Day Zero: The Reality Check

It's been six years since I played competitive sports. I can remember with pretty intense clarity how my body felt on my last soccer game in Marshall, Illinois. At that time, I played 90 minutes, every game. Wasn't even a question. I'm not attempting to boast- anything less than that would have been ridiculous. I played soccer all the time, every season, for the previous fifteen years leading up to that game. Played basketball in the winter to stay in shape.

That final game, I was never winded. And it wasn't for a lack of sprinting. I played sweeper, and I could run and run and run. Muscle fatigue was a distant threat, but I was good for at least two games before that was a real danger. And being out of breath for more than ten, fifteen seconds? It just didn't happen. I was conditioned by the game. And the game was a place where I always felt powerful, confident, an entirely at home. Even when I lost, even when I didn't win every challenge, I knew that the pitch was a good place for me, and I was always happy to be playing.

Well, it's been six years since then. My life is a lot different now. I'm married to an impossibly wonderful woman. I have a job and a house and a mortgage. Life is really good. But I've missed soccer. I really have. Being part of team, playing my guts out, that feeling of being in competition on the field.

So a few weeks ago I started looking for a pick-up game. Just to get back into it, you know? Circle of mutual friends connected, and I found one, a great one with skilled players who were good people to boot. It was a fun morning, the field was definitely a little over-crowded, but it was great to get touches in again, make plays; I even scored once.

The guy who invited me to the pick-up game, one Bradley Speaks, a gentleman and an athlete by all accounts, texted me afterward to see if I'd be interested in playing on an indoor team called "Toepoke" that he organized. I couldn't believe my luck, said yes, and three weeks ago showed up at Mockingbird Valley Sports Complex over in Louisville and played with these guys.

It's a great place to play. Astro-turfed, hockey-style walls, nets- it was legit. I was seriously excited.

I expected the night to go a little rough for me personally, and it did. I knew I was out of shape, had smoked a cigar the previous night, etc. And I was right- I was out of breath pretty consistently, my legs got really fatigued, the works. But it was insanely fun. I made some good plays, scored a goal- we ended up losing 3-4, but I figured I'd be back into the game after a couple weeks of running consistently with my love Aberlyn, who is always inviting me to join in her cross-country-conditioned ways.

The team didn't play last week, but I showed up a little earlier tonight with a new pair of sambas (my old ones, worn on the previous occasion, had no tread and one of my toes was coming through a hole) and a new soccer ball (six years, and I have a soccer ball again!). I felt ready. Not perfectly in shape, but definitely several meaningful steps ahead of where I was last time.

Well. We got hammered. My conditioning showed no meaningful difference- I was constantly out of breath. My legs were tired. And we were playing guys who seemed way more in shape than us. Definitely way more in shape than me.

I used to chase down every runner, every ball. And I just couldn't do it tonight. I managed to bag a goal early on, but then came this moment where they were in the middle of this devastating run of goals, and I jumped in front of a shot that one of their guys was making. Caught it right in my gut.

That's an hour later. Yeah. It just about killed me. After that, it was even worse. I felt a little nauseous and couldn't draw deep breaths.

I think the final score was something like 4-13. Their best scorer stopped playing after the first half.

I'm really good at losing. I've been on the losing team plenty of times and I feel like I generally do not get upset because of how the score looks at the end. Because I play soccer for the joy of being able to move, play, sprint, and make things happen with the team I'm with, striving to the utmost of my ability.

That didn't happen. And it really stood out to me just how MUCH that didn't happen. I just don't have the kind of strength and fitness that I did.

And that ball to the stomach- it was just drove the point home. I couldn't cut it. I couldn't hold up.

So. I'm starting a blog, because that's the thing we do in this modern era, right? For what purpose? As a motivator and a record to myself, and possibly as an encouragement/amusement to people who might read it.

A record of what?

Of the journey I am going to embark on starting tomorrow. I am going after that same kind of strength and endurance that I experienced at my last game. I have no idea how long it will take. I don't know what all means I'm going to employ. But I want to take it seriously, and want to be consistent.

And write about it. Because I like writing.

Indefatigable. Let's go.