The One About Ben

(Sorry this post and the last have not had audio, for those who like that option. It will be back!)

The world cup has me thinking more about soccer. I honestly do not know if the story I want to share will amount to anything, but to quote the classic Grumpier Old Men, "There ain’t no moral. I just like the story. That’s all. I just like the story.” I miss Burgess Meredith.

When I played travel soccer in my youth, I played for the Findlay Cobras. I know, sweet name right?! As with most travel teams we went all over. Also as with most travel teams, we played the kids just up the road more often. Those are the teams you really get to know, and in turn, then also have a strong connection to in some way. Rivalry!

Ben played for one such team. I refuse to type their team name—no free advertising, or whatever. But Ben was interesting and he deserves full credit in the post. At first I paid attention to Ben because he was their goalie. Oh how I loved scoring goals on Ben. He was emotional and always reacted just the way you might hope, if you were the one making him look like a fool.

He was loud and silly. My nickname in those days was Mouse. Well, it still is, but almost no one knows or uses it. He was known to call to his team things like, “Don’t let Mouse get his cheese.” Which I guess meant do not let me score. What a funny guy.

Then a curious thing happened. Ben grew the fuck up—fast! Suddenly one season he was at least a foot taller, had lost all of his pudge, and appeared to be much stronger. Though this might have helped him as a goalie, he had moved to the striker position. This changed the nature of our relationship quite a bit. He and I now played for the same open ball constantly. We were always smashing into one another—it was awesome! I was a hockey player after all.

There was one game where Ben and I had what I consider to be the culmination of our competitive relationship. There have been few moments for me in sports where I feel as if I can see the future. Time slows down and I just know what is going to happen. The ball went up and I could see Ben getting ready to meet it in the air. I could see him watching me and preparing for our collision. Everything was perfect for a nice clean clash. I knew I would take the moment.

I met Ben in the air as high as I could jump and we hit shoulders hard, the ball perfectly between us. I won the ball, and best of all, Ben went flying sideways hard to the ground. Holy shit, that had gone better than I could have imagined. The whistle was blown and I tried to play it cool. My favorite teammate rushed up and said, “You just totally kicked his ass!”

I loved playing soccer. I enjoyed playing against Ben and teams that got to know Mouse as a player. It does say something if some knucklehead is shouting your name, I guess. Mostly the game itself is just fun as shit.

So really, I am sitting here thinking, “So what does this story have to do with anything?” And honestly I sort of want to end with the Burgess Meredith quote. But as a forty-six year old man, I think there is some deep part of me always wondering what my purpose is in life. Ben’s comment echoes back from the field so many years ago, “Don’t let Mouse get his cheese.”

What is my cheese? Was Ben a fucking prophet? Was he looking beyond the soccer field the whole time?

For a while my ultimate purpose (cheese is feeling a bit cheesy) has been anchored in my relationship with God. Having a family of my own, a wife and with two kids, has certainly split that purpose to where my heart has to split it’s focus.

Soccer made it simple. Knock Ben out of the air and kick the ball in the net. It also made it fun. Now most nights I lie in bed thinking, “Did I really lose my shit and raise my voice at my kids for that?” It makes me feel like I am losing the game and somehow Ben is keeping me from my cheese.

Yet one of the key lessons I learned from sports, was about how the struggle that ensues on the field develops the athlete regardless of the final score. Not a single player leaves the same. And, as my parents helped me to learn, I am the one that is responsible for making sure I leave the field a better person. I can whine and bitch and complain, in success or defeat, or I can learn and grow. Sports are fucking awesome and they can teach us so much about how to live life!

Though perhaps entirely out of context, along these lines I have always appreciated Jeremiah 29:11: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

Excellent! Whether meant for me or you or people we have never met, this verse can set our feet straight and our hearts right. Now, whether you feel Burgess was right or not, I have tried to provide a moral to my story.

And oh God I desperately hope that somewhere on some distant shore there is a man sitting down with friends who saying, “Let me tell you about this son-of-a-bitch named Mouse I used to play soccer against.”

They will ask if there is a moral. Who knows what he will say.