on, nothing is accomplished if I don't show up and give it a go.
The wisdom gleaned from playing soccer showed me how to take risks based upon my known and acknowledged skills. I didn't have to chase all my wild-eyed dreams. Some are better left to enjoy as mental vacations. Others, however, are worth pursuing because I know what I can do and I'm willing and able to learn. All I need is that tough, little bulldog mentor who's not going to allow me to quit before the first scrimmage.
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