A Plumpish Goalkeeper and Football Humiliation

The Sheridan Park Soccer League is now well under way and going into yesterday’s game we found ourselves firmly rooted to the bottom of the table. Therefore it was rather ominous that we were facing the mighty T.O.T., who after three games were top of the league and yet to concede a goal. On the other hand, we had netted just once in our first three games and it was a last minute consolation goal resulting from a goalkeeping error. We badly needed a win and it didn’t look like it would come tonight.

The temperature was gradually shifting further and further below 50 and rain was plummeting from the sky with a sense of purpose. In other words, it was perfect football weather. When my roommate and I arrived at the park 20 minutes before kick off there were just four people on the field:  the two officials setting up the goals, a silhouetted man putting his boots on, and the opposition goalkeeper who was engaged in a vigorous warm-up routine. With his portly figure, dark floppy hair, and retro goalkeepers jersey, he resembled one of those journeyman keepers who drift around the lower leagues of English football until well into their forties. This goalie meant business and was completing stretching exercises, throwing the ball up into the air for himself jump up and catch, and kicking the ball a few yards in front of him then diving down onto the soggy turf to clutch it with a complete lack of care for how utterly soaked this was making him. This all seemed rather pointless, as given the anticipated gulf in class between the teams it seemed unlikely that he would touch the ball, let alone be required to throw himself onto the turf.

Their talismanic goalkeeper reminded me of legendary journeyman Neville Southall

 The stage was set for a dramatic upset that would replace Lukas Rosol’s victory over Rafael Nadal in the second round of Wimbledon as the greatest sporting upset of 2012. Except we didn’t get a chance to defy the odds, as we didn’t have enough players show up to field a team. In fact, ten minutes after the scheduled kickoff time we had just five players and had to forfeit the match.

Still eager to play, we challenged the T.O.T. players who had stuck around to a short sided game. The match cancellation had done little to diminish the keenness of their goalie, so we shot into a full goal that we was marshalling, while we defended a tiny goal marked by bags and didn’t play with a goalkeeper. What ensued was quite humiliating. They were remarkably skilled and a well-oiled unit, zipping the ball across to turf to one another with sharp movement and incise passing in a manner that made it incredibly difficult for us to get a touch of the ball. It was how I imagine playing Spain or Barcelona must be like. They beat us easily, although I hadn’t brought my abacus to the field so I was unable to keep score. We did score once thanks to their resolute goalkeeper being caught rather amusingly out of position, but he made amends later on with a spectacular flying save during which he must have been completely parallel to the ground at one point.

They say that football is a tiring game when your team doesn’t have the ball. I left the park exhausted, wet to the bone, and questioning every belief I have ever held about how good at football I am. It was, however, brilliant fun.