Quitting Soccer
October 20th, 2006 by iMonk
Quitting Soccer by Clay Spencer
All children have a lot of energy. I wasn’t any different. When I was nine years old I began to put on weight. I called it “getting fat”, but it was just growth (around the waist). During that year of my life I wore Big Dog tee shirts, forgot my homework a lot, and I was in love with a beautiful 18 year old woman. I was out of luck, though, because she was dating a Brazilian. He was much older and better looking than myself. Campus was full of Brazilians at that time.
I don’t know if it’s fact or not, but knowing some Brazilian folks for at least a year or two, I deducted that soccer is a big deal in Brazil. Being around some of the folks from the other America got me very interested in soccer. I somehow became subscribed to a soccer equipment magazine. I’d flip through the pages and look at stuff. I think I owned a soccer ball. I remember one of the Brazilian guys pointing at a soccer player in a magazine and telling me he was the best in the world. The athlete was, of course, Brazilian.
Having a young and impressionable psyche, soccer was my favorite sport. I didn’t play regularly. I didn’t know the rules, and I still couldn’t tell them to you today. I knew to kick the ball. Elementary school P.E. doesn’t constitute professional knowledge of a sport, but I did not know that. Soccer was very glorious. It was my area of expertise, and I knew nothing about it. What I did know is that there were people I looked up to who liked soccer. I wanted to be Brazilian. White men can’t kick. I wasn’t Brazilian, and I didn’t even know how to play soccer, but I loved the sport.
I had another year of elementary school left. I never stopped saying that Soccer was my favorite sport. I hoped to be a soccer player, but I have never been an athlete. I have always been a dreamer. In different stages of my life, dreaming has taken on different forms. At times I dream with my imagination, driven by books I’ve read. My brain alters reality to make it fantastic. At times, I dream of my future. I dream of my children, a wife (this one occurs frequently), a career as a writer, a house somewhere with plenty of nature around it where I can grow old and die. Recently I have begun dreaming of having a house where people in need are always welcome and cared for. I don’t know where these dreams will go. It takes a lot of courage to fulfill your dreams.
As a nine year old boy, I had dreams of being a soccer player. I don’t recall if I wanted to play professionally, or just to play, but I was going to be a soccer player. This goal lasted for the rest of my elementary and middle school education. In my entire career of being a soccer dreamer and even a player, I learned a few new things about soccer, but I haven’t touched a soccer ball in years.
At the age of twelve, I decided to go to a hybrid Church and Sports camp on a college campus. It was one of those “fuge” things. I don’t remember the name, and that should give you an idea of how profound it was. The most memorable part was my bratty roommate who threatened me by saying “I have a 21 year old brother, and he can beat you up.” I was going into the Eighth Grade, and resided on a floor of Fifth Graders. They once had a pillow fight in the hall, and I dominated.
I had to play two sports a day. Two sports? I couldn’t dedicate my time to anything other than soccer, so I had to pick something that sounded easy. “What’s Team Handball?” “I think that’s where you throw a ball against a wall.” “Okay.” Team Handball is much more complicated than that, and there aren’t any walls in sight when it is played. That was the true learning experience.
For some amount of time every morning for a week, I practiced soccer. It had always been my dream to play Goalie. After all, they got to use their hands and wore a different uniform. Does it get any cooler? At camp, learned about being a Full Back, and that was my new love. I vaguely remember feeling that I was good at running backwards, and that was essential the position. Those mornings made me pretty damn miserable. I was not the slimmest, most in-shape kid on the block, and those soccer practices helped me realize that those were facts of my life. I felt good about myself, none the less. I’m not athletic, but it always feels good to feel like I am. It goes back to my imagination, and sometimes I can feel like an all-star. Humility is key, but I’m a super star none the less. Don’t mess with a super star.
Even if I did feel like a super star, one week of morning soccer practices was the most experience I had at that point in my life. The next summer, I was done with eighth grade which meant I could now join the soccer team at school. That summer, the coach decided to have evening practices with anyone who was interested. I was all about that. I didn’t, to my knowledge, miss a single one of those summer practices. We practiced technique, received lectures on formation and plays, and scrimmaged no matter what the weather was. I remember an evening playing soccer in a thick rain. My glasses were soaking wet, but I was very dedicated to what I was doing and put forth all of my effort. I had a lot of fun at those practices.
The school year started up and I was there at the first soccer meeting. I was there at the first practices. I was there and I was pleased with myself. My parents had shelled out a lot of money on buying me some cleats, which, to them, meant that there was no option for me to quit. They had invested in the sport, so now they were involved as well.
I had heard tales of how much running one does while on a soccer team. Many laps around the track and a lot of time up and down the field. For some reason, running was not a major part of our practices when we started off. We jogged at the beginning of every practice while keeping a grid formation and flailing our arms in strange ways. It felt good to be out there, most of the time. I was small and still not at all in-shape. Sometimes the more experienced players would express frustration towards me. As a Freshman, it was intimidating, but I dealt with it.
I was there for a few games. Once I wore boxers under my uniform. They were black with flames on them. They hung a little lower than my shorts and a lot lower when I was running. Some people laughed at me. Oh well, I was still in a uniform. I even got in that game for a few minutes. I got in at least two games, and I was on the team for three or four. I touched the ball once.
In a lot of confusion at a home game, still not even knowing the rules of the sport, I was running around on the field trying to play some D. The ball was in open grounds for a moment, and it was near me. I bolted at it. At the same time, so did a guy from another player. It was now not about controlling the ball, or even passing it accurately, but keeping it out of their possession. I beat the other guy to the ball and gave it a well-driven kick, sending it somewhere. The other player and I collided. I hit the ground hard and my mother got worried, but I hopped up and ran around some more until I was taken out.
Then it came. The coach came to practice and asked if we had all brought our running shoes. Practically no one had, so he gave us 15 minutes to go to our dorm room or house and get them. I had been dreading this day. I went and got keys to my house and then went to my house and got my shoes and then went back to the field. I didn’t go as fast as that sentence reads. I intentionally took my precious little time. The coach will have to be easy on me, I had to go get a key and that takes extra time. I moseyed down to the field, shoes in hand and not on my feet. “Clay,” I heard the coach say kind of sternly. “Next time you’re coming to the field after everyone else, could you at least look like you’re in a hurry?” That did not feel good, but I sucked it up.
That day I wound up running the fastest, and what I wished to be the last, mile I have ever run. Eight minutes and thirty five seconds. Yes, very slow. It was a struggle for me to even run it. I didn’t walk the whole time. Looking back, that is kind of a miracle. The girl in front of me pulled off after her second (of four) laps and told the coach “I have asthma”, and she was done. After that, I over exaggerated my breathing when I passed the coaches, but to no avail. I ran all four laps.
I came home in a state of misery. I probably cried. I probably made a point to at least seem like I was going to cry as I entered the house and collapsed. I told my parents that I wanted to quit. I don’t know how much of their reaction was about the cleats, but they didn’t particularly want me to quit. I received a letter from my father the next morning telling me that they would respect my decision and that it was up to me. My mother asked me, “If you quit, are you sure you won’t regret when all of the other guys are on stage getting awards?” Of course not.
I walked up to the coach that morning. I said “I don’t want to be a part of the soccer team anymore.” He asked if I was sure and I said that I was. And that was final.
It was a very strange and emotional storm inside of me as I said those two sentences to my coach. My eyes watered, but no tears fell. I still do not know whether my coach, who to this day remains an important friend of mine, took notice. I walked away, and I felt empty. Something was missing. The nine year old in me was crying his little heart out. He was watching as the Brazilian flag was reduced to ashes, and his dreams burned under it.
