I think it was the moment that the other team was performing advanced calisthenics – deep squats, knee bends, push-ups – prior to the game while our team was happily engaged in an impromptu rendition of “the chicken dance,” that I sized up the situation and came to one inescapable conclusion: we were going to get creamed.
Put up a fight. We put up a good fight, don’t get me wrong. Our team hadn’t made it to the league championship level by being pikers at this game. Oh no.
For more than 15 minutes our players commanded the equivalent of a power play at the opponents goal and yet they still couldn’t score.
Soccer, you see, is the furthest thing imaginable from instant gratification. From that point on I don’t think they ever set foot – quite literally – on the ball again.
No other activity in life requires so much effort for so little reward. In this game, most of the action consisted of splashing headlong through puddles of icy water on a still frosted Saturday morning when most kids were still in their jammies watching cartoons somewhere.
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