(Dear Prof. Nolan Chessman, I don't have word installed onto my computer plus eblogger doesn't let me attach files anyways. I uploaded my essay onto this page normally.)

 

Ido Lechner

Professor Nolan Chessman

English

16 July 2013

The Language Behind a Kick

 

     We paraded the field as if we were a team, unified by the same attire and experiences. Well, if we were a

 

team, our opponents must have been an army. Five minutes into the piercing sound of an almighty whistle, our

 

team had only reconciled with the ball twice. It seemed to favor Midwood’s touch. Nimble feet swayed around our

 

defense, as if our side was made of quicksand. Cramps pulsated throughout my body like a pizza in an oven. It

 

was easier to lose than it was to say, "Brian man on!" or "Santi switch!" But I wasn’t alone. And now, a moment of

 

silence for the silent, the team on their way to losing their most important match of the season.

    

     Every soccer player in the world has dreamt of being on a professional team like Barcelona. Seldomly

 

shouting, their dormant tongues are proof of their innate telepathy and mind boggling accord. They’re not a

 

team, they’re a unit. Unlike the best squad in the world however, our reservations cost us a goal. Another 

 

shrieking whistle interrupted our pin-drop silent catastrophe. We walked in shame back to the sidelines to discuss

 

tactics for round two. Coach’s temples exploded in every direction. "You call yourself a team? This is your last try

 

to make the playoffs! The only one talking is Evan!"

 

     Twice a week, I sit with my friends in our favorite diner discussing hypotheticals and contemplating

 

controversial topics. Among the more interesting ones was a debate about the most important invention in the

 

world. Upon meditation, Dan suggests the wheel. His younger brother Gabe chimes in, "but fire has to be more

 

important than that…" We barter philosophies for a couple minutes and finally conclude that language is the most

 

fitting response. Indeed, we could not conceive of a better tool than the one we were using at that exact moment.

 

The shrilling voice of a pea whistle echoed again, snapping me out of my flashback.

 

 

     The ball gained momentum, mingling with the sides and laces of our boots. From the back, David yelled for

 

the defense to push up. Graham invaded the left side, calling for a pass he intended to link up with a creeping

 

Santi out front. And so it began. We sprouted wings, like angels overdosed on redbull. In that moment, we

 

sacrificed any glimpse of introversion for the greater good. The Barcelonian armada crumbled in our wake. They

 

were strong, but we were unified. Lasha’s finishing touch sniped upper 90.

 

 

     Where would we be without communication? Without a console with which to exchange ideas, we are nothing

 

more than jellyfish. It is our choice whether or not to float away, eaten alive by a lone leatherback turtle. Of

 

course, there are times when quietude has its merits, but we have at our disposal all the tools of the trade; a

 

brain, a heart, and a voice. Rather than being a gloppy sea nihilist, we should use our gifts to swap brain matter.

 

Solitary confinement is a crime in and of itself.

 

 

     Consider the MGMT lyric, "…yeah its overwhelming, but what else can we choose? Get jobs in offices and

 

wake up for the morning commute." This notion of carpe diem is cited by many renowned authors in addition to

 

musicians, including the lesser known Brian Doyle. In his piece, Joyas Voladoras, he illustrates the life of a

 

hummingbird, noting it’s amazing biology, plethora of colors, and short lived nature. Doyle goes on to mention

 

their "racecar hearts that eat oxygen at an eye popping rate" (1, 3) as both a strength and a weakness, being that

 

"the price of their ambition is a life closer to death." Would the world be where it is today without a Martin Luther

 

King jr? How about the mailing system? Linguistics? Ultimately, it is up to us whether we live a long yet idle life,

 

or communicate and make the most of it.

 

 

     One to one with time to spare. Suddenly things didn’t seem so difficult. A bunch of wusses turned Opera

 

singers. We informed each other of oncoming threats and exploited open spaces. Dissecting their defense, Lasha

 

maneuvered the synthetic leather left and right like DJ Casper‘s cha cha slide. By now the other team was

 

resorting to dirty tactics. Purposefully misplaced slide tackles and tugging onto our shirts. But, we continued

 

pressing forward, like any underdogs desperate for victory.

 

 

     Soccer, like anything else, has a language. Much like Amy Tan‘s Mother Tongue, Terminologies are flung

 

around until teams build a secular language over time, ultimately formulating a dialect of their own. Growing up,

 

Amy Tan was ashamed of her mother’s broken English. She would often help her mother by pretending to be her

 

during telephone calls, translating "why he doesn’t send me check" into "yes, I’m getting rather concerned..." (2,

 

10/11). People underestimate how tough it is to communicate when you’re under pressure and have been

 

running for miles on end. You try to yell out, "I got it!" but you choke like Porky Pig and the two of you collide

 

harder than the big bang. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen. Thankfully however, there are eleven of you out there

 

distributing the responsibility. That’s where our own lingo comes into play. You see, over the course of four years,

 

inside jokes transformed "man on!" into "salad!" and "give me a through-ball" into "sundayyyy (send it)."

 

Derivations would take far too long to provide, but it served as a good way to conceal our plans and as goofy as it

 

seemed, we became just as proud as Amy Tan. "It has become our language of intimacy, a different sort of

 

English that relates to family talk, the language I grew up with.” (1, 4). Throughout her piece, Tan stresses the

 

discovery of language as a home, a place where the individual is safe to convey without stress of conjunctions

 

and the like. I say, if it ain’t fixed, don’t break it.

 

 

     Our fans chanted like lost sailors spotting a lighthouse. Even in the rain that crept up on us mid-game, they sat

 

there loyally. "Push up!" David beckoned once more; forcing an offsides on any daring striker. Number 16’s poor

 

touch helped us regain possession at a comfortable distance from their net. The ball nestled at my feet and I

 

heard three options shouting for the ball. I sprinted forward, feeling my feet sinking into mushy patches of wet

 

grass. Finally, I released a parabolic through ball to Alexi, who dashed like a madman only to get pummeled by a

 

hostile defender. He fell down hard, clutching his ankle from the beating of the sole-daggers. It was apparent that

 

one of our best players was out for the match, but it didn’t faze us right then and there.

 

 

     The sidelines spat out a junior, Muhammad, set to take place for Alexi. Eager, he stepped onto the pitch,

 

ready to avenge his fallen teammate and prove his own worth. We lined up in one of the five formations we

 

practiced over years as Santi prepared to take the freekick. All the jingles the world had to offer faded out, as I

 

focused on my positioning. Loosely pressed against his lips, the ref blew the now muted whistle and we sprinted

 

forward. Santi arced it brilliantly over the wall of defenders and the ball made contact with the roof of Lasha’s

 

head. Ricocheting off, it was absorbed by the net behind a dumbfounded keeper.

 

 

     There’s no "I" in team, it’s an imaginary number. To celebrate, you have to win, and to win, you have to speak.

 

Many teams spoke in Spanish or Jamaican English but we spoke in nonsense and took pride in it. We struck a

 

balance between hummingbird and jellyfish. Against all odds, we beat the toughest team in the league. My senior

 

year was the only time in my entire career as a Brooklyn Technite that the soccer team advanced to playoffs. If

 

Brian Doyle and Amy Tan have anything to teach us, its the ability of language to empower and unify.

Doyle, Brian. Joyas Volodoras N.d.

The American Scholar

Tan, Amy. Mother’ Tongue. N.d.

MGMT, Time to Pretend, Oracular Spectacular Red Ink Records. 2007 CD