At nine years old, I played YMCA rec soccer. Our team was the Badgers.
I don’t remember our record or whether we had any actual understanding of the rules beyond “Play until the whistle!” and “No picking grass while the game is playing.” But I do remember the Badgers were totally awesome.
Years later, as a mostly grown adult in Atlanta, I wanted to bring that same greatness back. I had just scored five goals in a soccer game at Silverbacks Park, which isn’t really important to this story, but I thought it needed to be mentioned. And, after my outstanding performance, I went straight to register a new coed team named the Badgers.
The name was both a tribute to the old YMCA club and recognition of the stubbornness of adult men who refuse to give up their hobbies. Kevin, Propst, Patrick, and I were all original Badgers — and we were back.
Soccer After Dark
Some people spend their 20s building careers, finding themselves, or learning to cook sourdough. I spent mine sprinting around a soccer field at 11 p.m. in the rain, trying to recreate the athletic glory of a third grader while Kevin and Patrick yelled helpful strategic advice like:
“You idiot!”
And:
“What the hell are you doing?”
And occasionally:
“Do you need to take a sub?”
The answer was usually yes.
There is a specific kind of madness required to play two soccer games on a weeknight when the second one doesn’t end until midnight. It is the kind of decision that begins with, “This will be fun,” and ends with you limping to your car, wondering how good the CNN health benefits are.
One night I recall sprinting after a ball when two opponents hit me from either side, launching me briefly into the air. For a beautiful moment, I was weightless. A muddy, majestic gazelle.
Then I hit the ground.
Hard.
I lay there in agony, unintentionally impersonating a European soccer player — because I was actually hurt and not just trying to draw a yellow card.
Eventually I hobbled off the field, covered in mud and self-pity, unable to return for the second half.
A normal person would have gone home, showered, iced the injury, and reassessed his priorities.
I stopped by Limerick Junction for drinks.
Susan was working that night.
Susan Nights at Limerick Junction
On Susan nights Kevin would be there. Charles might show up. Hanah, Claire, Faris, Chad, Courtney, Katie, Jimmy, Richard, Fiona, Matt, Justin, Rachel, J.O., and whoever else was orbiting the WesBlog Cinematic Universe could appear at any moment.
We all went to Limerick on Susan nights. None of us knew Susan personally, though I think J.O. may have unsuccessfully tried to ask her out once. But Susan recognized our disheveled group for the opportunity we provided.
“I’ll bring you guys free drinks if you leave a big tip,” Susan proposed one night.
Susan would keep the pitchers coming with the professionalism of someone who knew we didn’t care what we drank as long as she conveniently forgot to add it to our bill. We built a symbiotic relationship like Nemo and his sea anemone.
Some nights 15 of us might knock back two dozen pitchers of Stella and nearly as many shots of Jameson. Our bill never hit three figures. I didn’t understand how Susan wasn’t fired, but we showed our appreciation for her open hatred of Limerick Junction, her boss, and her job with a $300 tip.
Limerick Junction on Susan night had a way of turning “I’ll just have one drink” into “Why am I singing along to every Irish folk song with Chris Ricker?”
Chris Ricker
Chris Ricker was an interesting man. A reluctant musician who always repeated the same songs, he would sit up on stage with a guitar by himself on the slowest nights.
Chris both loved that our boisterous group filled the bar on Wednesdays — most Susan nights we moved every available table into a massive L shape that spanned the entire room — and hated us for caring more about socializing than his Irish ballads.
However, by the end of the night we always made our peace and joined Chris to joyously sing about Irish rovers, women in lavatories, and whiskey in jar-Os.
Somehow, after nights like this, I would still make it to work early the next morning. I had a system where the worse I felt, the better I dressed. I may have felt like death, but I would make it to CNN at 6:30 a.m. for my shift in a three-piece suit.
In fact, I almost never took a day off. CNN didn’t have a normal holiday schedule. You were expected to work every day of the year — even Christmas and New Year’s — unless you took one of your 28 allocated PTO days. Those days didn’t roll over, and they didn’t pay out. Unused days disappeared on January 1. Over the years, I lost more holidays than a divorced dad with three custody calendars.
But that was my rhythm.
Work.
Soccer.
Injury.
Bar.
Repeat.
Doctors Don’t Know Anything
At one point, after laser eye surgery, my doctor told me not to do any physical activity for three to five days. This was apparently because he did not understand my recreational soccer team needed me.
This put me in a difficult situation.
On the one hand, medical advice and maintaining my ability to see.
On the other hand, I had an important meaningless soccer game to play.
So I shrugged and pulled on my soccer gear.
I scored two goals that night while both eyes remained securely inside my skull.
Doctors don’t know anything.
The Silverbacks Years
The Badgers, later renamed Stop, Drop, N’ Roll, were never just about soccer, even though we were great at it. We finished one Silverbacks Park season 7-1-1 and celebrated our first-place finish with a team pizza party, awards presentation courtesy of Justin and Rachel, and karaoke dance-off at my house.
That is how adults should celebrate all championships, by the way.
Soccer played a big part in my 20s. Every bruise deserved documentation. Every win deserved celebration. Every late-night game deserved a bar afterward. Every bad decision deserved a blog post.
My Body Has Become a HOA
Now I’m 45 — actually, scratch that. I just Googled “how old is someone born June 1981” and learned I am 44 — and Silverbacks Park is no longer part of my weekly life.
There are no Thursday night 11 p.m. kickoffs waiting for me. No one is texting me to bring an extra jersey. No one is asking if I can sub for a second game even though we both know I barely survived the first.
Sometimes I miss being exhausted, muddy, slightly injured, and still convinced that going to Limerick is a good call. But I am also honest enough to admit that if someone asked me to play a late-night game now, I would come up with an excuse quicker than when a friend asks me to help them move.
My body has become a homeowners association. It has rules now. Athletic activity must be submitted in writing 30 days in advance.
Folding-Chair Dad
These days, soccer has returned to my life in a different form. I take my 12-year-old son, Parker, to his games.
Full-circle moment: I started as a U9 Badger, tried to resurrect the Badgers as a 20-something idiot with a drinking blog, and now I am a folding-chair dad watching my son play with real uniforms, real coaching, and real parents who can be total dicks.
These 45-year-old Karens, with their travel wagons and unusually large calf muscles, have never played a day of soccer in their lives but scream instructions at their children with the intensity of a Premier League manager trying to avoid relegation.
I don’t have their bloodlust.
Maybe I have gone soft.
I sit quietly in my lawn chair and watch Parker play.
I watch him run. I watch him make mistakes. (He once got handballs in two straight games — and he was playing keeper.) I watch him shake off the bad plays and celebrate the goals. I watch him look over occasionally, not because he needs me to scream at him, but because he wants to know I saw.
I see the kid I was on the YMCA Badgers and hope that he keeps up with soccer long enough to enjoy it with his adult friends. I don’t need him to score five goals in a single game and resurrect the Badgers for me, although I will lobby heavily for that team name if he ever gets to choose.
I’m fine with him having his version of it all.
The team.
The friends.
The mud.
Maybe fewer injuries and late nights, but plenty of heroic victories and narrow losses.
Perhaps years from now, his dentist will tell him to take it easy after getting his wisdom teeth removed, and he’ll remember what his dad thinks about medical advice: ignore it completely and play the most amazing game of your life.
But if he doesn’t, I hope he at least gets a good blog post out of it.