You Can Go Home Again

By: Sean | October 10th, 2008

To be perfectly honest, kicking the football around again was probably the last thing on my mind when the ice gave way and I started to tumble down the glacier.

My life didn’t flash before my eyes. Time didn’t slow to something akin to “Matrix” bullet-time, gifting me superhuman sensory perception and awareness. Mostly, it was about ten seconds of frantic flailing as I skidded down Mt. Garibaldi’s Warren Glacier, thrashing my head back and forth to keep the small waves of snow out of my face, ice axe clawing uselessly into the snow. I distinctly remember thinking to myself, “Arrest! ARREST! WHY THE F**K AM I NOT STOPPING?!” Eventually I did, some three hundred-ish vertical feet later, and I crawled out of my very little avalanche debris field. Just like that, my mountaineering career was over.

I know what you are thinking. Dude, this is a footballing website. How did the Weekend Warrior go from Godzooky (previous post) to “Touching the Void”? It took about twenty-seven years, but the abridged version goes like this…

After tuning off “The Godzilla Power Hour”, my dad took me to sign up for third grade soccer and I instantly fell in love with the game. My early non-cartoon coaches were all friendly and capable, the matching shirts were pretty cool, and I loved the orange-slice-as-mouthpiece trick all the kids did after the game. I came back for the next fall season, and the next fall…and then I was old enough to play spring soccer, too. By high school I was playing for the varsity team during the autumn, indoor soccer during the winter, spring league and “informal” summer scrimmages until daily doubles started in August. Football season unofficially lasted for eleven and half months and I don’t remember a time until I graduated that I didn’t have my cleats in a gym bag somewhere nearby. Passion and a love of the game only takes you so far, however. I wasn’t good enough to play competitively in college, so I tossed the shin guards in the back of the closet and focused on architecture school instead. Occasionally, the boots would get muddy for a soccer PE elective or an intramural match against some fraternity team, but the Beautiful Game became less and less important compared to graduation, finding a real job and getting married…you know, “grown up stuff.”

Most grown ups in the Pacific Northwest seem to hike, so my wife and I found ourselves trail hopping on weekends and eventually, the urge to climb steeper and steeper trails led to a love of mountaineering. Twenty five proud summit pictures still hang in my living room, but Number 26 on Mt. Garibaldi in British Columbia was simply not to be. I realized that my recreational pursuits should really be limited to low level environs…preferably flat ones relatively close to medical facilities. Around that same time, I discovered a certain all-football sports channel that, well, was all about “my world, my life and my game.” My evenings were soon filled with matches from teams I hadn’t thought about in years and leagues I didn’t even know existed. Water cooler talk at the office revealed some co-workers who played footy and were looking for new players to firm up their Over-30 D3 roster. I was in.

My first men’s match was on a beautiful September day. I remember warming up with the ball and trying to not look stupid as I attempted more than three juggles. My first practice shot went so far wide of the frame that it could have been mistaken for a cross. (It may have actually hit a passing cyclist.) One warm-up sprint across the pitch left me more winded than it should…but the old familiar feeling was definitely stirring. The manager miraculously started me as the left midfielder. My heart thumped heavily. I was sweating already. I thought to myself as I waited for the referee to start the match, “Is offsides one field player and the keeper between me and the ball, or two players and the keeper, or just the–”

The whistled shrilled, our striker tapped the ball forward, and the the pass swung out to me. Immediately behind the incoming pass was the opposing midfielder. He went to ground for the tackle and the ball arrived at my feet about a half second before he did. I didn’t even think. I flicked the ball with the outside of my right and hopped over the avalanche of cleats and legs. The slide missed both me and the ball so I raced to collect my own pass. Mostly, it felt like ten seconds of frantic flailing as I stumbled down the sideline, thrashing my head back and forth to keep the sweat out of my face, boots frantically clawing into the ground to find the ball or a decent pass. Eventually I did and just like that, my footballing career had begun anew.

How about you, Weekend Warriors? Did you leave the game? Did life take you away from the pitch only to remind you that with the Beautiful Game, you can go home again? I’d love to hear your stories and personal anecdotes.