So, yeah. Soccer. I get out there sometimes. Calling it “playing” feels a bit generous, honestly. I’m mostly just present. I attempt to run. Often, I end up somewhere completely useless on the pitch.
Looking back, my best days were probably back when shin guards went up to your knees, and even those weren’t exactly glorious. Coordination has never been my strong suit. Me and the soccer ball? We have disagreements. Frequent ones. It wants to go one way, my feet usually suggest another, entirely unintended, direction.
My So-Called Skills
- Running Style: Think less ‘gazelle’, more ‘confused penguin’. There’s effort, sure, but grace? Not really.
- Kicking Technique: It’s a lottery. Shin, ankle, maybe the toe. Sometimes, miraculously, the part of the foot meant for kicking, but never with the intended power or direction. It’s more of a surprise for everyone involved, myself included.
- Passing Ability: I aim for a teammate’s general area code. It’s more of a hopeful push than a calculated pass. Close enough is usually the goal.
- Game Sense: What’s offside again? Seriously. My main tactic involves trying very hard not to trip over my own feet or the ball. Positional play means finding space where I’m least likely to cause damage.
I’ve had my moments, you know. Not good ones. There was this pickup game, felt a bit more serious than usual. Ball loops down near our goal. Perfect setup to be the hero, clear it out. I took a mighty swing, full commitment. And… air. Nothing but air. My leg followed through, hit nothing, and the ball just sort of gently tapped off my other leg, the one planted on the ground, and rolled slowly, agonizingly, into our own net. An own goal of epic slowness. The silence that followed was heavy. Then just one guy, quietly, “Man.” That summed it up.
Watching people who can actually play is something else. They move smoothly. The ball seems charmed, sticking to their boots. When I have the ball, it looks like I’m wrestling a small, slippery animal. It’s a constant struggle, and frankly, the ball often gets the better of me.
Why Even Try Then?
It’s a fair question I ask myself sometimes, usually while gasping for air after chasing an opponent I had no chance of catching. Part of it’s just the act of getting out, moving around, even if my movement isn’t exactly athletic. Fresh air, green field. And every now and then, pure luck intervenes. A shot hits me because I happened to be standing there. A pass goes right only because my bad touch accidentally deflected it perfectly to a teammate. These accidental triumphs are few and far between, mostly luck, but they happen.
For me, it stopped being about trying to be good years ago. That ship sailed, hit an iceberg, and sank. Now, it’s just about participation. Turning up, putting the boots on, running around, being part of the game. I’ve accepted my role. I’m the guy who makes everyone else look better. Every team needs one, right? At least I bring consistency. Consistently bad, but consistent. You know what you’re getting.
