How to be a Manager
By: Sean |
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The notion first hits you about two seconds after you are told by your manager you are not going to start your team’s adult league soccer match…again. Who does he think he is, anyway? you silently grouse. If I were to start…up front…and they would get me the ball…to my feet…regularly…when I’m onside, I would totally score for this team. But you forget about it, you “take one for the team”, and you ride the pine–or more likely, the horribly vandalized aluminum bench that serves as the reserves seating for your local pitch–and wait your turn. Maybe a few weeks later the thought returns, probably after you’ve been forced to play left back even though you can only muster ten guys for this game. Make me play defense…what’s up with that? I should be up front! It gnaws at you, like a low grade headache or a bug bite on your honor you can’t fully scratch. I should totally be the manager. It’s so obvious. You could instinctively pick the perfect formation every week. You could play up front and bag a hat trick at least every other week. Of course!
But how? Well, running an adult recreational soccer team isn’t always about the fame, glory, money, power and mad sex it may seem to be…though it can be. (Ha!) Sure, it may seem like a pretty sweet gig, especially when you are doing tequila body shots off your club’s drunken WAGs following another successful rout of your rivals, but organizing fifteen to eighteen adults with or without jobs, families, children, vacation plans, and niggling injuries that get worse as you get older to be at the same field at the same time on the same date to play a full-contact sport for an hour and a half a week for two months a season can be a tricky thing.
Your friend Sean at the Weekend Warrior wants to help. He really does want you to start every weekend and play forward, too. Sometimes the best way to do that is just to be really, really good at forward, but unless your squad plays a 1-1-8, not everybody is going to be a striker. Sometimes the best way to do that is to be the Manager. The Boss. The Gaffer. Coach. Skipper. Let me offer you some humble suggestions to make all of your managerial/scoring/tequila body shot WAG dreams come true.
Category: Orange Slices and Aspirin
The Weekend Warrior Turns 1!
By: Sean | 2 Comments
Happy birthday to The Offside Weekend Warrior, which officially turns one year old today! As blogs grow up and get older, they start to mature and begin to develop certain…characteristics…that might have previously been missing. Their tone and voice may get a little deeper. They might start growing links and video clips in places that were previously bare. A maturing blog might notice that their participles no longer dangle but are frequently rock hard in the morning. All of these are the normal signs of a growing blog–even a recreational football blog–and although the postings can be a little irregular and unreliable, especially during the high seasons of fall and spring soccer, deep down all any blog just wants is to be loved. Is that so wrong?
Thanks to all of the readers who have clicked on the site and left a comment in the last year. It has been a lot of fun sharing my random soccer anecdotes and hearing all about yours. I’ll endeavor to be more diligent with regular posting, but with televised footy on four channels (including HD!) most weekends, I sometimes get a little distracted. Thanks also to the fine folks here at The Offside for allowing me to share some of their website storage space for what I believe is the only site on here devoted to amateur soccer, fandom, some coaching nuggets, SMILFs, and all the Weekend Warriors who live and breathe the Beautiful Game. It’s not Shakespeare and it’s not the World Cup, but it still matters, you know?
I welcome any post ideas or topics you might have…for example, what it’s like when your recreational men’s team goes back to play a match in your home town against a team with several of your former high school teammates that you haven’t seen in 20+ years…and then you get your ass handed to you with an Old School beat down.
In front of your mommy, who hasn’t seen you play in many years.
D’oh.
Again, thanks for reading. Cheers!
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinCountdown to a New Season
By: Sean | 3 Comments
10 …weeks since the last match of your previous recreational soccer season. Your weekends have been curiously devoid of anticipation and the local park kick-around, while enjoyable, just doesn’t scratch the itch, so to speak. You genuinely find yourself missing the regular Sunday rush of competitive league play.
9 …days on vacation. No soccer. At all. Your ankles don’t ache for once when you get out of bed and the left knee doesn’t pop when you go up stairs two at a time anymore, but too many Long Island Ice Teas found a happy home in your belly during your time off. Your soccer shorts fit a little tighter around the waistband than you remember.
8 …new teams in your division when the upcoming league schedule is published. It is a little easier to visualize yourself on a pitch against a team that has a name, sure, but what the hell kind of skills does a team called “Stud Muffins FC” really have, anyway?
7 …days before Match Day One. You realize in exactly one week, at exactly this very time, you will be making overlapping runs, going to ground, and gasping for breath as a 22 year old kid tries to repeatedly nutmeg you. And it will be awesome.
6 …P.M., three days before the weekend. Only seven members of your team show up for the last pre-season practice. You work on corner kicks for fifteen minutes and then scrimmage on small goals until you get kicked off the field by a City-sanctioned coed kickball league.
5 …new players on your roster, including a former semi-professional midfielder and a Brazilian striker who only goes by a single name. These two players alone should ensure at least a .500 season.
4 …socks in the bottom of your sports bag that match your team’s uniform. One of them didn’t get washed after last season. Two others have holes in the heel, but you are sure that you scored a game winning goal in at least one of the four socks, so you pull the least odorous lucky garments on for the hundredth time and leave for the field.
3 …cell phone calls from your team, confirming the match details. Is it Parkwood Field #2 or Woodfield Park #12? Is kick-off at 1:00 p.m. or do we have to be there at 1:00 p.m. to set up the nets? Do you have my jersey from last season, because I can’t seem to find it?
2 …hours before kick-off and you are lugging the old corner flags and net bag out of the trunk of your car. It smells of dried mud and turf and sweat and synthetic leather and menthol muscle rub and for the briefest of moments it is the most glorious smell in the world.
1 …minute to go before kick-off. Your heart starts to beat just a little faster and a familiar rush of exhilaration and uncertainty flashes through you. You are five years old again in your first jamboree. You are starting with the varsity high school team for the very first time. And you are a middle-aged adult, ankles taped almost to the point of immobility, drunk on Gatorade and pumped to the recommended daily dosage of ibuprofen to get you through another ninety minutes of pub league football. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
The referee looks down at his watch, motions to the keepers, and puts the whistle to his lips.
TWEET!
To all my fellow Weekend Warriors anxiously awaiting the start of your respective recreational soccer leagues this autumn, I bid you all good fortunes on the pitch and a safe season. Good luck!
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinHeaven or Las Vegas: Another CYOE Post
By: Sean | Add Comments
It has been a while since we last had a Weekend Warrior “Choose Your Own Ending” Post, Seanny’s very own rip-off of one his favorite adolescent book series. The inaugural effort, February 2nd’s “The Wall”, challenged readers to decide whether or not they would stand in a defensive wall while an angry, aggrieved shooter (also known as Princess) launched a vengeful free kick. Did you form up or did you flinch? Our sophomore installment picks up the action about a year later. Fair readers, please enjoy the Weekend Warrior CYOE: “Heaven or Las Vegas”…
You’ve been counting down the days since your last encounter with the Princess. It was only a year ago that your perfectly good season got derailed with a challenge on their wiry, prissy midfielder. The resulting free kick he took resulted in the only blemish on an otherwise perfect season and left you shamed and/or medically incapacitated. You’ve been practicing hard with the squad for the last eleven months. They’ve forgiven you for abandoning them/flinching/getting ejected/stopping the match to call for an ambulance [Editor's note: Hey, it's hard writing for four different plot threads!] and you have vowed to not disappoint them when the rematch finally arrived. Ripping off the most recent day from your “365 Days of Soccer Quotes” desk calendar, you nod approvingly at your scribbled red letters on tomorrow’s page: SATURDAY = 2:00 VS. KICKERS FC & PRINCESS!!!
Your cell rings. You are still thinking about how awesome it will be to go studs up into your nemesis–making sure you make contact with the ball first, of course–and don’t pay attention to the number on the display before flipping it open. Big mistake. It’s your boss, Mr. Jones. “Just confirming that you are still going to help the office with the volunteer service project at the Daisy Hill Homeless Puppy Shelter tomorrow afternoon,” he says. What?! That was supposed to be next Saturday! You frantically search through the calendar and see it clearly written in for the following weekend. You tell your boss this and he laughs. “That’s a good one! I specifically mentioned it in the staff meeting yesterday. Ha!” You smack your head into the wall in frustration. D’oh! Why do I always fall asleep in the morning meeting?!
Call waiting beeps. You look at the number. It is your favorite niece, Kasey, a promising eight year old soccer prodigy. She loves to call and talk about the Beautiful Game with her uncle. Saved from answering Mr. Jones! You tell your boss you have to take this call and mercifully, thankfully, answer Kasey’s line. Her voice is all sunshine and sweetness. “Hi, Uncle! I want to make sure you are going to be at my soccer jamboree tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 to help coach.” What?! That was supposed to be on Sunday! You tell your favorite niece and you can almost hear the joy drain away from her voice. “No, it is Saturday, not Sunday. Does that mean you won’t be able to coach us?” You think you hear a sniffle. “I reminded you last weekend when we were playing video games,” she whines. You smack your head into the wall in frustration again. D’oh! Why do I always tune people out when I play Super Mario Kart?!
The phone beeps again. This time it’s a text from Eve, your girlfriend. What now? You look at the display: “Happy bday stud! Im tking u 2 Vegas on Sat. no need 2 pack u wont need clothes just stamina ;o) ” OK, in all fairness, you had no idea about that one. You smack your head against the wall a third time in frustration. D’oh!
So. What is it going to be?
If you decide that nothing is more important than a rematch with the Princess, scroll down to Ending “A”.
If you decide that you can’t let the kids down and coach at the soccer jamboree, scroll down to Ending “B”.
If you decide to honor your volunteer commitment at the homeless puppy shelter, scroll down to Ending “C”.
A birthday weekend in Vegas with my open-minded/former gymnast girlfriend? Duh. Scroll down to Ending “D”.
Ending “A”: You’ve waited too long to miss another chance to avenge last year. Soccer > Life. You explain to little Kasey that you’re going to be a little late but that you’ll be there by her second match. She is a little disappointed, but soon forgets about it when you promise to buy her some Hannah Montana lip gloss. Your boss ends up being surprisingly cool with it, too, as he once was a college goalkeeper. “Plus,” he adds, “Don’t tell anybody, but I hate puppies.” You play brilliantly against the Princess, who subs out after twenty minutes with a calf pull. Eve is pissed you stood her up and goes to Vegas by herself where she hooks up with an Elvis impersonator named Julio. The End.
Ending “B”: Begrudgingly, you show up at the jamboree. While your heart is elsewhere, Kasey’s team wins first place and you retain Most Favorite Uncle status. Your boss is less enthusiastic and asks you to come in the following three weekends to work some “last minute” overtime. Your club only fields ten players and loses 0-3. Eve is pissed you stood her up and goes to Vegas by herself where she hooks up with a showgirl named Julia. The End.
Ending “C”: In these tough economic times, you have to keep face in front of the boss. You go to the Daisy Hill Homeless Puppy Shelter and put in a eight hour shift. You get pooped on twice, bitten once, and fleas. But you do keep your job. Your niece loves puppies and stops by after her team loses all of their matches, eventually adopting a mouth-breathing pug named “Joey Barton”. Your team plays to a goalless draw but Princess never showed up, so whatever. Eve is pissed you stood her up and goes to Vegas by herself where she hooks up with a showgirl named Julia and an Elvis impersonator named Julio. The End.
Ending “D”: Your team, your boss, and your niece are all pissed you stood them up. Your squad loses 0-1 with Princess scoring the winner in extra time. Kasey is so distraught you “thought she was bad at soccer” that she quits the sport and becomes a cheerleader. Your boss says nothing but for some reason you get transfered to your company’s branch office in [insert the name of some place you really hate where they don't play footy]. However, you do stay the night at the Bellagio with Eve and a showgirl named Julia. Everything is unspeakably awesome until you forget your safe word and the EMTs are called, but as you know, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas… The End.
Category: Orange Slices and Aspirin“And This One Time, At Soccer Camp…”
By: Sean | 1 Comment
Nothing says August to me like soccer camp.
All of the local soccer fields start to take on new life after months of relative neglect. The first coach with a ball bag to arrive is like chum to the dozens, maybe hundreds of little camper sharks that arrive soon thereafter and tear into the cones and number four balls in a frantic football frenzy. Stretches turn into laps around the pitch. Laps around the pitch turn into juggling and juggling turns into dribbling, passing, and shooting drills. At some point, future little stars will emerge and just as surely, the two or three problem children that inevitably show up will be asked to sit on the sidelines for a timeout. It is wonderful and chaotic and reassuring, all played out in (what feels like) the hottest time of the year.
Growing up, I think I only went to maybe two camps during high school and alas, I have no epic adventures to report…certainly nothing coming close to Band Camp from American Pie. Oh, Alyson Hannigan, why couldn’t you have been a holding midfielder instead of a flutist? I would have said your name. The day camps I participated in were competently run and I definitely gained more from the experience than not, but beyond the illustrated booklet of soccer-playing mice I got from Werner Quies and a nice compliment from the late soccer legend Clive Charles for beating two much taller defenders in the air for a header, I don’t have much left from soccer camp as a participant.
How about you, Weekend Warriors? What is your best soccer camp memory, experience, or story? Ever have a pro show you how to do a sick trick that you actually used later on? Go to a residency camp and find yourself in a situation you never would have imagined? Ever been a coach at a camp with Lil’ Damien the Antichrist? After two consecutive really long posts, I’m hoping you have some anecdotes of your own to share.
Unless your soccer camp anecdote involves sticking a flute soccer ball pump in your…oh, never mind…
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinPro for an Afternoon, Part II
By: Sean | 1 Comment
And now, Weekend Warriors, the exciting (for me, at least, but I’m also totally biased!) conclusion to “Pro for an Afternoon”! If you missed the first installment, I invite you to click here to get caught up on the story thus far…
Gavin turned and mentioned he had four players kitted up and ready to join us. I noticed many of the campers sat up by their lockers a little straighter. The door swung open and…
…in walked midfielder Keith Savage, defender Stephen Keel, midfielder Alex Nimo, and “The Man With the Golden Heart” himself, Timbers defender Scot Thompson. Every camper’s face lit up at the sight of the professionals. As they made their way to the middle of the locker room, the campers huddled in a little closer. Thompson and Savage were suited up in the new black jerseys, while Nimo and Keel donned the familiar green. The group exchanged greetings and pleasantries, compliments on the romp over the Thunder at home and polite inquiries as to how the morning drills had gone. At one point I distinctly remembered thinking, Hey, Sean (’cause I do sometimes refer to myself in the third person in my head) you should totally ask these guys some questions for your blog, like an interview! but instead of smooth, articulate questions all I could get my synapses to do was rerun Chris Farley-esque fan-boyisms– Hey, do guys remember when you scored those goals against that team? Uh, that was…awesome! Since it sounded no better than my actual interview just fifteen minutes ago, I opted to keep my mouth shut and just grin some more.
Magee and Wilkinson outlined the plan for the afternoon scrimmage. Half the campers would be assigned to Keel and Nimo’s Green Squad. The other half would be on the Black Team with Savage and Thompson. Fifteen minute halves, some pictures, and then lunch. We would line up in the player tunnel, be announced over PGE Park’s public address system, and line up at the center circle. Names were called and make-shift rosters compiled. I would be playing with Thompson and Savage. The group changed into their respective colors, adjusted the boots one last time, and ambled back down the concrete and CMU block corridor to the player’s tunnel. Some last minute coordination to get the line-ups just right, some more casual banter. My heart started to rumble just a bit inside my chest. Why the hell was I so nervous? Someone behind me joked about the benefits of being at the end of the line: “I think we’re closer to the beer this way!” Some laughs and then the public address announcer’s voice echoed through the empty park and down the tunnel. I can’t remember the exact words, but I’m pretty sure they went something to the effect of: “Welcome to PGE Park and our special Father’s Day Fantasy Camp match!” Goosebumps. “The starting line-ups for today’s match are…” and thus began the litany of names that for three seconds a person certainly constituted one of life’s highlights for every guy there. Shuffling forward into the daylight, led out by Savage and Thompson, I heard my name resound magnificently over the thousands of empty seats, echo past the light rail station to the east, and indelibly brand itself into my memory. And he pronounced it correctly! I turned to the right and there, in bold letters maybe two or three feet tall, was my name on the big Jumbotron video screen to the south. And it was spelled correctly! The squads filed out in an orderly line, forearm-bumping our way down the row as the last campers were announced. I turned and saw that seated in the Widmer Beer Garden were perhaps two dozen or so family members. Twenty-four fans in a stadium of 16,000 may seem like a meager crowd, but it was still about twenty more supporters than my men’s team averages every Sunday. My friggin’ awesome wife and daughter were there somewhere and I tried to pick them out when the address system boomed: “And now please rise for the playing of our National Anthem!’
Instinctively, my hand went to my heart. I can’t remember the last time I had the National Anthem played before a match I was involved with, but I sung along, softly and tone-deafly and felt a strangely stirring surge of emotion. The squads broke up, Thompson and Savage leading us through the briefest of warm-ups before Magee announced just two minutes later that it was game time. Our pros quickly orchestrated a 3-4-3-ish formation and I found myself in my preferred left midfield position. Thompson noted that Nimo, perhaps the shortest member of the Timbers, was playing keeper for the Green Team. “I’m buying a round of drinks for the first guy who chips Nimo!” he joked good-naturedly. One of the defenders on our team plays for a rival squad in my division and we had the only camper keeper minding our sticks. Not that the score would really matter, but we looked pretty good.
And thus began the friendliest friendly in the history of friendly friendlies. Everyone seemed to understand the two unspoken rules of this scrimmage: 1. Have fun, and 2. Under no circumstances whatsoever do you injure the professional players volunteering their free Sunday to play with you, especially before the epic Seattle match coming up. At one point Keel got the ball near me and I couldn’t even make myself go in for a challenge, so I backed off until he passed it away. Soon thereafter Savage collected a pass and I started yelling “On your left! On your left!” as I broke upfield. The thought of me telling a pro what to do seems laughable now as I write it, but he looked around, smiled broadly, and sent through the sweetest of Goldilocks passes (not too hard, not too soft…just right) behind their middie. I ran like I was on fire to receive it, gave myself permission to dribble toward the posts, and was ready to shoot when their center back intercepted and cleared it away. I heard cheers all around as I gasped to retrieve the ball which, on artificial turf, rolled a surprisingly long distance. Thompson ran in for a short corner, which I obliged, and chipped it into the mixer.
I could probably give you a 90% accurate recounting of the entire thirty minutes of match time, so vividly clear it is still in my mind, but in the interest of brevity I’ll just go to the highlight reel. Around minute 8′ I get another perfect pass from Savage deep into the corner which I managed to stop and cross into the box. One of our forwards rushed the box, got onto it and from my place just shy of the corner I could see him send the ball careening into the net. The Black Team went wild. As the happy camper rightfully celebrated his very own goal in PGE Park, I too threw up my hands in elation. “Assist! Assist!” High-fives and celebrations all around. Even the Green side was congratulating the effort. Sure, the score may not matter, but you know it still does. Half-time saw us up 1-0 and I heard my daughter Kiki cheering from her place near the pitch. I smiled back, face flush and lungs bursting.
Our side goes up 2-0 on a Thompson wonder chip, who found Coach Magee playing keeper. Savage gives me a trio of slick passes and I find that with each one, my pace is getting just bit slower and my shots just a bit erratic. Another sequence finds Thompson jogging up through the middle, dishing to me, and dashing out to the wing. Without a second thought I one-touch it ahead of him and he receives the pass without breaking stride. Somebody yells, “Oh, nice give and go!” as he pulls it back for another cross and I thought to myself, I just did a give and go with Scot Thompson. Sweet! With the clock winding down, the Green Team pulls one back and then, maybe around the 26th minute or so, find the equalizer. One of the coaches shortly thereafter yells, “Penalties!”
Oh, the dreaded shoot-out. Savage and Thompson gather the team around and ask for shooters. Much to my delighted surprise, several of my teammates immediately turn to me. “Sean!” Thompson asks me if I want to go first. More than anything I have ever wanted in my entire life! “Sure, I’ll go first.” The rest of the shooters are sorted out and the Green Team steps up against our camper keeper. 1-0. Magee goes to stand in front of the goal as I walk the green mile toward the penalty spot. The heart started thumping again. Lead-off penalty shooter is a tricky thing because it is a huge morale suck if you botch it, especially when you are down one already. I don’t have an elaborate penalty kick ritual, like Landon Donovan. Mostly I just put the ball down, take three steps back, and shoot. Magee crouched down. I stepped back.
Professional assistant coach/Jedi master/goalkeeper vs. blogger/Padawan learner/shooter.
I start forward. I allow myself the slightest of looks to my left, his right, as I start to shoot. Magee dives toward my left. I slot the shoot back toward the right post, a fairly respectable strike, neither crazy hard nor pathetically tame like my first shot of the morning. This time the net rippled with, well, not quite authority, but it didn’t suck, either. Both sides cheer enthusiastically. The Black Team rushes forward for more high-fives. Thompson and Savage are applauding, too. I smile as I pass, “Would it be too over the top to rip off my jersey now?” They laugh. I do not do the Penitent Episcopalian–I’ll save that for a league match some time on grass–but I felt like I earned it.
Eventually, our side wins the shoot-out something like 7-6. We high-five some more, pose for group pictures, and eventually find our families and eat hot dogs and cookies on a pleasant, perfect Sunday. We thank the Timbers for hanging out with us and letting us pretend to be pros for an afternoon. The Park staff allow us to stay as long as we want without the least bit of urgency to get us out of there. Kiki and I pull a ball from my bag and start kicking around under the happy glow of the video monitor. As she ices her very own penalty, I reflect back on the afternoon’s milestones.
Get an assist at PGE Park. Check.
Score a goal at PGE Park. Check.
Don’t do anything even close to injuring the professional players before the derby match at PGE Park. Check and mate!
But you know, the one lasting memory I have from an afternoon full of lasting memories was the final one, of me and my eight year old passing back and forth on a professional pitch, wrapped in concrete and heavy timbers and thousands of empty green seats, the momentary center of a very big world, all under a technicolor blue sky painted with puffy white clouds. “Pass me the ball, Daddy! Over here, Daddy!”
That, my fellow Weekend Warriors, is a fantasy Father’s Day come true.
[Post Epilogue: Despite my PGE Park interview debacle detailed in Part I, I still managed to get some air time. A local news crew came to the stadium during camp to discuss Portland's ongoing negotiations for the MLS team and shot some footage of the scrimmage as filler when the reporter was talking about stadium proposals, etc. At 5:06 that afternoon on a local news channel, you can clearly see Seanny taking a pass, cutting back, and firing a cross into the box.
They say the camera adds ten pounds. Apparently, in high-def broadcasts, it is closer to fifteen...]
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinPro for an Afternoon, Part I
By: Sean | 6 Comments
First off, thanks to everyone who offered supportive comments and emails over the last month. It’s been a rough go, but your condolences and good thoughts have been warmly received and sincerely appreciated. I’m blessed to have such a fantastic bunch of readers.
Secondly, my long promised post on playing soccer with the Portland Timbers follows. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, so if reading about the Rose City’s local football club isn’t your thing, may I direct your attention to this fine entry on Seattle’s Pike Place Market? Did you know it first opened on August 17, 1907? You do now!
When I first saw the announcement on the club’s website, I thought it was cute. About seven seconds later I found myself curious, but still trying to maintain my detached Pacific Northwest cool. Ten seconds after that, I decided it was the coolest thing I had ever seen:
“PORTLAND TIMBERS FATHER’S DAY FANTASY CAMP”
The Timbers were offering local adult supporters the chance to kick around at PGE Park on Father’s Day. Similar to other fantasy sports camps, the afternoon offered a chance for a personalized jersey, warm-ups and drills with a member of the coaching staff, lunch and of course, the chance to meet and scrimmage with some members of the team. Despite almost giddy fan-boy interest, I tried to play it casual when I mentioned it to my wife, not wanting to disrupt any potential Father’s Day plans that might be in the making. She furrowed her brow: “So tell me why exactly you haven’t signed up yet? You know you’ll regret it if you don’t. You should totally do it.”
And that, my fellow Weekend Warriors, is why my wife is so friggin’ awesome!
Sunday, June 21st dawned bright and sunny and after arriving at PGE Park promptly at check-in time, I soon met some other campers and we excitedly chatted about the day ahead, the recent 5-1 win over Minnesota, and what things we might have been doing for Father’s Day had we not opted to be here. Everyone shared the same general enthusiasm and our group grew in size to about ten as we were led through a side gate and down into the Park. PGE Park currently holds over 16,000 and you can get down level with the pitch on match days to sit in the Widmer Beer Garden, but walking across the turf itself towards the registration table set up near the player’s tunnel, the stadium seemed to loom larger than I remembered. A few others were stretching on the sidelines–older gentlemen and guys in their early twenties, even a few I recognized from my adult men’s league matches over the years–as I signed in, starting to feel a little anxious. The woman pointed me toward the player’s tunnel: “Go ahead to the visitor’s locker room and change. You’ll find your jersey hanging up by your locker and a training kit on the chair in front of it. Put on the black trainers for the warm-up session and come back out here. We’ll get started in a little bit.”
My own locker? My own black training uniform? There was no mention of this on the website. Sweet!
I ambled down the player’s tunnel toward the visitor’s locker room, trying to peek around every slightly ajar door I passed. I was the kid who had snuck into a cinema and now was going to find the movie he wanted to see. Be cool, Seanny. Just go changed and kick the ball around. And don’t trip on your slips. Upon entering the locker room, my eyes instantly found my own jersey. Like hearing your name in a crowded room, it practically called out to me as I entered the room. It was a beautiful familiar hunter green and my last name arched gracefully between the sleeves. Oh sure, I could buy the exact same one and have it personalized any day of the week, but this jersey was different. I was going to sweat in this jersey! In PGE Park! A chair set in front of my locker was draped with my warm-up outfit and a laminated placard officially declared that this was my locker. I played it cool for another two seconds. “Oh, hell, I gotta take a picture of this!” I declared, much to the amused chuckles of my locker neighbor…who also agreed that having your own locker and jersey were picture-worthy and did the same.
Gearing up was the exact same process I do every Sunday: Right shin guard, left shin guard, right sock, left sock, right boot, left boot. Tape the right ankle to keep the guard from slipping. Tape the left ankle to keep the guard from slipping. But then I got to add a new step: Put on black training jersey. We didn’t get training jerseys back in high school. It may sound ridiculous, but this was a pleasant surprise. I can’t explain why. Knowing I had a special shirt just for warm-up struck me as cool, so grinning unabashedly, I went back onto the pitch.
Several other guys were stretching and warming up now, similarly clad in black. Fantasy campers come in all shapes and sizes but not unlike other times, when a group of footballers get together, I found myself quietly assessing the competition. (Even though the score or anything else didn’t really matter in the long run.) That guy looks fast. I think that big guy by the goal plays in my league. A few guys introduced themselves, a few others joked about not injuring themselves. I grabbed a ball and dribbled aimlessly around the pitch, eventually finding myself in front of an empty goal. I have always wanted to score a penalty at the Park, I thought. I set the ball on the charity spot, took two steps back, and suddenly realized if I missed on an empty goal I would be a total dork, so I cautiously strode forward and kicked the lamest, tamest shot straight down the middle. The net rippled meekly. GOOOOAAALLLL!!!
The group was called back to midfield. Amos Magee, Timbers assistant coach, introduced himself and told us he would be running us through a complete set of warm-up drills before we scrimmaged. We broke up into three groups and did various ladders, sprints, and lateral movements. Having just returned from vacation the night before–ergo, I had not worked out at all in over a week–I was winded. Fortunately, beads of sweat were showing on the foreheads of other campers, so I was in good company. After a water break, we grouped up into a circle and did various iterations of passing, passing and moving, trapping and heading, and other skills. Most of the exercises involved remembering and calling out somebody’s name prior to a pass, a skill I totally suck at, so I inadvertently began passing to the same four guys I could identify. The balls occasionally bounced wildly free of the group but spirits remained high as the panting got progressively faster. Another water break and onto small-sided possession games. The two sides try to string multiple passes together in a confined area. These were the same games we practiced as kids, but with the excited calls for a pass echoing throughout the empty stadium, it seemed bigger. Better. Even after giving away a pass cheaply, I still had to grin.
Another water break and shooting drills with one of the groups shooting and the other shagging balls. The one keeper camper we had donned his gloves and went between the posts. One line passes, one line sets up the shot at the top of the box, shooter strikes it inside the eighteen. When it was our turn to shoot, I got a sweet layoff and squared my knee over the ball. For a Seanny shot it had some venom but the keeper made a fantastic sprawling save and punched it away. My side cheered despite the block. I worked my way through the rotation and got another great dish from the passer. I cracked it with the top of my foot and beat the keeper to the left post: Nuthin’ but net. High-fives and cheers all around, including the ball chasers. “Great shot, Sean,” Amos said, and my grin officially went ear to ear.
As we break for our final water break prior to the scrimmage, a PGE employee asks if anyone wants to be interviewed for the website. I politely wait for two seconds before shooting my hand up. The cameraman nods and invites me to another section of the pitch to talk about Father’s Day Fantasy Camp. But here’s the thing…nowhere in recreational soccer are you taught how to do press! Do I look at the camera? Do I look at the interviewer? What if he asks me who my favorite player is and I freeze up? The camera went on and my brain went off. All I remember is seeing a camera lens and hearing a voice. Then my nose got itchy but I knew I couldn’t scratch it on camera. Are you having a good time so far? “Oh, yeah, uh, it’s awesome.” Then he asked me something like, Are you looking forward to playing with the Timbers later on? “Oh, yeah. Totally. It’s gonna be…awesome.” Or something inane like that. A final question had to do with what was I going to do if I scored a goal during the scrimmage and for a second, I did have a cogent answer. Actually, I have a fully rehearsed goal celebration I call “The Penitent Episcopalian” which I hope to someday do that involves sliding into the goal on my knees triumphantly while I cross myself, but I can’t do it on turf because of the resulting staph infection you can get from sliding on turf. When I realized I couldn’t do that at the Park, I went blank and stammered something about “We’ll have to see, um, because that would be awesome to, you know, score.”
It was apparently the worst interview ever because it never got posted.
I went back into the locker room. The campers were already there and excited speculation percolated about which players would show up to play. Magee entered and introduced head coach Gavin Wilkinson, who politely introduced himself to every single camper and shook their hand. He gave a brief talk about having fun on the pitch, “so just go and kick the piss out one another.” The group laughed. Gavin turned and mentioned he had four players kitted up and ready to join us. I noticed many of the campers sat up by their lockers a little straighter. The door swung open and…
…tune in next week for the exciting conclusion of “Pro for an Afternoon”! Which players will show up? Will Sean get a chance to do “The Penitent Episcopalian” goal celebration? Will he figure out how to not sound brain-dead on camera? Stay tuned, Weekend Warriors!
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinMore Than Just Another Post
By: Sean | 5 Comments
In my last post, I promised you an epic report from the Portland Timbers Father’s Day Fantasy Camp. Even if you aren’t a Portland supporter, I would hope you could understand the enthusiasm and excitement that might go along with playing with your favorite squad on their home pitch, regardless of where you might live. With all apologies, that needs to wait just a little longer. I need to go back and briefly revisit a previous post.
Back on June 20th, I wrote a post called “Happy Father’s Day“. You can click on the link if you missed it the first time or just scroll down about a turn on your mouse wheel, as it wasn’t that long ago. When I was scratching my bald head trying to figure out what to blog, I was suddenly overcome with the notion of writing about my dad and how awesome he was when I was growing up playing soccer. Usually when I try to do a post, I agonize about getting the words just right, redo stuff two or three times until it sounds less dumb in my head, and generally cut and paste with a vengeance. “Oh! That paragraph sounds way better at the end!” However, when I was doing the Father’s Day post, it wasn’t like that. Everything just seemed to flow out naturally and with uncharacteristic ease. I think I may have even spelled most everything correctly the first time, which is also contrary to practice. I figured Dad would get a kick out of seeing his name “on the computer”, too, and that would be a cool way to honor him until I saw him the next weekend and could give him a proper Father’s Day present he could unwrap. In that respect, it was more than just another post, it was my gift to him. My mom printed it off and read it to him. They both were really moved by it and Dad told me he that he really loved it.
It was more than just another post. It turned out to be his eulogy. Pop unexpectedly and quite suddenly passed away just five days later. We never saw it coming and we were not ready for it at all. In the days that followed, as we got ready for the funeral and I wondered what I was going to say about Dad, I clicked back on this site and remembered the Father’s Day post. That’s why the words came out so easy. That’s what I was supposed to say. So I did. Pop was so much more than just a soccer dad, of course, but I got the chance to let him know exactly how I felt, at least in some small part. He got to be “famous on the internet” for just a little bit and I got to say goodbye to my hero, even if I didn’t know it at the time.
I’ll get back to lighter soccer fare next week when my head is screwed on a little better…I just felt like this needed to be said.
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinWhat I Did/Am Doing/Will Do During My Summer Vacation: An Ironically Long Title for the Shortest Weekend Warrior Post Ever
By: Sean | 3 Comments
So…summer is here in my neck of the woods. School is out, working folks are due to take their two weeks off, and the time has come for some serious down time. I don’t know about you, but I kind of plan my vacations around my men’s recreational soccer team schedule. This year it meant that going back East waited until three days after my squad Rangers season finale (6-3 win, baby!)
How about you, Weekend Warriors? What footballing-related stuff do you have on your summer vacation schedule? Are there any big friendly matches or exhibitions you have tickets to that you want to brag about? Any summer tournaments or camps you are attending? Last Sunday I participated the Portland Timbers Father’s Day Fantasy Camp, and while I’ll save a full accounting for the next post, let me just say this…it was so awesome, I almost cried. Not a weepy, hysterical, girly cry, but a single manly tear of joy. (How’s that for a teaser? Eh?)
I’d love to hear about your summer footy plans. Cheers!
Category: Orange Slices and AspirinHappy Father’s Day
By: Sean | 1 Comment
Tomorrow is Father’s Day. I know this to be true because Hallmark Greetings has inundated my local department store with hundreds thousands of cards saying as much. Sunday will dawn around the neighborhood with many new ties, many fine breakfasts in bed, and sanctioned respite from chores around the house. This being a recreational soccer blog, however, the occasion also merits some reflections on the biggest influence on my non-professional footballing “career” (such as the last thirty-ish years of kicking the ball around could be called)…my dad.
We’ll call him “Jim”. Jim never played the game growing up, never once laced up the footy boots. He was an American rules football player and a damn good collegiate diver–I think at one point in the 1960s he was nationally ranked in the top five for springboard and platform diving. I mention this just to illustrate the simple point that soccer wasn’t a birthright for our family. We didn’t grow up with it. Like so many Americans in the 1970s, he became immersed in the soccer culture when his kid finally stopped watching cartoons and signed up to play. Also like many American moms and dads from that time, it was a quick transition from parent-signing-up-kid to volunteering-to-help-out-with-a-sport-they-knew-very-little-about. But my dad became so very much more than that.
My dad was a coach. Not a Class “C” license holder or a master of the offsides trap, but he stepped up and made sure a bunch of third graders had another adult on the field to help them dribble through cones and remind us not to eat grass. There is an entire generation of citizen-coaches (described in Jim Haner’s book Soccerhead far more eloquently than I can) who answered the call/plea from soccer organizers to make sure that kid’s sports would get played. He left the official head coaching duties to those in charge, but he never said no to filling in when the coach was late or had to work and he made sure all of us kids were safe and doing something soccerish. It takes a lot of courage to work with kids of any age…more so when the kids may know more about the activity than you do. Dad did it with ease and there was never any doubt who was in charge.
My dad was a physio. He could tape bum ankles with the best and understood first hand what shin splints so bad you couldn’t walk up stairs felt like. There were many nights in high school when he helped me dump ice cubes into the bath tub to numb both legs after the aspirin wore off, always reminding me that I needed to stay in the freezing water for at least twenty minutes or it didn’t do any good. He was also with me when I had to buy my first cup, which for guys, is a moderate big deal. I can’t remember if he actually said this or if I’m making it up and just believe it happened, but I distinctly recall the words “buy the one that fits and not just the one that is size large” regarding this all-important right-of-passage purchase.
My dad was a trainer. I came down with mononucleosis, a really bad case, one week after my junior year of high school. It lasted all summer and I didn’t get a doctor’s approval to start doing any exercise until two weeks before daily doubles started, so for about nine weeks I literally laid on the living room couch, spleen engorged, watching “Aliens” on HBO about twenty-six times. [Little aside: To this day, I can't look at Bill Paxton without hearing the words "Hey, maybe you haven't been keeping up on current events, but we just got our asses kicked, pal!" in the back of my head.] I asked my dad if he could get me ready for doubles in two weeks. He nodded and had me walk around our short little cul-de-sac. I came back exhausted. He told me to rest and do it again in a few hours, which I did, still exhausted. Repeat. After two days I moved up to the slowest jog possible that isn’t technically walking. Repeat later in the day. Long story short, I was jogging after a week and doing ball work the next, along with sprints. So many sprints…but come the first practice, it was like I hadn’t missed a beat.
My dad was a cheerleader. You know how when you play, all of the cheers and shouts kind of blur together? You hear it, but you don’t? I could always hear my mom and dad. Clear and distinct, shouting encouragement, telling me to watch out for the incoming tackle, even “motivating” me when I was not playing at the level I should. Dad wasn’t afraid to tell me if I was having an off-game, but he always backed it up with advice and observations to improve. “You’re too tentative, Sean! Get in there and take that ball from the defender when he holds it up, don’t wait for it. You need to eat red meat!” “Red meat” became slang for getting more aggressive and turning up the intensity. It always sounded more urgent when I heard Dad yelling it than from my coach.
My dad was a chauffeur. This may seem like a trivial point, but as a working adult with a child player of my own, I now get how tricky it can be to juggle schedules and get out of work (gracefully) and get kids to practice on time. Between my two parents, I never had to miss a practice or a match from the third grade until after I left for college and what is more, I think one of them was at every game to cheer and pass out orange slices. Oh, and my little brother also played on different teams and my sister did gymnastics, so you’ll appreciate the logistics involved in making all of that happen.
My dad was a volunteer/fundraiser/chairman of the board, etc. No offense to anybody, but I think fundraising sucks. I struggle to get into selling chocolate bars or magazines no matter the cause, but Dad would take on the board positions nobody else wanted, would help us sell pumpkins for the team fundraiser (despite the regular jeers from passing cars that went something like “soccer is for p*****s!”) and do whatever thankless administrative task required to keep the teams fully equipped, loaded with Gatorade, etc. I know there were about a dozen other things he would prefer to do, but his attitude of “if it needs to be done, it might as well be done right, so I should do it” comes back to me with ever-growing frequency.
My dad was the quiet voice of reason whenever I needed it. The hazing ritual at North Salem High School–pretty tame by the YouTube standards of today, mind you–was for the freshmen to be tackled and dragged through the mud of Barrick Field, our home pitch. Come late October, Barrick Field had the smell and drainage properties of a latrine. When I made varsity as a ninth grader, the entire frosh class on my team consisted of…me. Which meant when the upper classmen came to drag me through the cesspool of our goal box, I had no support. Sadly, this occurred at the end of practice when my dad arrived to pick me up. Not wanting to be humiliated in front of my father, I put up a hell of a fight. I swept our keeper’s legs with my shoulders and dumped him on his ass. I kicked another guy in the crotch and may have bit somebody’s hand. When I started to tire, I clenched around somebody’s neck and tried to choke him into submission. It took seven guys, but eventually I got dumped into the slime. That was it. Very tame, but it really upset me. I dragged myself over to my dad’s rig, smelling like a colonoscopy, and tried not to break down. Dad just smirked and looked at his watch. “It took seven guys twelve minutes to get you into the mud. Not bad at all.”
My dad was all of those things and so very much more. To this day he still asks about how my men’s team is doing and reminisces about this match or that. It wasn’t the sport he grew up with, and I’m not sure to this day he knows about the offsides trap, but his support and enthusiasm allowed me to develop my own interests and experiences and now pass them onto my own daughter. My dad is a great man and on a good day, I’m maybe half the man he is, but it is that overwhelming sense of involvement and support that I got from him that carries me forward to try and be the other half. I know not everybody is that fortunate to have a positive father figure in their life. I wish everybody did.
Happy Father’s Day, Pop.
Image courtesy of Corbis.
Category: Orange Slices and Aspirin
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