Forgetting Your Age

Have you ever forgotten how old you are? This happened to me just last week. I was engaged in a Parent-Child soccer match. We do this every year at the end of the soccer season – our last practice. All the parents play against the kids. It’s a boy team, and they’re all around ten in age.

Obviously, we are not.

The problem with not being ten and playing against ten year olds is that they don’t get tired. They don’t get sore. They can turn very quickly without tearing tendons or ripping muscles. They’re also cocky little turds, who talk smack as they’re coming in. And, I think in general, they can see better in the dark than older humans such as myself.

Ignoring these factors, we engaged the youth with foreknowledge of the fact that the next day there was a high percentage chance we’d all be suffering. Those of us with planning skills probably notified our personal physicians ahead of time. Those of us, like myself, who prefer to harbor the illusion of youth simply jumped in and got busy.

Did I mention they all have shin guards and cleats while we’re equipped only with tennis shoes? Did I mention the field was a muddy mess from a week of rain, and that the game took place at dusk? Oh, but I should definitely mention those things.

In the end, it was a tie. But only because at the end we couldn’t see the balls coming at us. I will admit that at least one of those goals was my fault. I tried to stop it, but the blurry ball that zipped by me could have been in any of four possible locations. I had to guess. It was a gamble that I lost. The score ended three to three.

During the course of the game, I only fell twice, and I only knocked down one of the children a couple of times. Not intentionally of course (in either case). They ran into me and bounced off. Uninjured and undaunted (but perplexed by the impact) the kids got right back up. The subject of the impact was the largest kid on the team, who was used to knocking down opponents as his weight has allowed him this advantage. He was not used to slamming into someone weighing three times his own mass. After the second time trying to knock me down, he gave up.

Covered in mud, I draped towels over my car seat for the ride home. The aftermath didn’t come until the next day and mainly focused in my hamstrings and inner thighs. Fortunately it wasn’t my back. Despite working out frequently, my body was not used to this level of abuse. Obviously I need to join an adult soccer team. The exercise was fantastic and intense. I loved it, despite the pain. And my son praised my efforts, saying I hadn’t done bad for an old guy. (Feh!).

Next year, they’ll be eleven. I’ll need to crank it up a notch. Cleats, night vision goggles, and some decent body armor may give me a chance. I’m also thinking about putting rocks in their shoes.