GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

Yesterday marked my indoor soccer debut. I calculated that it may have been 20 years since I last played soccer of any kind (unless foozball counts) which is pretty amazing when you consider that within that same span of time I've spent at least an afternoon playing just about every other sport except ice hockey but including tackle football.

My debut began later than planned, as I sprinted across to the bench as the starting whistle blew. See, at about 9:00 before the 9:30 game I realized that I only owned one shin guard and no indoor shoes. I put on my shorts in the parking lot of the Academy on 290. My team was still happy to see me (and as I gathered my lungs from off the turf later on that morning I realized why) and I got into the game with about 15 minutes remaining in the first half.

The first ball that came my way was an excellent pass up the sideline that would have put me in a one-on-one breakaway to the goal. My response? Fall flat on my face. I mean, the closest person to me was probably 25-30 feet away, the ball was already gone upfield, and I turned around to run toward the goal and just ate it - belly buster onto the omniturf, sending all those little black rubber pellets flying. Strangely, despite overwhelming evidence that I may not be able to stay upright, my teammates let me keep playing.

Kicking a soccer ball is hard. Just as Kristi Yamaguchi has taught us that ballroom dancing is nothing like figure skating, I have to say that playing soccer is nothing like playing basketball or field hockey. Your whole center of gravity is different when your lower body is responsible not only for moving your mass around but also for moving the ball - I'm used to that being my arms' job. When in basketball and field hockey you can lunge for a loose ball, I found out (repeatedly) that if you try to lunge for a ball with your legs and miss, your feet usually keep on going without bothering to wait for your upper body to join. The result: a lot of rubber pellets in your socks, shoes, and unmentionables as well as a 3-inch by 4-inch strawberry on your left knee and shin. (I actually did just measure it.)

I also found out that I am capable of the joy-threshold of a seven-year-old. I am not apolgizing for it, either. In fact, I am ecstatic over its rediscovery. See, I scored a goal. It was a terrible, terrible, weak, bouncing goal, but it counted. When I was on the field, I raised my arms and jumed once, but then acted cool - you know, like I'd been there before. But when I got home, I was a babbling idiot to my husband: "Honey guess what!" I shouted as a opened the back door. "I scored a goal! SO COOL! SoccerissomuchfuntheothergirlsonmyteamaresoneatitwastotallyAWESOME!" and I collapsed into a heap on the rug next to where he was sitting playing Madden on Xbox. He finally got me to shut up about it by convincing me to shower to clean off my turf wound. Then I called my mom's cell phone and told IT about my goal. Then I called my grandmother and told her. She, of course, wants to come see my next game.

I really do like team sports. Next goal I'm going to pretend like I'm an airplane.