Phones and Futbol

I have this really crappy phone. First of all, it has buttons – yuck. The screen is as colorful as Cleveland in January. There is no volume thingy on the side and you have to customize a “profile setting” to turn it to, what we of the 21st century call, vibrate.

But you know what? I am not a shallow guy. Its not sexy, but I’m not judging it on its looks. I don’t care if it’s a little too skinny or if it only thinks in black or white. I don’t care if it has to sleep and recharge every couple of hours. Who doesn’t like naps? I don’t care if it is old and hasn’t embraced the age of the Internet. I really don’t. It knows two languages, which is more than I can say for myself. And on the icon bar on top, there is a little heart. I don’t know why its there, but it’s reassuring.

What I really can’t stand about this damn phone, is that IT ONLY HOLDS EIGHT TEXT MESSAGES!!!

Not eight in my inbox and eight my outbox and eight my draftbox – eight TOTAL!

I have had “unlimited” checked on my plan since the seventh grade. I’ll send 8 texts before I hit the snooze button in the morning. Now granted there are only about five people I text in this country but still, it is a pain in my ass every single day.

Sorry. Had to get that out… anyway.

My friend Rafaela invited me to play soccer with her family. I haven’t been very active since I’ve been here (hiking is far away and requires a car and the massive blister on my toe kept me out of basketball for a bit… lame excuse but its all I’ve got.) so I jumped at the opportunity.

She said we were going to play with her family – a group of men and woman and girls and boys ranging from 8 to 35ish. I figured at 22 I’ll be more athletic than the old people (I mean less young people) and the young kids and then just try to be on the same team of anyone who looked in their twenties.

I listened to a soccer podcast last week AND, at lunch the other day, I saw Lionel Messi score a goal on TV. I know exactly what I am doing.

So the teams ended up getting divided pretty evenly (darn). Pedro is 24 and immediately stood out as a good player. He was on my team. Carlos, 35ish and father to one to the cutest kids of all time, and Ismail (probably 20 and athletic) were on the other team. Rafaela was the best girl and she was on the other team as well.

The little kids were divided up and while they were small, they had still grown up in South America and knew what they were doing with a soccer ball.

The game started and I got the first pass near the left sideline. One girl was streaking down the right side and passed it over to her. Too strong. Whoops. Two seconds into the game and I’ve got my first turnover.

These fields are smaller and surrounded by a fence. The sidelines are in play but the endlines are out so you can play it into the fence and basically pass it to yourself (Love it!), otherwise there are corner kicks.

I originally thought I was going to score every single goal against all these midgets but I found myself more comfortable passing and setting other people up. I was able to create a little space because one of the other team’s faster guys (Carlos) was playing goalie (as was Pedro). The little kids could play but their legs are half as long as mine, so a little sprint could give me some time to get a pass off.

These kids love soccer so they know right where to go (or at least right where I think they should go). It was awesome. Martin is 8 and is a natural scorer. Always in the right spot (what I think is the right spot) and puts everything in the goal. Glad he was on my team.

About two minutes and maybe eight sprints in, the heavy breathing starts – uh oh. Hands are on my head. BREATHE!

The first thing to go was the defense. Instead of being all high energy and making sure I was getting in passing lanes and going after the ball if it was near me, I started walking and lightly trotting to what I thought might be a good place but near where I wanted to be for an outlet pass. After all, the clock on my lungs was ticking and it’s way cooler to score goals (or make sweet passes!).

Pedro really did have our goal on lockdown and if they were near actually scoring I could help, ya know, a little.

Rafaela’s shins had this issue of being right where my foot was whenever we went after the ball. My foot was obviously there first (twice). I am all for whichever amendment lets men and women play on the same soccer field but they’ve gotta know that I’m going to mindlessly kick the ball which zero regard as to whoever’s shins or feelings are in the way. If you play with fire you’re going to get burned, or in this case, bruises. (Sorry, Rafa!)

The second wind had come and gone. We were probably at the 35-minute mark and I had to sit down. I drank some water and chilled out for a minute or two while the game was going on. I totally abandoned ship. Not proud, but I was about to die on the field.

So I finally get a little air back in my lungs and get back out on the pitch. Now the goalie from the other team (Carlos) had come out of the goal and was was trying to score. Pedro’s girlfriend (tiny, but really nice and can play soccer) stole the ball and passed it to me and I was able to break away for a goal and make Carlos think twice before leaving again. It may have been slightly cheap given I was sitting on the sideline when he left the goal but I really just evened out the teams again when I returned.

So after my glorious open net goal, I was breathing hard again. After a steal, some inconsiderate girl kicked the ball to me and I ran with it down the sideline and overshot the millionth pass of the night (RUN FASTER!).

Now I’m on the ground. I am so tired and sucking so much air I can hardly speak. I make my way back to my water bottle and had probably never had to work so hard to get air into my lungs. I used to have asthma when I was young and, when I was born, my lungs didn’t work and I needed a respirator – but I think last night trumped all of that. I started using the pregnant lady, “HE HE WHOO,” technique. Actually worked!

So after being in labor for a few minutes, I could breathe normally again. Couldn’t think or speak Spanish, but I could breathe.

I hopped back on the field and Pedro had just stopped a goal and took the ball out himself. He ran down the field dancing and moving around everyone in his way. Dude, could handle a ball. It was impressive. I finally caught up to him and he sent me a perfect pass which I promptly kicked straight up into the cross bar. Good work.

By the time I got my hands off my knees, Pedro was already back in our goal and little Martin (switched teams) was streaking down the right side with the ball. I had just missed an easy goal and wanted the ball back. I ran after the little kid and I swear I was going for the ball but all of his 60 lbs. got in the way and I took him down a fell on top of him. Whoops.

Not only am I missing open shots and searching for my 6th wind on the bench, now I am taking out their kids. Good pick. Martin is a tough kid and got right up and was back in the game.

The game was over not long after. We weren’t really keeping score or I was too tired to understand what it was. We all sat around a table and shared a few beers.

It wasn’t until then I noticed that Pedro was wearing a sweatshirt I recognized. He turned away and I figured it couldn’t be possible but then, when he stood up, I saw the sweatshirt he was wearing said Montana State University! (I have been a Bobcat for the last three years) I was so happy and we took a picture (coming when my phone starts working). His (and Rafaela’s) cousin goes there. I was also wearing MSU shorts at the time so the Cats were well represented. Didn’t see any Grizzly gear, though I didn’t check the trash.

An hour later when I got home I was still breathing hard. I went right to bed. I was invited back for the same game next week and to play with Carlos in a weekly game he has with just guys. Next week, I think I’ll bring an oxygen tank for me and some shin guards for Rafaela.