Once upon a time
Some of you might not believe this, but I was a soccer player in my younger years. My atrophied muscles and translucent skin might hinder you from believing that at one point in my life, I was the god of soccer.
I loved soccer. I dreamed about soccer. I was “Thunder Foot” Moses, the great defender of goals, the pinnacle of perfection, Pelé’s apprentice. When someone spoke of the name Scott Moses in my small town of Corsicana, everyone in the room whispered to each other, “Scott Moses, he’s the kid with the golden foot. Scott Moses, he’ll surely be great one day.”
Alas, that day never came. As soon as I entered high school, I discovered that soccer was not fun anymore. Soccer was too serious. Dads started yelling at their kids for missing goals. Coaches started yelling at kids for showing up late to practice. Once I hit high school, soccer was no longer a game.
But I still remember how fun it once was, how much I enjoyed running around in those ridiculous socks and shin guards, running around in circles, trying to score a goal or prevent one from happening. And my coach, my first real coach, Phil, the Englishman, who called me Scotty and gave me man-to-man talks about teamwork and overcoming my fears and kicking an opponent in the crotch when the ref wasn’t looking.
Phil was just like all the other coaches, a member of that strange breed of amateur English footballers (that means soccer players) who migrate to large American cities in order to start careers as coaches.
These strange men (who may or may not have ever played soccer in their lives) swindle little kids and their parents with their cute accents and their heartwarming stories of growing up in South Hampton, kicking soccer balls down alleyways for fun. I, as you may have guessed, was swindled, and for several years at that. But I wasn’t alone: my coach/con-artist beguiled a whole group of us small town hicks into believing that we would someday play in the World Cup. Of course, it was fun while it lasted.
In order to receive such divine European soccer instruction, my friends and I had to pack up in an old, sock-ridden Suburban three times a week and make our way up to Dallas.
As I think back now to my days as a soccer player, I realize that many of my fondest memories take place not on the soccer field but in the back of that old Suburban. Think Rugrats, on crack, in the early ’90s – perhaps then you will understand.
The cast: Turkey – a 4-foot crazy kid with a modified afro and a sister named Chicken. Chris – a 6-foot, 4-inch cretin who rolled down the window as we passed other cars and smashed Coke cans on his head. Jay – a weak, idiotic reptile of a kid who was given “titty twisters” each time he made a noise. Eric – a pot-bellied pansy from Ennis who used to hit on all his friends’ sisters and talked about being in a gang someday. And me – the Catholic school kid with a chili bowl haircut and crooked teeth.
It’s so strange how all of this is just one blurry memory now.
I remember promising myself that I would play soccer forever; that I would grow up and move to England and play for Chelsea or Manchester United or one of those teams that my coach always talked about. But I didn’t, and that’s OK.
It’s nice, though, to think back, to dream of those days when you could run and run and run and you never wanted to stop.
It’s nice to dream of such freedom, such happiness: the prospect of living forever.
