Nearly ten years ago, I started playing walking soccer once a week.
At the time, I was also playing soccer in a community women’s league.
In the women’s league, I was the oldest person on the team by at least ten years. In fact, I was the age of some of the players’ grandmas.
In the walking soccer league, I was technically too young to play, since I wasn’t yet a senior. But the organizer, the fearless Carl Prufer, wanted me there. And since Carl was the boss, everyone had to listen.
Carl always put me in as the “money player,” which meant I either played all-time offense or all-time defense. Either way, I had a different colored jersey from everyone else and had to switch sides whenever the ball changed possession.
I’m in the right age demographic now and I’ve recently started playing walking soccer again. Walking soccer trends in England and other countries where people love to play soccer. The rules are simple: no running, no high kicks, and call your own fouls if you foul someone. In our game, we kick the ball in from the sidelines instead of throwing it. And we only allow three touches—to keep the more skilled players from hogging the ball.
I’m one of the youngest players. But the 70 and 80 year olds run walk circles around me (actually, a lot of people cheat. It’s harder than it sounds not to run after the ball!).
Two weeks ago I didn’t want to go. I was tired and nauseated. I was having a lot of side effects, both from cancer and from cancer treatments, and I just wasn’t feeling it. But I knew it would be better to be outside in the cool morning air, trash talking the other team (older adults are very adept at trash talking. Who knew?), than to stay home feeling sorry for myself.
I felt leaden as I filled up my water bottle, changed my mind and decided to stay home as I laced up my cleats, and was pretty sure I was making a huge mistake as I slowly drove to North Mountain Park.
Carl Prufer is 89 years old. He’s still playing soccer. Usually he stays in goal. He’s also a skilled defender. Unlike some of the other players (clears throat), he does not cheat, never runs, does not do any high kicks, and doesn’t foul. A couple weeks ago he taught us all how to do give and gos. He may be the oldest player on the field, but he. Is. Mighty. (And my hero.)
Somehow Zombie Jennifer made it to the soccer field. As soon as Richard blew the whistle and we were all running walking briskly after the ball, I knew I’d made the right decision to force myself to go.
The nausea subsided. Oxygenating my blood helped clear the brain fog. And I could practically feel my body sweating out toxins.
So what if I missed every ball, ran into someone coming up behind me on my blind side, and flubbed almost every shot on goal?
Try it sometime. Soccer, as the head of our women’s team Nicole used to say, is so much stinkin’ fun.
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About the author:
Jennifer Margulis is a writer, editor, and mediocre—albeit enthusiastic—soccer player. There are two spots left at the writing retreat she’ll be co-hosting in Tuscany this October. Your application to attend will be fast-tracked if you promise to bring a soccer ball.
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