Cup, Half Empty
Soccer season is about to wrap up for my 15 year old son. Laced with all of the standard plague precautions you might expect - masks, temperature checks, etc - the whole experience has been tinted with a brackish shade of grey. Practices and games felt like sleepwalks through mud. That’s not to say the kids don’t hustle out there because they do, but like everything else these days, a pulse of futility beats just beneath the surface and depletes the thrill that has trademarked past seasons. The sense of urgency that once charged these contests drifts awry like some newborn ghost.
Last weekend his team was absolutely throttled. I lost the official count but it had to be a 10 goal deficit by the final whistle. Neither team showed an ounce of emotion throughout the match. I tried for a moment to feign encouragement with a loud cheer and regretted it immediately when a series of dead eyes turned from their phones to glare at me. I assumed their mouths were gaping beneath their masks. I kept my own shut the rest of the day.
At some point my son got blasted in the junk by a line drive. Play stopped, players kneeled and coaches gathered around the gasping dude.
The moment triggered empathy pains and transported me back to one of my first acts of imposter syndrome.
Sophomore year, I tried out for my Jesuit high school’s B soccer team. Growing up lower middle class in the inner city, I didn’t have the club team soccer experience that seemed to be a childhood staple for my suburb dwelling peers. My skills simply didn’t stand up to theirs, so I put my name in the hat for goalkeeper, figuring I could get by on basic athleticism. At first it looked hopeful when the prior year’s backup keeper, a kid tragically named Whitehead, didn’t show up.
The coach was a hard ass history teacher named Mr. McCarthy. My hand still cramps at the thought of his furious, high octane lectures. I knew from his classroom vibe and generosity with doling out demerits to never cross him, so I took his shin guards and cup requirement to heart. I didn’t want to give him clearance to cut me on some half-assed technicality.
In the parking lot of the sporting good store, my mom gave me a few bills and waited outside in the car. Quickly I realized I didn’t have enough money for both. It was a small miracle that I convinced her to buy me gear in the first place, given that a day rarely passed without her rambling about how broke we were. The choice required no deliberation at all - shin guards were the obvious choice based on their visibility alone.
My stomach was a mosh pit of nerves the first day of tryouts, but Whitehead’s absence lightened the load. No one else pursued the backup keeper job, so barring some major fuck up, it was mine. It would be the first of many ‘fake it til you make it’ gambits in my high school career. Given the basic objective of the position - to defend the goal - I managed to rely on instincts and reflexes to skate through the drills and scrimmage with ease.
Day two exposed some cracks in my game. First, McCarthy called me out on aimlessly punting the ball, giving away possessions instead of feeding it to teammates for an organized attack. Then he went berserk when I twice failed to heed his demand that I switch the field. The directive should have been obvious - send the ball to the other side of the pitch - but my lack of depth in the game’s nuances telegraphed that either I didn’t understand or was uncoachable. Neither possibility looked great. Still, no Whitehead gave me a path forward.
On the third and final tryout, of course he showed up. Returning late from an extended August vacation (something I could not relate to at all), Whitehead romped onto the scene with confidence and a brilliant tan. An alternate keeper for the previous year’s C team, he was a known quantity. My confidence receded.
The bookend scrimmage was a barn burner, knotted at 1-1 down the stretch. Players trash talked and bodied each other as the clock ticked the last minutes away. No one wanted to lose the final match of tryouts. Aside from pride on the line, the losing squad would have to run wind sprints in the African summer heat of St. Louis. I wished silently for the action to stay away from me. After all, I’d played well, only allowing a goal on a PK, which is respectable. Whitehead’s play seemed rusty and unremarkable, which emboldened me.
Then, sure as hell, a wing forward broke down the sideline and angled toward the goal. I unwisely vacated the box to contest and got juked to the ground. Momentarily a defender assisted by racing back in time to harass him. I lumbered back to the goal, figuring I had recovered, when he toe kicked a missile straight to my crotch. As my sight went dark, I heard cheers from the opposition and wanted to disappear.
In the dirt I gasped for air. Soon McCarthy’s shadow mercifully shrouded me from the sun and my vision cleared. The look on his face betrayed no emotion.
You wearing a cup, son?
I could muster no words - just a shake of my head.
Did you know that’s one of the rules for tryouts?
Other players had huddled around. I swallowed the truth - that I could not afford a cup - and only nodded.
Ok then, walk it off.
During wind sprints I avoided eye contact with my soon-to-be-ex teammates but could feel the burn of their pissed off stares. Sore crotch be damned, I blew it.
McCarthy wasted no time posting the final roster to the door of the athletic department offices for all to see. Like Luther’s Ninety-five Theses, the document glowered at the far end of the hallway, poised to spark joy for some and ruin others. The suspense that clinched my jaw dispersed when a friend approached and told me I didn’t make it, confirming what I already knew - I didn’t belong.
Applause brought me back to the real and pressing matter of my son. He waved to the small crowd as he labored to the sidelines with his coach. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late to add my own percussion.
On the 90 minute ride back I kept to myself how thrilled I was to kill an entire Sunday on an uninspired loss and opted for bonding over busted balls. I shared my own experience and absorbed his cackling laughter. Suddenly, over 30 years later, my bad acting and battered junk was all worth it.
Looking back, I can’t wallow in the frustration of being cut. I knew it was a long shot, considering my lack of experience. You learn from rejection, and this one birthed a chip on my shoulder that would motivate me to make some smart and many regretful decisions moving forward.