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How many nights did Alice and I sit together staring out at that sky? That sun fading away and those bright stars poking through. Those quiet moments where the conversation would melt away to silence, and we both would just stare out at that sky. Her hand searching for mine in the darkness.
I can feel her now as I stare down into this glass, only shrunken ice cubes remain.
That’s enough. I may have fallen off the wagon today, but I don’t plan to over indulge.
I light up one of the Camels, taking that initial drag, before swirling the cherry around in the darkness like a wand, the light from the tip spelling out Alice. I then leave the cigarette leaning against that old wooden ashtray, carved out in the shape of a frog.
I remember the days when drinking felt like a party, but that’s not how I feel tonight. Although I have that booze flowing through me, my mood feels almost somber, gloomy. The longing for Alice feels stronger, the sense of loss right here close to my heart, an almost physical aching. I close my eyes so I can see her eyes again, and then there in my mind’s eye, the camera seems to pan out, her nose coming into view, then that smile, and the wrinkles of her forehead. The alcohol seems to enable my mind to see her with perfect clarity, but perhaps I’m giving the booze too much credit. I know one thing, I won’t make a habit of this. Sitting out here with a glass each night, but I’ll enjoy this, this present moment. Although I’m looking to the past in a way, I will enjoy the breeze floating through this little porch, the taste of that tobacco, the feeling, the presence of my lost love, yes, tonight will be enough.
I’ve come to see that my most fatal flaw is that I love football more than anything else. It’s not just the game, but what it has meant in my life. What playing has taught me along with those special moments that live on in me. The community that surrounds the game, the way that the football calendar is the only real schedule in my life. Even as a spectator now, the joy the game brings me, but I’ll admit, perhaps from the outside it may seem all too close to an obsession, an addiction.
And when I think about the people in my life, I feel selfish. And then I wonder how a game is allowed to have such an impact on my life. I feel almost like a child, alone and lost in this world, except when that whistle blows and for 90 minutes everything is found. The ball magically moving around that pitch, searching for that net. The sounds. The ball popping around to each foot, the shouts of the players, the chants from the crowd, perhaps that ding as the ball strikes the goal post. It’s all so beautiful. And yet it’s a fight, a battle.
The battle that day was against our cross town rivals from Winchester. I always got the feeling that those Winchester folks looked down their noses at us, country trash. They were from the city. What could us country boys possibly know about playing soccer? I don’t think they truly felt this way about us, but sometimes you find ways to motivate yourself. Either way, they were a good team and it was a local rivalry. The kind of match you just have to win.
The defensive players in front of me were struggling to clear the ball, we were under siege. The ball popped loose, falling right in front of their star striker. I had time to sprint off my line, sliding along the slick grass, left hip hitting down first, then extending my arms and sweeping the ball from the feet of the attacker. He was already in the midst of his leg swinging back and as I took that ball into my chest, he swung that boot forward connecting perfectly with my head, and the ball fell out of my arms. Stunned, I pulled myself to my feet, quickly retreating to my goal mouth. The referee hadn’t blown, ‘play to the whistle’ is all I hear in my head. I’m on my toes as the ball is rocketed towards goal. I’m in position and react well to spring to my left, catching the ball mid flight and landing in a heap. The cheers from the parents. I managed to get to my feet and it took all my strength to throw that ball across the touchline and out for a throw in. Then I fell back to the floor. Perhaps it was a bit over the top. The adrenaline was immense, I wasn’t really hurting, but taking a full shot to the face, well it’ll put most people down, I needed a moment.
The battle is what I miss most. That outlet for all this toxic energy, there is something about flinging yourself around, protecting that goal, that just can’t be replaced. In that way it is like a fix, like a high, like an addiction.
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