FML to BFFL

I don’t understand the people who say that autumn is their favorite sport. Yes, it’s pretty. And yes, there is the bonus of my birthday being on September 9^th (which I’m sure is the real reason that people across the globe love this dreary season). Between the showers of rain that seem to want to make the flowers (still standing) gargantuan monsters and lakes of mud that hide the ugly beasts who cling to your cars with sharpened talons, paralyzing your innocent Prius or Honda CRV.

Practicing sports in the mud isn’t any nicer. True, you get to slide and stomp and splish and splash in the mounds of not-so-chocolatey goodness (if that sounds oddly appealing to some of you). However, no one can argue that they like the feeling of dirt beneath their fingernails (or rather, no one can sanely disagree), or for that matter, in your hair, behind your ears, under your feet or splattered across your face. However, if I’m not here to cheer you up, than what am I doing? And so, here are my Five Reasons Why… that slimy brown gloop is your friend.

1.      For those of you who play sports with goalies, muddy conditions always make it harder for them to be on their game. So shoot! Your BFFL mud has got you covered, you can bet it’s going in.

2.      If you’re feeling slow, Mud has your back. He slows down your opponents and lets you catch your breath, no problem (true, he’ll probably slow you down a little bit too, but he won’t mean too. And anyways, that’s beside the point. Keep it positive!)

3.      If you feel your cleats look too clean and new (making them an envy of the other girls on your team, who therefore won’t pass to you), Mud will give them a good ol’ bear hug and you’re good to go!

4.      Mud loves being the scapegoat. Truly! It’s his favorite role to play. If you’re having a bad game, Mud will gladly take full responsibility, no questions asked. He’s just a good friend like that.

5.      And five, Mud is the kind of friend that will walk you all the way home. He isn’t shy; he’ll walk right up to your parents and introduce himself! He’s polite that way, you see.

Still not convinced that Mud is your friend? Fine, then go buy yourself a Swiffer Sweeper and be done with it. At least I tried… happy fall!!!

The Neon Shoe Issue

Although I just got my shoes last year, and they are not the least bit worn or weathered, I still want a new pair of cleats. If a player from another team decided to try to sabotage me by cutting holes in my cleats and spray-painting them yellow, I would be all the more grateful. Not that I don’t like my current shoes, because they have been pretty good to me, never complaining as I leave my sweaty socks inside them or get turf wedged in between their creases.  But when the mighty mail man (who my dog not-so-secretly despises), drops off a new soccer apparel magazine that has me drooling over the glossy pages. (However, I manage to do so in an elegant, lady-like fashion…)

Now I’m sure most of you know what the neon shoe issue is. Or if you don’t, you can probably guess what it is. Go on, give it a try… no idea?

The neon shoe issue is that when you get neon-colored shoes and play sports in them, people expect you to be pretty good at that sport. I mean, you did by neon shoes.

Okay, now back to me. Because this blog, after all, is about me (see the title if you don’t believe me). As I was flipping through the magazine, drooling a little bit, even getting teary eyed on certain pages (though I’d hate to admit it), I couldn’t help but stopping on the page with all the neon shoes. They are brilliant! Like highlighters that your feet can be cozily wrapped in: purples and blues and pinks and yellows and greens. Every month it seems that Nike out does itself, finding more and more combinations of neons to splash together on a shoe. And can you blame them? They look amazing. I’m tempted to sabotage my own shoes just to get a pair. But then I thought about the reputation they’d get me. I don’t want too high of expectations set for me, and especially expectations made because of my shoes! Some of you out there probably think the whole issue is pretty silly. And it is. But I can’t help fearing the neon shoes, and so I push the magazine away. Plus, Ole Faithful, lefty and righty, are calling me from the mudroom, asking to be rid of little turflets and nasty socks. And so, I walk away.

The Sole Survivor

Yes, the war is over. The battle to the death has come to a screeching halt; the winning gladiator spattered with blood… (okay, maybe I’m taking it a bit too far). But, as sad as it is to say, the Haiku Contest is finally closed. I just wanted to say that I appreciated all of your submissions, and if later on you come up with a winner of a Haiku, feel free to send it to me despite the fact that the contest is over. I love reading them, and although you may not get the tantalizing prize, at least you’ll get the satisfaction of getting a chuckle out of me. Which isn’t hard to do, but I appreciate it none-the-less. So now, what you’ve all been waiting for… the winning haiku!!! As promised, Here is the winning three lines... fifteen words… seventeen syllables… (If I was even remotely tech-savvy I would try to insert a synthesized drum roll here. But since I am not, rest assured that right now I am somewhere banging on my desk, or to my parent’s dismay, maybe even my dining room table.)

            The turf cuts me knees

            What a lovely day outside

            I wish we had grass.

            Although it was an extremely tough decision, this haiku stole the gold. Made the kill shot. Took the trophy. The author was left anonymous, and so I will forever wonder who sent me this delightful poem. (However, the ambiguity of it all adds to the appeal, I think). My favorite part is when the author uses “me” instead of the anticipated “my” in the first line. Whether a fortunate typo or some brilliant word choice, this made the poem made me think of a leprechaun clicking his heels together, like I was thrown into a world where the short man on the front of my Lucky Charms box invites me to come play soccer with he and the other cereal-eating, just-as-animated kids that I see every morning at the breakfast table. This made me think of some possible titles for the haiku, like A Leprechaun’s Dream of Frolicking in the Grass or At Least the Turf Don’t Come Up to Me Shoulders. However, as I am not the author of this poem, we all must be forever guessing. Excellent work Anonymous, please keep writing!

Haiku Contest

Black Under Armour

A hug that trumps one from you

When the rain falls down.

Turflets in my ears,

Sorry, what did you just say?

I couldn’t hear you.

One minute’s alone,

Sitting up on the scoreboard,

With it’s friend, pressure.

I never like it

When the crowd forgets to cheer,

The silence crushed me.

Haikus, haikus, haikus! The only type of poem that can be sane and insane, crazy and tame, silly and serious, all within three lines. 17 syllables. The object of this contest is to come up with the most creative sports haikus that you can think of. Post them in the comments below this entry, or email them to me at goohighschoolsports@gmail.com.

But contests are for competing and competing leads to winning and those who win are winners. And so, there must be a prize (to give to the winners for winning). The Prize: I will post the winning haiku in my next blog entry. So, with that tantalizing reward, create haikus! (But please keep them PG. And on a more serious note, try not to battle to the death on this one. Although I know you all are dying to win, It is not Gladiators.)

Our Narnia

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Legions of Air Buds

Now, I have two dogs. The one is sweet, kind, cuddly, and a little on the chubby side (but for those of you who have chubby dogs out there, you know its an endearing quality). He is a really great dog, but my family has accepted early on that he will not be the next Air Bud.

For those of you who missed the essential childhood experience of watching Air Bud, it’s about an athletic golden retriever who goes out for the soccer team, football team, baseball team… you get the point (they made a LOT of sequels, being quite the blockbuster hit. I’m still confused why it didn’t win an Oscar).

My other dog, though not a golden retriever and definitely not as well trained, might as well be Air Bud’s long lost twin (or maybe adoptive cousin, I’m not sure which). My dog Maggie seems to find energy when no one else in the house has any, bringing us tennis balls that we honestly couldn’t care less about, though we pretend to as to not break her little heart. Maggie likes tennis balls, footballs, golf balls, you name it; She’s called it her friend and chewed it up all in the same hour. When I’m in my backyard practicing my soccer skills (which should happen more often than it does), Maggie feels like she has to be apart of the “good time” I’m having. She takes the ball with her teeth and runs with it until she realizes I’m not chasing her.

I’m sure to some of you out there this story sounds vaguely familiar. There’s something almost creepy about how dogs can literally never take their eyes off the ball (I’m sure it’s magic, but since I haven’t gotten my owl yet I can only guess it is). But what’s the point? Other than getting frustrated and having a no-longer-usable, chewed-up soccer ball, football, golf ball, etc. And no, I’m not suggesting that you try and bring your dog to practice (although I have to admit, when our coach said we needed more players I immediately thought of my dog). The point is that those of you who have your own personal Air Bud residing in your house, feel free to use them. Try dribbling around them, making passes while they’re pressuring you, even trying to out run them to the ball. It’ll be good practice, and you’ll make your own Air Bud very happy. For those of you with cats or Chihuahuas… sorry, you’re out of luck.

Pre-Game Praying

Before I go on with this entry, I just want to make it clear that I am not trying to convert anyone. If I were, this blog would surely be called Goo in the Convent or Crusader Goo. But seeing as that it is not called either of those names, I assure you I’m doing nothing of the sort. Because this blog is called The Silent I in Team (for those of you who didn’t know, though I hope you would. It’s written right above this, you see), this blog is obviously, blatantly, self-centeredly, fabulously about me.

So, before soccer games (and sprints that really scare me), I quickly cross myself and pray. Nothing too needy, for I wouldn’t want to take an important prayer from someone who really needed it (although I’m not sure that’s how God works. Of course, I wouldn’t know). I usually pray for courage or strength (but don’t think I’m too profound, because I also sing Eminem’s very explicit rap songs while running my ladders and pyramids).

This normally helps calm my nerves, because most of the time, talking helps me with the pre-game/ pre-sprint jitters. Yes, I could probably talk to my teammates instead. And after the game or sprints, I generally do. But beforehand, I tend to talk more than I should. When I’m nervous, I ask a lot of questions at a very fast pace, and often annoy whoever I’m talking to rather quickly. (By the way, this also applies to my track season, as well as my soccer season.) But if I say a prayer, I tend to a) talk less, because I’m not getting an immediate response and b) don’t annoy who I’m talking to (because I don’t think even the most annoying of people could annoy God. Or else, it’d be really hard to, anyways).

For me, praying is what gets me focused and prepares me for what I’m about to do. Whether it be praying or stretching or jumping or singing Eminem songs, you should do whatever calms your nerves.