I've been laying low this soccer season to nurse a collection of nagging injuries. We had a ton of guys on the roster and I figured that if the captain needed me, he'd give me a call.
Yesterday, I got the call.
It was the soupiest day of the year without question. 110% humidity if there ever was such a thing. I'd broken a sweat just walking into the office. At 6 in the morning.
I'd been keeping in shape through stationary bicycling. As I did my jog lap to warm up pre-game, it confirmed that soccer uses a part of the lungs that biking doesn't touch. The part that burns when you breathe, know it?
Our team's average age is around 30, maybe a little north of that. Our top two players were out. I was an emergency sub for a reason - we had just enough women to field a full squad, and a handful of extras. Our warm-up was strategically listless. "Heat-stroke free," I declared our team goal, or at least my personal one. Looking across the pitch, a team of white-shirted twentysomethings with enough players for two full teams merrily ricocheted the ball around their magic circle.
When the opening whistle blew I exuberantly sprinted toward the sideline, lest I be picked as a starter otherwise. I eyed the bag I'd brought with a couple bananas and the largest-sized bottle of water that Qik-n-EZ held in inventory. I was unquestionably game-ready.
We played them to a stalemate through the first shift, when the first sweaty teammate jogged off the field waving a sub in limply. Eventually, I was the only remaining "fresh" body on the sideline, and into the sea I went.
My most valuable asset is stamina rather than speed these days, so I filled a wing midfielder spot and cruised up and down the line in maintenance mode. It did feel good to chat up teammates and match up defensively. The opponent was surprisingly easy to slip passes through, despite their athletic advantage.
On one trip up the field, I swept in from the left as the right wing centered a pass ten feet in front of the goal. Our forward wound up for a shot - and whiffed. However, he had not only faked out himself, but both defenders who left their spots to chase him. It landed right in my lap, about half a penalty-kick's distance from the net. I had enough time to wind up like a kindergartener. GOAL!!! Amazing. I'd logged only one goal all of last season. Here with no practice and lagging a half-season of experience, I'd struck pay dirt.
Shortly afterward, we had nearly a full line change with three or four new players coming on. Our defense sagged a little, and they capitalized on a 2-on-1 breakaway to knot the score.
My next shift found me on the right wing. I booted the ball in on a corner kick and continued to charge. Our center found the pass and slammed it off the goalie, and out toward the middle of the field. I swung at the bouncing ball and watched as if an out-of-body experience, the ball curling neatly around the outstretched goal keeper as pretty as the World Cup. It was the first left-footed goal I'd scored in thirty years of playing.
By game's end we'd grabbed an upset 3-1 victory. The team was convinced I should return next week, and I failed to convince them otherwise despite using the "beginner's luck" and "lightning striking twice" and "blind squirrels finding the occasional nut" adages. It was the perfect capper to a day that was already abundant with the lesson of good fortune. And part of that good fortune included a shower, fully-charged ice pack and ready-made bed for recovery!
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