Villanova had some effects on Anabelle above and beyond the normal transitions college usually leads to.
In high school I referred to her as the only person on earth who had less interest in sports than I did.
Due to exposure to the air around Villanova, she really had no choice in becoming a college basketball fan. The offshoot of that, due to half their starters coming from her school, is Anabelle (and us by extension) cheering on the NY Knicks as they won the NBA finals for the first time in 53 years.
Her other fandom that grew throughout her college years was of international soccer. (Although this did start to bud when we were in Peru for the 2014 World Cup, which has more than a slight genetic link to her Mother.)
It took me a little longer than them to get caught up in what everyone else on the planet calls football. (Including England, the country that invented the word "soccer.") Eventually it happened. In bits and pieces at first, but full bore during the 2024 Copa America. (There's an accent mark missing somewhere in there. Have this one. ' )
It was an easy transition as I played the game for around six years or so as a kid. Thanks to the randomness of what sticks in my memory, the rules were still there.
This included a strong and detailed memory of how "off sides" works, due to spending almost all of that time as a Fullback. Additionally my experience is why I wanted to know which professional player's Mother would bring them orange slices for halftime. (How sad is it that the answer was "none of them?")
It was also nice to see the Fullbacks could kick the ball away from the Wings and have it go that far out of bounds without worrying it would float down the Rockaway River.
I will be using the terms they told us back then, here is a translation.
Forwards - Attackers. (Including Wings, being the ones on the sides)
Halfbacks- Midfielders
Fullbacks- Defenders
Goalie- Goalie (moving on.)
I never really figured out what a Striker is. The pro teams seem to be allowed to run wherever they want on the field anyway, which was the priveledge reserved for Strikers in our leagues. Feel free to look that up any of the far better available sources on how this game works.
My initiation into the town PAL soccer league was inauspicious. The very first practice for "The Rowdies" was a scrimmage (whatever that was). I was put in at the position I would eventually show proficiency at, Fullback. That proficiency was no where to be seen that day. The Goalie for what I learned was a "practice game" was the same guy I disarmed with a last minute twist to prevent kicking him in the face during a drill when he stood in the wrong place during my miniscule taekwondo time, He was the same age I was, putting us both in the younger group. Every "level" of PAL soccer covered two years, making us alternate between being in the younger and older group. The Goalie spent almost the entire (unofficial) game yelling at those of us on defense "YOU'RE SCREENING ME!" I also had no idea what that meant. Since I later learned our job was to keep the ball from getting to him in the first place, requiring us to stand where we had been standing, I don't think he did either. The only other thing he would shriek at us was "KICK IT BACK TO ME!" Given the mob of kids already trying to score on him standing right next to me when he said this, that seemed like a poor choice. My lack of knowledge increased the poorness of the choice when there was finally some space one time when he hollered "KICK IT BACK TO ME!"
So I did.
As hard as I could.
He squealed in terror and dropped prone, allowing me to start my illustrious time in the sport with an own goal. Since I spent just about the entirety of that soccer "career" on defense, it was also my only goal.
Before I settled in (and vastly improved) at Fullback, I was briefly assigned to Halfback, the position doing all the running up and down field at that age. (Fullbacks and Forwards were generally told not to cross the midfield line.) This was not the position for me. It did give me my first exposure to what I would learn was even more true for the position I ended up mastering.
The Forwards get all the glory.
The Fullbacks get all the grief.
The Halfbacks do all the work.
(My own addition- Goalies got a mix of the Glory and the Grief, forming kind of a love / hate relationship with their Fullbacks depending on how we were treated.)
As I got older, I got significantly better as a Fullback. There is objective evidence of this since I found myself often playing all four quarters when the required play time in the town league was only two of them. The other peice of objective evidence came when we played soccer in gym at the beginning of high school during the height of the Transformers show, and I was dubbed "Thunderkicker."
Admittedly, there was almost no finesse in my game, and nearly no dribbling. I learned how to box out the little fast guys who always played the Wing, in spite of them being quicker than me. At some point I was taught to watch their upper torso instead of the ball, allowing me to predict which way they would go, which served me well my during by brief sports career. I didn't have any ball handling skills to speak of, but I could put a stop to their ball handling skills quite efficiently. While I often lacked in self confidence in most other aspects of life, on the field I figured out all I really needed to do was stand my ground, and understand where they were going to remove the ball from their controlling skills. Usually, the little fast guys would end up being much slower, and often horizontal, after a collision. I learned how to kick the living snot out of the ball, with enough aim and control to get it out of the back field and up to the Forwards. (Also reducing the workload of those poor Halfbacks.) Generally, working with the other Fullbacks, I kept our half of the field safe.
Those of us in the back field took defending our side seriously. One year, Louis (a fellow Fullback) and I created our own drill for Practices. We used a baseball backstop as an oversized goal, with the two of us guarding it. The entire rest of the team used as many soccer balls as they could get their feet on to try and score on us, simultaneously. It was a rare moment when the distinctive "ching!" of a ball hitting the chain linked fence behind us was heard.
In Eighth Grade, my second to last year, Jesse and I were on the same team and took turns as to which Fullback side we'd ask to play. (The Seventh Grader who defended with us, wanted to know why the coach always asked us but not him. Coach pointed out we both towered over him and could have pounded him into the ground. Not that we ever would, he was really cool.) We'd have long, complex (often insane) discussions on our side of the field. That is until the play came toward us. Then we'd defend our turf by taking the ball away, booting it back up field, and resuming our conversations. This sometimes required taking out the little fast guys in rules acceptable ways. One of those was simply running along either side of them, and when Jesse or I would nod we'd both take one step closer to each other. The term- "squish" comes to mind. Often, when the play was at the opposing goal, we would involve the other team's Forwards in our conversations. While doing this, Jesse and I would sloooowly edge towards that opposing goal, pulling our new friend offsides while keeping him entertained.
Jesse moved out of state for high school. I did retain my ability levels for one more year in Ninth Grade. However, by then many of the quality players were on the High School team and had no time for the town league.
If I knew what I was doing, why didn't I go with them onto the school team? That would be that self esteem issue I mentioned. Our school had a weird jock/ nerd cross over. Most of both soccer teams (male and female) were in my advanced classes in high school and I was friends with many of them. I had known a large portion of them back in middle school as well. I also knew I had decent soccer skills, and knew there were virtually no cuts for middle school junior varsity. The day of the try outs I went into the locker room, saw it filled with many of my friends, and freaked out when my brain started thinking about how good they all were. (I was also quite good, but would my now on full autopilot brain think about that? No it would not.) Looking back on it, I had what was likely a full blown panic attack and left without changing. When I got home, I lied to my parents (Sorry, Mom.) that I couldn't find where the try out was, and told them I didn't want to spend that much time on soccer anyway. After the Ninth Grade year when my brain continued being less than helpful in a variety of ways, I gave up soccer completely along with a lot of other things.
To end on a happier note- There are many moments of pride and happiness etched into my psyche from those years.
One is a rare exception to the "Fullbacks get all the grief" axiom. Normally, while the crowd is concerned when the ball was on our end, the cheers were reserved for Goalie saves. If we kicked the ball down field there were noises of relief, but basically we were just doing what we were expected to, and therefore were undeserving of praise. (In hindsight, this was excellent practice for my current job.) During one game, the Goalie came way out to stop a breakaway and the opposing Forward kicked the ball around him. I was running in to back the Goal Keeper up but had not arrived at that point yet. It was a race between me and the ball. I caught it at the last moment before it reached the goal. Two memories stay with me from that play. (A) The visual image of my foot stepping on the ball juuuuuuuust as it was about to cross the white line as I ran over it and flicked it out of the goal to whoever on my team was behind me. (B) The sound of the roar of the crowd (yes it was a small crowd but it was a roar to me) as I went flying into the goal and landed in triumph, flat on my face.
The other moment is connected to two Yellow Cards that brought me great joy. They are both associated with the same family.
Oddly there was no Yellow Card the time one of the eventual stars of our High School women's team bounced off of me when she was speeding up the Wing in our co-ed league. On the sidelines, her Mother, yelled at my Mom, who she bowled with, "He should have to play on his knees!!!" The fact that her daughter had an illustrious high school soccer career, and then ended up as my daughter's CCD teacher, was her best revenge, I suppose.
Speaking of revenge...
In multiple parts this time.
My second year of playing on "The Strikers" was a bit of a mess on multiple levels. Note- Following the first two years, the teams switched from those kind of names to sponsored local businesses. I remember absolutely none of them for the remainder of the time I played. I only remember making jokes that since the Denville Dairy team and the pizzeria teams got free food sometimes, maybe other teams would get a transmission or something. Make of that what you will.
Back to "The Strikers." A the Father of "Calibos" from our first Dungeons and Dragons group was our coach, and was far from the hyper aggressive, win at all costs, children's coach cliche seen in films. (Honestly, all the coaches I had were decent guys, even the ones who really knew what they were doing.) We didn't win a single game the entire season, but for the most part I had fun.
What kept it at only "the most part" was another player's Father who did follow every cliche there is about terrible sports parenting.
I can still picture him on the sidelines, with his red feathered hair, sunglasses, black jacket, mustache and cigarette. (My brain may be throwing in the cigarette. It fits the personality type and time period but my mind may be have added it for drama.) Both his sons shared his red hair. (Like... genetically. They were not passing around a toupee.) His son a year older than me in the next level up was a very good player. His son a year younger than me was... fast but very young. His Dad thought that young man was a divinely gifted soccer star. He believed the rest of us were in his child's way, and should only be on the field to pass to his son. This, naturally led to the fiery haired lad (through no fault of his own) developing quite an ego and attitude. (these did drop as he matured.) The Dad was not an assistant coach or in any way affiliated with the league or town. And yet he took it upon himself to spend every moment of every game screaming insults at the rest of us about how terrible we were. (These were not limited to our, questionable at that age, soccer playing ability.) In spite of the small size of the team, he only used our numbers. I have his venom dripped "SIX" burned into my memory for the rest of my life.
Fortunately, his behavior was not able to last the whole season. Part way through one game, the referee, who had warned him a couple of times, stopped play, walked to the edge of the field and issued a formal Yellow Card to this loudmouthed spectator, reminding him that anything he said after that would lead to a second card and "ejection" from being able to watch any more games.
More evidence that the adults in the league actually had our best interests in mind back then.
For the second Yellow Card tale in this series, we need to fast forward several years from when I was an "enforced two quarters" bewildered player at whatever position they stuck me at to when I established myself as a full length of the game, skilled and experienced Fullback.
I was defending on the right side. Coming down the Wing towards me, with far more skill and speed than last our paths crossed, was my small, fast, red headed former teammate from when I was called "SIX." (And yes, his now quieter parent was on the sidelines.)
He had sped past the Halfback and was rushing down the field. The Halfback was a bit shorter and thinner than I was, but with an illustrious mane of permed, Eighties, heavy metal hair flowing impressively behind him as he chased after the speedy, red haired Wing.
I have no idea what went through my mind. It definitely wasn't a conscious decision. By that point-during the game I ran on instinct. Therefore, my next move was likely based on knowing to watch his upper torso for directional cues.
Instead of running, or boxing out, or trying to get the ball out of bounds, or any other normal Fullback behavior, I planted my feet. I put my hands on my hips, stood as tall and straight as I could and braced myself inside the penalty box.
The small, fast, wing made no effort to change course, and, while dribbling, ran full speed into me, his red haired face smacking directly into my sternum.
While this staggered him considerably, his day suddenly got much worse as the Metal Head Halfback couldn't slow down either and plowed into the lad from behind at full speed.
I continued to be an immovable object and the member of the opposing team got flattened between us, ending up in a disheveled pile on the floor.
The Yellow Card was only issued to the Halfback... but I feel I earned an assist.
The cycle of revenge could have continued with his penalty kick. However, the impact the small, fast, red headed Wing had just lived through rattled him to a point that he missed the entire goal by twenty feet to the right.
Did I mention I took defending our side seriously?
Final thought- I never really watched the sport I played before, because for most of the time since then, there really wasn't a place to watch it. This is primarily because people in my country of origin (USA) tend to think of soccer as boring. This is while it remains the most popular sport in the entire world. (The EA sports soccer game I am VERY temped to get this year after watching the recent Men's World Cup - and preparing for next year's Women's World Cup- outsells their famous Madden NFL title by more than double world wide.) People in this country calling the sport boring says more about the culture here than the game itself. Yes, there is a low amount of scoring. However, the action is CONSTANT, there is almost no time you can look away from the game without missing something athletic and competitive going on. The pauses are occasional and brief. Even basketball, which is action oriented, has more frequent and longer stops. I believe it has to do with how cultures look at the importance of the journey versus the destination.
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