Prickly Pears vs. Pele's Envy Saturday Oct. 25th

I am such a wuss. Always have been. Probably always will be.
My fear of competitive sports resulted in my quitting swimteam when I was twelve. My abandonment of my favorite sport, soccer, came later. The anxiety would transform my stomach in a tumultuous sickness during the ride to the games. I'd sit in my seat praying that the clear sunny day would take a miraculous turn for the worse, that the sky would cloud up and rain the fields muddy and useless. I was a complete and utter wimp.

Only recently have I found enjoyment from competitive sports. For two seasons, I've been playing on a Division V co-ed soccer team for a league in Austin. It's the lowest division. There's no real pressure, no practice even (although we could definitely use it). This is the kind of atmosphere I like to play in. The game last Saturday gave me a much different feeling.

Perhaps it was because we were playing our rivals, Pele's Envy. This team brings a very egotistical attitude onto the field with them. Go figure. Normally, our games carry on with a few falls, maybe a yellow card from a loudmouth who can't shut up. But what transpired on that sunny Saturday were animosity injected tackles and a desperate effort to annihilate the pride of the opposing team. It began when they argued every call, or lack of call. It was either "Offsides!?" or "Offsides!!" At a certain point, the referee had to remind a player or two that he was the one making the calls.
With each jumble of legs and locked knees, there was a growing sense of purpose. Grudges formed. That girl is not getting past me again, I vowed. I'll have her on the ground before that happens. As one of our half-backs, George, and one of their fullbacks raced towards the corner of the field fighting to gain possession of the ball, tensions rose. The fullback forced George to stumble. What could have been a common, accidental consequence of two people sprinting for the ball, had George screaming a profanity that rang out across six fields (it's a good thing children weren't playing next to us, as usual). In a moment of unfounded male aggression, he threatened to beat the crap out of the other player after the game.
Even though all of this pointless behavior-- the grudges, the snide back and forths, the complete dissolution of 'it's only a game' state of mind-- the sense of urgeny to ruin the other team had an exciting effect that everyone felt.
Suddenly, I was running faster, meeting the balls with better, more decisive kicks, trying to throw elbows in subtle, disabling jabs. One of our occasional players, an optimisitic, smiley guy named Ollie was ruthless, and rude on the field. After each flourished fall (to which one of the opposing team members commented on his Academy award winning performance), he'd get back up and demand that the person who kicked him in the shin man up. "That's dirty," he'd say loud enough for everyone to hear, shaking his head. "Dirrrty... dirrrrty..."

The anti-climatic and sad truth is that...well, we lost. The first half was our Achilles heel, our defense was lacking and two shots flew past the goal. While our offensive managed to muster up one goal in the second half, the game was done before we could achieve the victory we knew we deserved. I have to say though that for all of the dumb, meanspritied shenanigans that occured onfield, I was enlightened that day. For once, my wimpy, "everyone should win" sports mentality changed. For once, damnit, I felt that competitive, ruinous rage, and I relished it.