The Soccer Match

Cedrick

I started kicking a soccer ball about during my lunch break as a way of preserving my sanity. I’d been working as a counselor at a large residential treatment center for “emotionally disturbed” kids for a couple of years when the Executive Director suddenly jumped ship and the Board Chairman asked me to take the helm for a while (his metaphor and his only coherent instruction). Once anointed, I spent most of my time cooped up in the administration building reviewing budgets, evaluating programs and deflecting the incessant demands of those who believed it was now my job to protect their right to life, liberty and happiness.

Chasing a soccer ball around a deserted field with only the wind in my face and the ground firmly beneath my feet, I could briefly reclaim the freedom that my new powers had taken away. But, at the heart of my discontent, was a numbing sense of aloneness.

Over the first few weeks, I tried to stay in touch with my familiar world by wandering through the residential units in the evening, but the ubiquitous mantle of authority cannot be conveniently donned and discarded at the whim of the wearer. My very presence was enough to stem the flow of life I so sorely missed and, despite all my efforts, my encounters with residents and ex-colleagues grew increasingly distant and strategic. It was as if everyone wanted to either look good or get something. In their eyes, it seemed, I was no longer who I used to be.

Convinced that I would never be accepted back into the fold, I decided to use my power on my own behalf. With little regard for existing programs and routines, I announced that there would be noon hour soccer on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for male residents considered to be ambulatory (females just didn’t play soccer in those days). At my direction, it was officially entered in the master schedule as “supervised outdoor recreation” (a term generally used to describe the popular diversion of standing around, rolling smokes and plotting revenge). To ensure that my former colleagues wouldn’t show up to put a damper on things, I identified myself as the sole program leader.

Only one kid actually signed up but, through the blatant abuse of my position, I was able to drag fourteen residents out for the first session. I use the term “drag” as a verb (to coerce) but, to them, it was a noun (a pain in the ass). Corralled on the weed-infested field, with traffic cones substituting for goal posts, they shuffled around aimlessly taking a perfunctory kick at the ball only if it happened to roll in their direction. My attempts to spur them on with shouts of “Good pass, Ralph” or “Great tackle, Frank” were met with blank indifference so I took whatever pleasure I could in beating them to the ball, dribbling around them, knocking them over with perfectly legal shoulder charges and scoring at will. For dramatic effect, I celebrated each goal by throwing my arms in the air while simulating the roar of an imaginary crowd with an ingenious piece of ventriloquism.

After only one week, the sentiment that midday soccer was something to be avoided at all costs became firmly entrenched within the resident sub-culture. With chores, confinements, psychotic episodes, seizures, amnesia, physical ailments, court appearances and even community service as possible options, the numbers began to dwindle to the point where even a five-a-side “competition” required intensive dragging. And so it would have remained had a court order not placed Tommy Watts in our care.

Noble pursuits
Watts had spent the first fourteen years of his life in Sheffield, England, where he distinguished himself in such noble pursuits as robbery, aggravated assault, gang warfare and “soccer. When the family moved to Canada, his parents insisted that he change his ways and he obliged by giving up soccer. The rules dictated that all new admissions must be under constant supervision for the first two weeks for assessment purposes so he was personally escorted to the playing field by the Acting Executive Director.

I did everything possible to lure Watts into showing his stuff but, being a seasoned trouper, he opted for the group norm and ambled around with the others.

As the hapless goalie trudged off to retrieve the ball for the eighth time I went into to my self-congratulatory routine, but before the crowd had time to roar the lights went out. According to those who witnessed the event, Watts had sprung up from the ground, pursued me with lightening speed and, with the agility of a panther, launched himself head-first into the middle of my back.
On the second day of his sentence for assaulting a member of staff, I paid a visit to Watts and made a fateful deal. All would be forgiven if he would assist me in encouraging the others to acquire some appreciation for the game we both loved.

The impact of this agreement was immediate. The following day, he unleashed his dormant talents, finishing up with the same number of goals as myself (6 each in a 6-6 tie). But, more importantly, he managed to spark some life in the others. Not that they raised their standard of play, they simply moved a little faster and complained with more intensity. It was hardly soccer but, at least, I was no longer completely alone out there.

Then I made the mistake of lacing my newfound enthusiasm with alcohol. I was sharing a bottle of Glenfiddich with a friend who taught English at Caldwell High. By his own admission, Phil was something of a snob who believed the kids I worked with were a lost cause. When I told him about this young fellow who, with support and encouragement, might have been an international soccer star, he dismissed the whole idea as a romantic fantasy. As he rambled on about how the senior team at Caldwell had made it to the Provincial finals and were odds-on favorites to win the championship, my mind slipped easily from fantasy into ambition.

I’ve always been a sucker for stories and movies in which the deprived and downtrodden rise up to defeat the privileged and elite in some form of dramatic showdown. Sure it’s a worn out clich”, but idealism blended with scotch can dismantle any version of reality. So, by the time we parted, a deal had been struck and money was on the table. A team from my “institution” would play a third-string outfit from Caldwell on Saturday, June 6th, a mere three weeks away. Since their first team would be out of town for the Provincial finals, the Caldwell facilities would be available and, there would be nobody around to witness our ill-begotten contest.

In the sober light of day I found myself agreeing with Tommy Watts. Why would anybody want to “take a band of club-footed pillocks to be slaughtered by a bunch of wankers from some snot-nosed high school?” But there could be no backing down and without Watts to lead the troops the prospects were even more dismal. “Sport is ninety per cent emotion,” I told him. “We’ll focus on teaching the basics and I'll get a stack of motivation movies, “Rocky,” “Karate Kid”, “The Longest Yard” and stuff like that. We’ll practise every day right after school and pick the best players we have.” There was no doubt in my mind that, had I made the slightest shift from totalitarianism to democracy, Watts would have told me where to shove the whole idea. But this was no time for egalitarian gestures.

In the days that followed I took some solace in knowing that the game itself could not be worse than the nightmare of the preparations, the details of which I choose to omit here. Suffice it to say that it took all my power and creativity to keep things from falling apart. In the final week we began making our selections. Since skill was not an issue, we decided upon a strategy of confusion and intimidation. Tommy Watts and Jock Henderson (an illegal import from a community team) would be the two strikers, while Mad Dog Harris, Dumpster Delany, Curly Maccleswaith, Flasher Southerington and Bomber Brumholdstein would be there to strike fear in the hearts of the enemy. Bellamy would be in goal and the rest would be “rovers” with no other purpose than to get in the way as much as possible. Given our resources, it was best we could do.

The day
June 6th was a perfect day for soccer “sunny with a light breeze to stir the spirits. But as our bus trundled across the parking lot and came to a stop beside the Caldwell playing field, my own spirit froze. Contrary to all expectations, the pitch was lined with Caldwell supporters. It was Phil’s doing for sure. “Hey look at all those chicks,” screamed Harris, banging on the window and making obscene gestures with his tongue. “And look at the three old farts in black shorts,” Maccleswaith shouted. “Is that their team?” “Those are the officials you asshole,” sneered Henderson. In the seat next to me, Watts sat with his head bowed. “Oh shit,” he mumbled. “Oh shit.”

Being the team manager, I rose to deliver a rousing sermon on my belief in them as individuals and as a team. “Remember Rocky, “I said. “Remember the Karate Kid and remember Burt Reynolds.” “Remember the fucking Alamo,” added Watts, his head now between his knees.
–Here they come,” yelled Maccleswaith, peering through the window as a line of immaculately outfitted young athletes trotted by the bus and onto the field. “Jesus, what a bunch of fudge packers.” “That’s enough,” I hollered. “Remember, this is an official program and the regular rules apply.”

“Too much to remember,” Watts muttered. “Too much to remember.”

Once on the field, Watts and Henderson did their best to get the others positioned in a way that approximated a soccer line up but it was frustrating work. Then I noticed Southerington standing at the far side of the field with his back toward the playing area and his shorts suspended suspiciously low across his buttocks. Three young girls were gazing at the frontal view in disbelief. I would have intervened had the referee not blown his whistle to start the game and since the incident was not picked up by either of the other officials, I decided to consider the consequences later.

It was only a matter of minutes before Caldwell scored the first goal. Three nifty runs, two precise passes and their golden haired striker hammered the ball into the back of our net. “Nice save Bellamy,” shouted Brumholstein who had casually watched the whole event from only a few feet away. Knowing that Bellamy had a fragile sense of esteem and was inclined to overreact to criticism, I worried about how he might be feeling, but this was soccer, not group therapy.

From the ensuing kick-off, Henderson and Watts made a promising incursion into Caldwell territory but it was snuffed out when the referee blew his whistle for no apparent reason. He then turned away from the play and began to march toward our goal where Bellamy was attempting a hand-over-hand traverse along the crossbar, cheered on by two spotty-faced youths of obscure origin and affiliation. The referee paused outside the penalty area and pointed at the figure now suspended midway between the goal posts. “you’re off,” he bellowed, waving his hand toward nothing in particular. Bellamy continued to hold his precarious position as Henderson arrived on the scene. “What’s he been sent off for,” he demanded to know. “Aping around,” announced the official. “There’s no such fucking rule as “aping around–,” Henderson protested. “There is now, and I’m giving you a yellow card for swearing at an official.” “But we can’t play without a goalie.” “That’s your problem,” declared the referee trotting back up field and pointing to the spot from which Caldwell should take their free kick.

There was a short delay while I talked Bellamy down from his work on the high bar and Watts gave one of the rovers a crash course on the basics of goal keeping.

Ten men
There’s an old soccer saying about how, sometimes, ten men can play better than eleven, but two against eleven are odds that even Walt Disney would balk at. To their credit, Watts and Henderson remained true to the cause, showing flashes of brilliance that even the partisan crowd was compelled to acknowledge. But when Henderson was sent off for a questionable tackle on the golden haired striker, the last vestiges of fantasy died. Just before half-time I was mortified by the sight of Harris (–Mad Dog” they called him) profusely apologizing to a Caldwell defender who had made the mistake of running into him. A psychopath indeed. Who are these kids that society deems to be a danger to self and others? When the half-time whistle blew, Caldwell had scored five “unanswered” goals. It could easily have been ten.

After delivering a brief monologue on winning as a state of mind I left Watts to handle the fall out. My sights were set on Phil, who could be seen chatting with the Caldwell players at the other end of the pitch. He greeted me warmly but I was not about to be mollified. “Third-string players and no spectators eh? So what happened to our agreement Phil old pal?” Sensing my intention to seek a duel at dawn or a punch-up after the game, he made no attempt to disguise his complicity. “Yea, I made a mistake. The Provincial finals are next week and the coach pressured me into using a couple of first stringers to assess their fitness. The crowd came out to see them.” Even this was bullshit but it was enough for me to state my case. “Then the deal’s off, “I proclaimed, “and, just to make your day, I’m sending my team out in the second half with instructions to break as many bones as possible, starting with that blond-haired prima-donna with the silk shorts.” His smile faded and his expression became serious. “Okay, this isn’t what we planned, so let’s forget about the score. If you get one goal in the second half, you win “double or nothing, what do you say?” He held out his hand.

The script was no longer the stuff of Hollywood. There would be no dramatic transformation, no divine intervention, no magical substance slipped into water bottles and no sudden arrival of a Brazilian international admitted to the closed unit ten minutes after the rest of us left for the game. But miracles are always possible if you lower your expectations and Watts had already come close on two or three occasions. I gave Phil the stare of defiance and shook his clammy hand.

I arrived back just in time to grab Watts as his teammates were traipsing back onto the pitch. “Forget about the others,” I told him. “Just get out there and score a goal “one bloody goal, that’s all I ask. Remember the Alamo.” He gave me a “you mean nothing to me” look. “And remember me to your mother,” he said before slouching off to join the others. So much for emotional intensity.

The second half was much like the first, with the Caldwell players playing to the gallery and scoring whenever the urge took them. Without Henderson to work with, Watts sank into the inertia of his teammates and, by three-quarter time, the spectators began to lose interest and drift away.

Then the miracle happened, just as the old story-line predicts. Watts had the ball just inside our half of the field and was about to pass it to a sleeping Harris when the blonde bombshell, who was now in the habit or running all over the place, charged him shoulder-to-shoulder and sped off with the ball. Just as he had in our first kick-about session, Watts sprang up from the ground and tore off in pursuit. He caught up with the silken striker just outside the penalty area, deftly took the ball off his feet, circled around him and set off on a dazzling run up-field reminiscent of George Best in his heyday with Manchester United. He was a man possessed. By the time he was within shooting range, he had out-paced and out-maneuvered almost every player in the Caldwell team.

The few remaining spectators, stunned by this scintillating display of talent began to cheer wildly as our star striker moved in on the last Caldwell defender and angled himself for his shot.

But, even it its final stretches, the course of destiny is seldom linear. As Watts sped by, the desperate defender stuck out a leg and sent him sprawling headlong into the goal mouth where he hit the goalie with a chilling crunch. Even the partisan spectators were appalled by the travesty and the cry of “Penalty!” was unanimous. The referee, still out of breath from trying to keep up with play, went over to the defender and dispatched him from the game. He then pointed to the spot to indicate that it was, indeed, a penalty kick.

Of course I would have preferred to win in classical style but a goal is a goal and I knew Watts would have no trouble consummating his objective from the penalty spot. But the irrepressible Tommy Watts, my hero and saviour, was still rolling around between the goal posts clasping his right ankle and moaning obscenities. I ran onto the pitch to join the referee who was crouching over the body and inspecting the injury. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said, “just a bad sprain.” The diagnosis was intended to be assuring but, either way, the black clouds of uncertainty were hovering again. As I watched Watts leaving the field suspended between Bumholdstein and The Dumpster, it was clear that there would be one more roll of the dice before the agony was over.
I called upon Southerington to take the penalty, instructing him to aim to the left as this seemed to be the keeper’s weaker side. There was no time for any more since the referee was already blasting impatiently on his whistle for the game to recommence. It wasn’t that Southerington had proven himself to be an effective striker of the ball but he was the one less likely to feel the pressure (or feel anything else for that matter). Taking a ridiculously long run up, he swung wildly at the ball and drilled his foot into ground. The ball shot off his ankle to the right “so far to the right that almost struck the corner flag. “Fucking brilliant,” shouted Harris. I couldn’t have agreed more.

* * *

In the movie version, a sudden gust of wind turns Southerington's shot 47 degrees, floating the ball over the goalkeeper’s head just as the final whistle blows, sending the audience home with a warm sense of something or other. But in the real life version there was none of this. In fact, those of us condemned to see it through had to endure another sixteen minutes in which Caldwell slotted in four more goals “just for the sheer hell of it.

There is no moral to this story “or none intended. On the way home Harris continued to make lewd comments about the chicks on the sidelines, Bumholdstein berated Maccleswaith for not “slugging that blonde prick” when he had the chance and Southerington talked about how he should probably have aimed to the left. Altogether, they were a pretty happy bunch. Only Watts, who was still in considerable pain, and Henderson who cursed his decision to participate in the “fiasco”, seemed the least bit down. And with the emotions of battle already subsided, I relaxed into my seat and dreamt of the day when I could have my old job back.

Cedrick is a columnist with Relational Child and Youth Care Practice. This feature: Cedrick (2003) The Magic of Tommy Watts, Relational Child and Youth Care Practice, 163), 85-89.