She ran through us like a... Unicorn...

I had a strange day today. For starters, I have had three hours of sleep in the last 37, and am feeling fine. Could I non-consciously be shifting to a polyphasic sleep schedule? Who knows.

Team G had a game last night, followed by a good old-fashioned meal, after which Derek and I hung out and spoke of the game and Thierry Henry's handball. I beat Derek to his house, having to drop of Steve and Carissa, so I decided to catch a few z's in my car, which recently had his 250-thousandth kilometerday, on which I bought him (Charlie, the car) an X-treme car wash.

Derek woke me in in the most horrifying way I've ever experienced; he shook the car. What must have been one second of confusion felt much longer than that, and I felt as though I had just driven my car into a river, with Steve and Carissa inside. What happened next is beyond me, but I'm pretty sure I tried to say sorry to Steve and Carissa for killing them, before flinging various items around my car so violently I messed up my rear-view mirror in the process.

All the while, Derek was laughing hysterically outside of the car while I panicked for my life, at two in the morning, on his driveway. What else could friends possibly be for?

I'm glad it happened though, for I think I've learned a few things from the experience:

• I've learned that it's mighty scary.
• I've learned the importance of not driving your car into a river.
• I've experienced it, so the next time it happens I should be able to cope with it better. That, or I'll just curl up into a ball and whimper if it ever happens again.

So after Derek and I went over the game, I left for home, where a pleasant surprise awaited me; I had an envelope from my university containing a test I had taken a few weeks prior on my desk. I opened it up, and it turns out I aced it. As in, actually, 100% aced it. I'm not sure how I did that, I had an hour and a half of sleep, and I rushed through all of the online lectures while playing video games.

The game Derek and I went over was a rough one with a ref that (Resa and I both believe) had a grudge on our team, and in particular me, for fouling him pretty badly a couple weeks back. I was fouled for card-able offenses at least 4 times, none of them resulting in cards. I didn't get injured, but here's a short run down of some of the more marquee moments I was fouled in.

First, there's my first few touches of the ball. I had two defenders in front of me, so I scooped it lightly between them and then went off the the races. I ran around the first guy's outstretched leg, then got an absolute haymaker of a toe-punt to the shin.

Second, I went up to win a header, and won it. In fact, I didn't even touch the guy, but when I came down I was running alongside him. I'm not sure why, but he decided this an excellent time to backhand me in the chest somewhat lightly. I told him in a nutshell that that's not how you play football, and he responded by emphatically ("Bang!") dispossessing me a few minutes later, when I had received a bad pass. I showed the idiot what was up, and as he ran down the sidelines once, I nudged him and knocked the ball away pretty well.

Third, fourth, fifth, and probably a few more are quite similar in nature; I had ran by some defender(s) and I was subsequently fouled pretty much every time.

With what could've been my Waterloo had I not made a very important decision earlier that day*, I was holding the ball up in the corner against two players. One girl decided to try and neuter me. My legs were spread, so this wench decided to hoof me as hard as she could in the slats. Oddly enough, the amoebic nature of my junk decided to render the entirety of this deathblow useless, but I was still a little deranged from the attempt. At this point I was done with the terrible officiating, so I quite literally thrust my ass out to push this girl away, and I knocked the behemoth clean over. The other guy that I had mentioned was covering me tried to pin me in the corner by closing me down was easily dangled, and he ended up falling over as I went backwards up our sideline slightly. I cut in with the ball on my right foot, and attracted yet another defender, who I handled with speed in a short couple of steps. His attempt to block the shot that housed the anger of three-hundred legions of ballistic† vikings was futile, and he fell over in the process, as well. The shot screamed, no, roared towards the near post, and sent their goalie the entirely wrong way, effectively leaving him grounded as well.

I turned around, and walked off the field in a quiet state, if I remember correctly. I had, in one way or another, bested four of six of their entire team in a few short seconds, but at that moment, it didn't seem like it. Until Resa told me at dinner, I had no idea that there were three of them, not including the goalie, still on the ground as I walked back to the bench.

It's strange, sometimes in games I just turn completely emotionless, and don't even celebrate goals I score. What I'm about to say definitely would warrant somebody to say "Stop being such a bloody moron", but, in complete honesty, it seems like I actually go into a strange trance-like state for a short while. Today was a fine example, but another I can refer to was when I scored the goal that put us into the finals of our title-winning year; I turned around and began walking calmly to centre, and about ten seconds later the realization hit me that I had just done what I did, and I jumped into the air throwing a triumphant fist pump to the heavens. I think I screamed a little too, and ran out really fast with, well, a look quite similar to what I would perceive a combination of every expression in the following picture.

And yes, my hands were posed in the same way. However, imagine all of that, while running around wildly.

Apparently, good things happen in the trance, and so I need to figure out how to force it upon myself as opposed to waiting to have it thrust onto me by some strange, unpredictable circumstance. I've noticed it occurs when I'm extremely focused or extremely driven, the first being an example of the playoff goal instance, and the second being an example of how I wanted to just rip the opposition apart myself. Insult me if you will, but I'm genuinely convinced that this isn't some strange notion I get about myself because I'm as vain as they come.

Over dinner, we discussed what it looked like from the bench when the girl tried to put me in a world of pain, and the common consensus was that the following picture fit the bill quite nicely. In fact, the event reminded Jay of this picture.

Sans screaming and with more blind determination, of course. And yes, I actually did see her knee on the wrong side of my body.

In a game that should have resulted in a drubbing in our favor, we won 4-1, and I believe that is largely due to the officiating. I assisted one of the other goals when I directed a header to a team mate off a clearance, and created a double-"Ohhh" moment from our bench when I played a fantastic no-look one-two with Shaun which resulted in volleys that were just shy for both of us.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how absolutely hilarious it was that I had no emotional or physical component to go along with being kicked in the danger zone, and that it had done so much as only justify me to ass-check that girl.

There is no question in my mind, I must have seemed like a psycho, a robot, or a psychotic robot.

* - I had no clean compression shorts, so I was going to purchase some that day. I distinctly remember telling Steve that if I were to forget to buy a pair, I'd play commando. I did forget, and I did play commando. I am incredibly thankful for it; had I not, my package would have likely been held in place by the shorts, and I would probably be hospitalized right now while some unfortunate doctor would be searching my intestines for one of my testicles, and the field of the coverall for the other.

† - Pun alert. The team we played was Ballistic. I suppose "really mean" would fit in there as well, but that's not the team we faced.

Alright, Ronaldo.

Good old two-post Thursdays.

I really think that the first post today will be a "classic" of this blog, if this blog were to ever garner the recognition of more than one fan. Thanks Derek.

Not a few hours ago, Team G played at the Coverall. Turns out any rivals we had were moved up in the divisional hierarchy, as well as two of the three guys who really have a chance to catch me in the top scorer's list. The other is Jeff, on my own team, and he's at six. I am confident, but you really wouldn't believe this guy. He's impossible to describe as a person or football player without the words "hard shot", "spastic", and "lucky", or any of their synonyms.

Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy, except for when he used Dan's hand to smack me in the face.

But really, I'm not sure how he does it. Like a few of our team mates, he takes shots from impossible angles, and he often runs down the boards right into people. Somehow, the ball and him get by, ad he keeps going. This fellow has absolutely no technique, other than the variety required for ludicrously hard shots, nor does he have any position sense. He's a cherry-picking midfielder, if you will, but he somehow gets back to defend. I don't play on the same line as him often (both of us being midfielders in a 2-1-2 formation), but from my understanding, people that play with him just let him do his thing, whatever it may be.

I recall the first time I saw him play, he wanted to use a move to pass a defender, so he put his hands out as though he were pushing an enormous stone that was quite close to him, and moved his hands up and down in small, quick movements, while stepping quite rapidly, all the while, going at a quick speed down the field with the ball somewhat near his feet. If I recall correctly, the result was him flying into the boards and falling over due to nobody's fault but his own. Another half decent analogy for the maneuver would be giving a large person a brisk Eastern-European-style massage, while preforming some sort of sacred ceremonial dance taken from the finest medicine men of the Western Aboriginals.

To this day, I've never seen him attempt a step-over, lower a shoulder (for faking purposes), or (god forbid) try his luck with a roulette, but somehow, he doesn't need them. He's a fast kid with a great work rate, and the way he runs down the field screams "Watch out, seriously, I'll hurt the both of us."

To this day, he denies ever flailing his arms while running, but everybody else (including me) attests to it. I must say, I do a pretty good impression of it, myself.

Reading this, you may think to yourself, "This kid's a threat to your top-scoring superiority?" Yes, he is. Unless, of course, his uncontrollable body ends up breaking his foot again by missing one of his howitzer-esque shots and kicking the ground. His blessing was a curse in that instance.

Today, the team we played really didn't put up a fight. We won 9-2, or something like that, and I scored on three volleys with my right foot. I should've had more, but I had a bit of an off day. Today was one of those games where your opponents don't close you down, they didn't block your shots, and they didn't really run much. Maybe I should find some stiffer competition, because I think I played down a slight bit. While I was juggling at half, their goalie kept calling me Ronaldo (at least three or four times). I'm not sure if he was heckling me or whatever, but I'll take it all as a compliment.

Jeff scored three as well. The first was a free kick he shot the the bottom-center of the net, the next was a hard shot from an impossible angle, and then the last was a hard shot after running through (literally, they line up on the boards and he just squeezes by) two or three players, then the goalie.

That being said, I'm still above him by five, four games in.

* - Denotes that they are no longer in this league. FC Inter was moved up, and Colin was moved up to the C team.

This is most definitely going to go ass-up on me, as I asked the league manager if there'll be trophies for the top scorers. He said no, but I arranged with him to pay for my own trophy. Karma is a cruel mistress, though, so I'm on the lookout.

I don't think I've ever been so hungry for anything though, really. Except natural requirements, such as sleep, or food. Look at the last few times of posts, my slumber schedule is truly "whack". Some might even say I have DSPS, and I'll give you a hint; It's not Defense Support Program Satellite.

Though I'm sure I wouldn't having mind that.

I am working on getting out of this (commonly occurring) nocturnal phase. Just yesterday, I went to my first morning class in weeks, right about at the time I'd be a few hours into my sleep. On my way to school, I saw two sheep just hanging out at the side of the road, and began to laugh for no good reason. Do you get the irony that I just now got myself? If not, give it a bit of thought first, please.† After my morning courses, I went home and slept for four and a half hours, then went to work, then the game. I should be tired, having four-and-a-half hours of sleep in the last thirty-nine. However, I'm not all that sleepy, so I'll leave you with a decent story.

Today, at work, an extraordinarily beautiful girl came in with a team, and as I set up the net, began to talk to me. I had my trusty Wolverine Badminton shirt on, so she asked if I came from West Kildonan Collegiate, the school of the Wolverines. I said yeah, and we spoke about graduating classes. She graduated three years before me (2003), and we joked around and spoke about about other things for a while. Things were going truly well. When we got to the names part, I she turned out to be a Michelle. Michelle looked somewhat familiar, but I had assumed that was because she went to my school at the same time I did. As it turns out, she was a good friend of my older sister's, and I knew this because of her last name.

Immediately, any chances to treat this fine lady to a wonderful night out went down the drain, and you may be asking why. Well, back when my sister hung out with her pals at my house, there was one instance where they were watching some strange dance-music television show where people just clubbed it up and were videotaped. I was offered five dollars by one of my sister's other pals to imitate how the dancers danced on the television.

Being around 10-12 years old, I gladly accepted. Five chocolate bars was a veritable gold mine for a chocolate-craving, hyperactive banshee, you know. I still don't regret it.

I really have to move these two-post days to Tuesday.

† - I should've been counting sheep as I was counting sheep.

The Dental Episode

I suppose, with yesterday and today's games, I should do yesterday's first.

On Tuesday, I played three of the four games at work. All three were largely uneventful, and the last was one I ought to have been reffing anyway.

When I say largely uneventful, aside from some assists and such, there was one occurrence. I chipped a tooth.

Many might think, "Oh, well, it's small, so whatever."

Yes and no.

Yes, in the sense that it can be fixed. Also yes, in the sense that it can be fixed.

No, in the sense that I hate having "permanent fixes" in my mouth. It just doesn't feel like the real thing. I'm not sure why, but I've always been a purist in those regards. If you know me well, you may know that I'm not a fan of tattoos, piercings, et cetera. I feel like some old grandpa at times with my beliefs, but I suppose there's a decent reason. My feelings used to be way stronger, but in recent months they've abated. Maybe I just don't care as much anymore.

Anyways...

I bloody well hate damaging my teeth, but I suppose I cut a pretty understanding character when I just said "Ow" then spit out a chunk of tooth. A small one, at that, but nevertheless, a part of my tooth. I'll go to the dentist's to cap it up tomorrow, or something, but I'll most likely postpone it weeks.

Perhaps not though, I am a pretty vain person, and I do recognize that the last time I was at the dentist's office, I was fully anesthetized, and decided that after my wisdom teeth were removed, I could walk out of the office without help from the nurse. And that I could drive.

Thankfully, my dad was there, and didn't let me drive.

Anyways...

My dental agenda is to get everything fixed up after my soccer "career" is done. Braces, filings, hopefully no fillings, and all that stuff. Here is a fun collection of dental Greg facts for you:

• I had a small cover-like-object placed over a front tooth as a child because of some discoloration.
• The only other time I've had chipped teeth was the result of trying to backflip off a tube that was being pulled by a boat going a handful of kilometers an hour. I chipped both front teeth (central incisors).
• On one of my lateral incisors, I have what looks like a small "L" that might also be a chip. It's strange, because it's on the face, not a corner. I was always suspicious of my sister carving it on me when I was younger, as her name starts with "L"; Lindsey.
• I required four days of healing and no pain killers while healing from my wisdom teeth surgery. The two more annoying parts of the procedure were that I got rice stuck in the gaps left behind the day after, and that I coughed up a piece of bloody gauze a couple days after that. I do realize, I had it good compared to many who get their wisdom teeth removed.
  

Anyways...

The damage came from a stray ball kicked by one of those girls who just lashes at the ball with her arms pressed against her chest in the fashion that her softly closed hands are inches from a chin home to a quivering look of worry. Other damage included a bit tongue, a sprained jaw, and my ego.

Figure that one out.

In fact, figure out everything I just posted.

In other news, the rest of the soccer that night was pretty dull, aside from teams bothering me to see the chipped tooth which I was ashamed to show them, and a pretty rough game at the end of the night. All three teams I played on lost. Do I ever hate small nets.

Ha ha you just got judged by a girl with shorts cut to her labia.

Sunday's Chillies game was against a tough team, against at least one player that I've faced before. He's pretty good, and definitely used to be better than me, but I really think that I've progressed to the point of being a better player than him. That being said, we vary in many attributes, and he's more of a striker than I am (better finishing, harder shot), but my dribbling is better, my left foot's better, and I can contain him while playing defense, while he can't contain me.

That being said, he scored the first goal for the opposition as I (sort of) marked him, because I was pulled off my marker because a teammate got dangled. I ran at the guy who got by, and he had a shot, but he passed it.

I assisted one of our goals when I sprinted up with the ball with one man to beat, but beyond that, I had no other direct contributions. I missed two free kicks fairly badly, too.

However, I was crowned king of the dangles by rainbowing some guy pretty badly. I'd have had a good shot on goal had I not been fouled.

Mine was better. Seriously.

But I bloody well rainbowed a guy. It was the best thing I have ever done in my entire life. It was somewhat spur of the moment, too. I thought to myself quickly "how should I creatively beat this guy?", and the rainbow was my first though. The conditions were perfect; he was placed the ideal distance from me, he was never going to expect it, and he wasn't closing me down. to pull it out, and so I took a small touch, and executed it perfectly. I flicked it over my left shoulder, and ran to his right shoulder, so I got the bloody thing right over his head.

The best part was the cheering that came from my bench afterwards. I came off after I took the free kick fairly badly, and gloated a little.

We ended up losing 5-3, in spite of being dominated in the first quarter of the game. I thought the scoreline was nice considering that, but we definitely played much better in the second half. We had them on their heels too, at some points. A fun game though, for sure, aside from the fact that I had three other partners playing midfield with me. Afterward, I got kicked out of Hooters, hence the title.

In Memory of Robert Enke

Tuesday night was one unlike many others. Team G played a game at the good old Coverall, but more importantly, Robert Enke, a man who I admire committed suicide. Obviously, I did not know him personally, though through various accounts, he was a great man. Many see suicide as a selfish act, but every case is different, and thus it's extremely difficult to make that sort of blanket statement with any sort of accuracy. There is always a bigger picture. Rest in peace.

The game on Tuesday was against a team that I had been licking my chops to play against. The team they played before us, Inter FC, destroyed them 12-2, and I consider my team about equal with them. I was fortunate to not be in too much pain from my ankle injury, or too sick, so I played, and got a lot of play time, as we had a fairly small squad.

Hearing about the news of Enke's death beforehand, I felt as though any goals I scored should be in his memory. It seems superstitious and largely pointless, but I see it as the only thing I can do to show respect to a man I have sat in awe watching videos of during late night Youtube sessions.

Arriving somewhat late to the game, I had bandaged up my foot to prevent further damage, and for some reason, Colin, my midfield partner, was required to stay on for about 7 minutes before Derek replaced him out of pity. I'm sure he didn't mind though, he had a particularly prolific game, with 5 goals. That, and he's a nice guy.

I got on, and in my first carry of the ball, encountered a defender who decided to use the shuffle step defense method. I stopped the ball and let him come at me, half in awe, half in disbelief, and so I just put the ball on one side of him, and ran the other. He hugged me as I passed, so I felt it was going to be one of those games. Fortunately, it wasn't, though rugburn on my elbow, knee, and awkwardly enough, my shoulder would beg to differ. I clumsily hauled a guy down later at one point myself, but I did get ball, so in part, I'm being a bit of a hypocrite. While we're on that topic, I was brought down fairly ruthlessly by a guy who just hacked my leg as a was well past him, and the resultant free kick was a beautiful curling effort from about 17 yards out, that was about a foot shy of the top corner I aimed for. It was alright though, as I had four goals, including a perfect hat trick*, and we won 10-1.

My first goal, I received possession close to our own net. As I prepared for a Messi-esque run, I realized that there was nobody coming to close me down, or even remotely in front of me, so I hit full speed while dribbling and blew right by everybody, then tapped in with my right foot.

My next goal was similar, I had the ball on the right flank, and ran diagonally at the goal, banked the ball in off the near post. The run wasn't nearly as long, though.

The header came next, Derek took a free kick with his bad foot, and though he was aiming for me, missed. The ball bounced off the boards and then up to my head, so I nodded it and it trickled in.

The completion came when I had the ball in front of the net with, again, nobody covering me. I was running sideways for some reason, and I spun and shot with my left while horrendously off balance. After a bit of running to regain my balance, I ended up tumbling to the ground, hilariously.

I'm not sure which I'm more proud of:

1. A four goal game with a perfect hat trick.
2. Playing well, according to anybody whose opinion I received.
3. This;
   

Take that, Italy.

There's my conquest of the week. I'm not sure if it'll be a two, three, or whatever horse race for the golden boot, but if i win it and don't get a trophy at the end of the season, I don't care, I'm making one myself.

In addition to that, I made a bet with Josh about the bicycle kicks I keep not doing for the sake of others' safety. Basically, I will win the goal of the season trophy (made by Josh) by scoring on a bicycle kick in a game. If I have to, I will showboat to get it. I have a couple ideas on how to set myself up for a bicycle kick.

In addition to that game, I played two games at work. After playing an entire match the the Wannabees where I got headbutted in the temple, I was pretty tired, but still managed some nice little moves off, including Ribery's little gimmick;

Wowwee, kiddo.

I then played goalie for one half for Off in the Woods, then out for the second have of the same game, for The Soccer Team, who bought me a lovely birthday card. Gosh, the smallest things.

* - "... the golden or perfect hat trick ... tremendous skill ... the player must score three goals: one from the right foot, one from the left and one from the head." - Source

You're a Soccer God

When it rains, it pours.

At least, with complements, anyway. This one might've beaten the last, it's pretty good.

I've come to the notion that I need to move forward as far as opportunities to play go. How I do this, I'm not sure, but I have to get going on it. As an axiom I read on a window tonight says, "time is your most valuable resource". I suppose I should brainstorm a couple goals I need to attain very quickly. I suppose I could start with "find a team that I can learn from, and play a lot with".

The Chillies won a game 5-1 tonight. Sometimes, I feel unfulfilled playing in a lower division. I danced around these guys whenever I felt like it, and focused a lot on passing to my teammates in front of open nets. I took three shots, all three placed just a short distance wide. Hilariously enough, I hit the near post so strangely (from quite an angle, too), it ricocheted just past the far post. Of course, practicing placement is lovely and all, but sometimes low leveled players can really do some reckless stuff. I re-sprained my ankle by getting in the way of a shot that was from an unthinkable distance out. I'm not sure why I blocked it, but this guy was far out and wide, and he really toe-punted the hell out of that thing.

Sometimes I don't know why I bother. I should be on it in a week, but I'll have to be Tuesday, if I want to keep getting game time.

"Look where the ball is, I won it!"

Last night's (tonight's?) game was ripe with frustration, but not because I couldn't score or anything like that. Again, the issue was that I got absolutely no protection from the ref, aside from an extremely blatant foul that fortunately was called. It got to the point, where around one of their players who was particularly disgruntled, I had to brace myself against the boards because I knew he was coming for blood.

Earlier in the game, that same guy fouled me by basically hip checking me into the boards as I beat him. He had some great rationale, as seen in this post's title. Because of this, I was more focused with playing with force than finesse. Fortunately, that was the only time where I got knocked to the ground. Most of the other fouls were subtle elbows to knock me off my center of balance, and when I grazed by a guy (who I beat quite quickly) to get position, I got called.

In spite of my gripes, I was told I had a good game. I was tenacious, particularly at the end of the game, because I was focused on just getting a bloody goal to make it all seem worth it. I neglected this because of better passing options, which were fruitless. I don't feel particularly as though the game I had played was good, because I wasn't able to beat people like I had in the previous couple of matches. In part, this was because I got fouled off the ball early and often, and so it made me more reserved about going crazy with the run-ups. Also, the ball didn't come to me as much as I'd have liked, so the opportunities were limited. Perhaps a teammate's logic had the best impact on what I should do, (though he was probably trying to impress his new girlfriend); "I shot it because we were up four one and I hadn't got a shot all game".

Maybe I should shoot instead of passing to him next time. After all, with most teams, three-on-ones or three-on-a-goalie results in a goal.

In spite of my particular bad luck in getting passes that could give me any scoring opportunity, we still won 4-1. Perhaps, like last game, it was the line I was on, or perhaps they just guarded themselves from counterattacks very well.

Whatever the problem, I'm excited for the weekend, sans a couple essays that have been nagging to be done for a while now.

Also, as an aside, that moron fucked up my knee, it feels pretty tender.

Time for Two-Post Tuesday Thursday

Before I begin, let me just say that many, many of the people I've spoken to really doubt the severity of the swine flu, me being at the forefront of it. I've wanted to contract it, in order to prove to everybody that it's really not that bad (he's just misunderstood, I suppose).

Looks like my wish might just come true. These past couple days I've had some typical symptoms, aside from a truly noticeable rise in temperature. Of course, this could be any number of things, but with the amount of contact I get with people, I wouldn't doubt that is indeed H1n1. It's not big deal though, everybody, I intend on playing soccer and writing from the grave, if that's where I end up. For my one fan, it'll be like I never left. One fan. Wow. I feel like Flight of the Conchords.

At any rate, I played two games last night, and was abnormally tired by the second game. Mind you, this is probably because I played the entirety of the first and 90% of the second. In the first game, I scored two in a 5-4 loss with a team that I am "officially" a member of, called Off in the Woods. If you're wondering about the name, hilarity is supposed to ensue when another team beats us. Ha.

My first goal was a neat little dummy that a girl set up by saying "take it" as I ran by her. Indeed, I took it, and slotted into the far post from an extremely tight angle on a net two meters wide. The second was inspired by my good English chap Hadley, who called me Ronaldinho as I dribbled (either through the air or on the ground) through a crowd of people. I shot once, got the rebound, and shot againthrough a wad of people and scored. I felt like the good old Brazilian for a short while. That goal put us ahead, and then they countered with two goals to win.

The final game of the night was with the Wannabees, who wanted to play because they had four girls and a goalie. I obliged, even though the team we played was The Soccer Team, another one of my "official" teams. The Wannabees won 5-1, two of the goals were mine, and I think I assisted the three other taps ins that were had. The first goal was a dime-a-dozen dribble and shoot from a not-so-far distance. The second, however, was a piece of brilliance.

Their goalie (and a science teacher at my former high school) ran parallel from his net to clear a ball, and he cleared it right to me, at half (roughly 15 meters away in that puny gym). I took two touches - the first, I kneed it with my left leg over to my right foot, and then volleyed it without it touching the ground. Like a child on his first tricycle, it went hard and fast to the target.

Both goals I felt guilty about. The Wannabees certainly at it up though, we/they've improved since their first season's finish (last).

In loving memory...

In my recap of the summer, I forgot to mention one important match I had with the Hurricanes. It was my first match playing sweeper (and the team's second last), and early on I went in to make a slide tackle on some guy carrying the ball up the side. The result(s)? I knocked the ball out of bounds, and the following occured:

From the guy's cleat when he jumped on me.

Note the black area. I placed a binder inside the jersey to showcase the rip that the cleats caused.

A better picture of a blood stain in the second picture.

Needless to say, it hurt. However, the fact the I got up and continued playing after a large groan still fills me with pride, and so I am keeping the (unwashed, unmended) jersey around in a plastic bag until I see fit, which will likely be forever. I suppose I'm lucky my liver wasn't perforated or something silly like that, nor that my skin was torn open. Between that and the fact that my cleats had been falling apart, I looked like I was playing just after getting in a brutal street fight.

One of the "old hombres" that had served me well through four outdoor seasons. They were a pair of Adidas Traxions, and "trax'd" they did.

Those boots deserve a monologue for all they've done for me, so here it is. Normally I'm not the sentimental type, but those cleats saw me at my very worst, and lasted better than I could've ever imagined when I bought them for some paltry fee. I remember the first real contribution I had in outdoor soccer with them; I had been playing left midfield in highschool footie, and I delivered a long through ball to a striker, which he went on to score from. We won the game by a landslide, but regardless, I had contributed. Up until their last days where they were even duct taped together, they had been getting the job done, regardless of whether the eventual wear had caused a nail that held the sole in place to cut my foot open or not, or whether the side (shown in the picture) was splitting or not. The very least that could be said about those two faithful allies was that they were my first pair of real boots, and were a testament to all boots out there. Through what must've been at least a hundred games played with them, they have set a benchmark for other cleats, but at the same time, they have filled me with hope for when I purchase a new pair, for I know that there must be cleats as expertly crafted as those.

Thank you, old hombres. You will be missed.

The Gypsy of the Coverall

I asked Derek about who I've been reminding him of lately, after taking his advice on using my speed. In all honesty, I've been making a lot of Messi-esque runs lately. That being said, I'm nowhere near equal to him, but there is no shadow of a doubt in my mind that I've improved recently.

Messi.

Derek's answer was probably the best compliment anybody's given me in months. He thought I was comparable to Cesc Fabregas, "Cause theres a lot of raw talent there with the potential to improve. Good vision with the ball, but doesn't score as often as u/he could". Wow. Just, wow. That text message will forever bring a smile to my face. What makes it all the nicer is, if you're easily provoked to remember nuances (and have read the particular post) when Michele mentioned he thought the best player in the world was Cesc Fabregas. There's a strange coincidence between this entry and that one, other than the whole Fabregas deal - see if you can figure it out. As always, the answer is at the end of this post.

Before we get too far into that, I'd like to recap a game from last Wednesday, with the Chilly Willies.

First, there's a gulf in talent the size of my town between the leagues, so I used it as good opportunity to pass the ball around to my new teammates and get a feel for how they play. I ended up getting one or two assists and a couple nice goals in our game to seed us in a higher league - we won 10-5. There's a huge issue about fitness though, you know it's bad when teammates have to go throw up. Fortunately, I wasn't one.

The first of my goals was a long curling shot headed for the bottom corner. I had the time to do so, so I fired a speculative shot from about fifteen yards out. It was quite nice, indeed. The second goal was a classic turn & shoot from the top right corner of the box, that went across the keeper, bounced off the far post and went in. A huge thank you to the EPL commentators for telling me a couple days previous that those sort of shots were hard to save. 'Bout time I learned from TV.

Now, today, with Team Gigantic, I started on a shift with a few of our more inexperienced players. The opposition, who were aptly named the Smurfs (They were blue and troublemakers) began hammering us, shot after shot. They eventually got a free kick and scored off the rebound due to a lack of marking, then turned up the heat again when they (quickly) regained possession. The first time the ball hit my feet, I literally thought "Fuck this" to myself, and began sprinting to their goal from 4/5ths of the field away. It was almost as though I saw red for a short while, literally - I wanted that goal. I darted and dashed through many a player, and when I had made it past enough of them, which was many three or four defenders, and let it rip, and nailed the crossbar with quite a bit more force than Newton's laws could calculate. I think, in that short second, my heart broke then quickly fixed itself.

My lack of touch/luck for goals in that game really didn't subside until the dying few minutes, where I hit a normally pretty easy shot pretty badly. It was headed well wide, easily by 5 meters, when a poor girl happened to cower in its way. The second the ball hit my foot, I knew it was terrible, and I was about to turn and throw my palm into my face, or vice-versa. It just so happened that the fearful member of their team deflected it with a surprising amount of force into their net, and thus, I had my goal. I'm sitting on four goals in two games, which isn't all that bad. I'm proud to be leading the team, but ashamed to not be leading the league, which is the ultimate goal for the quenching of my ego. Unfortunately for me, some guy managed two hat tricks in two games.

Maybe I should aim for second best. That, or I can see if I've got any more five-goal games in me.

I suppose the 5-2 victory was bittersweet, as I absolutely had the shit kicked out of me. I distinctly remember flying a couple times due to challenges from various men built like bags of bricks. I should maybe ask Fabio to protect me a little more.

Answer to quiz: In both posts, Team Gigantic had played the Smurfs.