Victory

So, to this the post I actually intended to write tonight. I got side tracked by the lead up thinking it unfair of me to give you the impression that victory was something that came to me lightly. Don't worry, I'm not going to sit here and belittle myself each week. I have always been comfortable with the fact that my lack of sporting prowess had been more that compensated for with my sharp mind, rugged good looks and ability to build or fix almost anything. Not many of us can have it all.

Sporting victory is not something I expected to tell you much about. As I've said previously, my soccer career has been a painful one. A few weeks after my quad recovered, a serious knee injury left me sidelined for the rest of the season. I still had two teams to coach, the clubs website to maintain and various committee duties to fulfill so I was still immersed in soccer even though I couldn't play.

It's hard to explain how attached you can become to something so quickly, how disconnected you can feel from your mates when you can't take to the field with them. Sure I still attended our home games to support them and our social life was filled during the off season with many team and committee outings, but it wasn't the same. The beers didn't taste as sweet when I hadn't earned the thirst they sought to quench. So it wasn't surprising that when the opportunity came up to play in a pre-season social competition, I jumped at it.

Well last night was our first game. My team mates, in an effort to curry favour from my medical team, put me in goal. You might question the friendship of someone who knowingly places a mate into the trajectory of half a kilo of high velocity animal skin with nothing to protect him other than a chalk line and the survival instinct of a bunny caught in your headlights. I can assure you however that this was done to protect my "gumbiness" from the need to run and kick thus exposing my battered tendons to the risks of snapping and stretching.

Now a slight detour. By virtue of the fact that we married sisters, my brother in law is a Kiwi. The kiwi plays soccer. He played it as a kid and now after a long interval he captains the Over 35 team at a neighbouring club. When I found out about the six a side competition I invited him to field a team, knowing that this would give us the opportunity to compete and then enjoy a beer afterwards. As you've probably guessed, we played the Kiwi's team in our first game.

Whilst I've never played in goal before I've watched quite a few good ones and commented about their failings, saying things like..."even I could have got that one." So it was that when the Kiwi's fired off two rapid fire shots, I got them...out of the net and we were two down after five minutes. Things picked up from there, I got my eye in making a few good deflections (actually catching the ball takes actual skill) and even throwing myself on the ball at the feet of two attackers in a desperate attempt to protect my goal. My team mates were also finding their feet and half time saw us behind 3-2.

The second half started badly. I was facing the other way, now looking directly into some field lighting (note how I build the tension, stacking the odds against me) and my safety zone, the goal circle was poorly marked and indistinct making it difficult to judge my position inside the zone. Some quality defence from my team mates saw a number of ICBM style salvos fall wide of their mark and with five minutes to go, the game was tied up at 4 all. After one of their attacking raids we launched a sortie of our own. I returned the ball into play to the feet of my fullback, from there (and this may be the Hollywood script writer in me, but I swear) it went through every set of feet on our team before being buried in the back of the Kiwi's net. Our confidence now brimming an opportunistic goal poked around an attacking keeper gave us a two goal buffer. Several late raids were defended by my team until a final toe poke on the whistle was smacked away inches from the top left corner of our net. 6-4 WE WON. The pain in my left hand would take minutes to register.

It's just a game, winning doesn't matter, what matters is how you play it...that's not the whole truth. Winning is great. Really. I've coached and played in enough losing teams to know all the platitudes about sportsmanship and losing graciously. I've heard most and used many of them. But we all play to win, and that's because it feels great. When you've done your best and lost, you can hold your head up high. When you've done your best and won, you can shout it to the rooftops, drink from the chalice and soak your hand in the esky full of beer and hope the swelling subsides in time for next weeks game.

Introduction

I've never been much of a sportsman. Sure I've played many sports over the years from Tennis and Cricket to BMX, a handful of martial arts, even two games of Rugby Union for an U19 Colt team (my ears have never been the same), but I've always seemed to prefer the solitary sports over the team ones. However my current love is Soccer. I know it is football to the purists but as a child who grew up in Queensland in the Seventies football will always be Rugby.

My association with soccer began with my eldest son signing up to play as an Under 6 a few years ago. Attending the first training session I quickly got dragged in to assist with proceedings. Having NEVER played a game of soccer, or even watched an entire game, it was interesting trying to teach children how to play. Suffice to say it was lucky they were only 5.

After four years of this (two years as a coach and two as a manager) I realised that in order to have any chance of passing on some knowledge of the sport...I'd have to acquire some. So it was with some measure of trepidation that I decided to play. The club where my three children play has a healthy Over 35's competition fielding two teams. These teams cater variously to blokes who have never lost their lifelong passion for the game right through to those who just wanted a reason to get out of the house and engage in a bit of manly bonding. I placed myself closer to the latter. I wanted to learn about the game and I needed some physical activity in my life. What I didn't realise was how much I would enjoy the "blokiness" of it all.

My soccer career started badly. After an encouraging training session where I actually displayed a reasonable turn of speed and an ability to kick the ball without falling over it, I turned out for our first trial game of the season. Kitted out in new socks and shorts, the appropriate safety equipment and my old baseball boots (did I mention my two seasons of baseball?) I arrived at the grounds full of hope and anxiety. The family had come down to watch, fish and chips and picnic blanket in tow, the kids excited to see the old man finally walking the walk. Twenty minutes into the first half my moment had come and I ran on to take my place somewhere in the front line.

There is nothing as obvious as the tearing of a quad muscle, even to someone who hasn't done it before. Unwilling to admit defeat so prematurely I hobbled about for 20 minutes until half time when I could skulk away to the bar for a bag of ice before sitting on the side lines eating cold chips and watching the second half.

Thus began my close friendship with our local physio, my re-acquaintance with my chiropractor and the seemingly never ending visits to various shamans and soothsayers trying to get my old body to do what my willing mind thought it could.