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. What’s so amazing about FC Barcelona is the players' innate telepathy. They’re not a team, they’re a unit. Unlike the best squad in the world however, our reservations cost us a goal. No sooner did the whistle shriek excitingly than it did aggravatingly. 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!"
My circle of friends back in Manhattan sits for dinner cracking jokes and asking hypotheticals at least twice a week. Among the more interesting ones was a debate about the most important invention in the world. Mid-contemplation, 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 Barcelonan 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. 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 humming bird, 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" 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 if Newton didn't outwardly push the concepts of physics, or if the mailing system never existed? 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 spherically 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, 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..." 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 came 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."
Our fans chanted like lost sailors spotting a lighthouse. Even in the rain that crept up on us midgame, 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 forwards, feeling my feet sink in to 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 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. He filled in for Alexi, 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.
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