When endorphins are not enough

Last night I went out for soccer training with a local club. It was quite scary, and not just the dark alley I walked down when trying to find the field. As the “newbie” I had all the same insecurities of going to a party at which I knew nobody, and I felt great pressure to prove myself. I needn’t have worried, however, as I distinguished myself right away by nearly passing out in the warm-up run. Then, to my horror, some extremely fit and enthusiastic guy ran up and announced we’d be starting the drills. DRILLS? I haven’t run soccer drills since I was nineteen! Nobody mentioned drills! To me, “soccer training” means going out for an easy scrimmage followed by lots of beer, as everybody on my Toronto team can confirm. But there’s nowhere to hide in a soccer drill. You can’t stop to walk, you can’t sub off, you can’t lie down on the field.

The first drill involved everyone running around continuously (!), half the group with a ball and half without, and if you didn’t have a ball you had to call for a pass every time a whistle was blown. I didn’t know anyone’s name, and quickly discovered that “you in the shorts!” and “you with the ponytail!” caused nothing but confusion. People took off layers as they got warmer, so suddenly the bright orange fleece I’d learned to associate with “Katie” or the navy sweatpants that meant “Leslie” disappeared, sending me back to square one. And if you stopped running, you got yelled at! Everyone learned MY name pretty fast.

For drill number two – practicing getting away from a defender and looking for a pass – the trainer made the mistake of using me in the demo. On the fourth attempt to show everyone how it was done (yes, it took that many before I began to get the hang of it), I completely wiped out in the kind of position that elicits involuntary “ouches” from bystanders. I wanted to be swallowed up by the Astroturf. I eventually discovered that the best way to get away from the trainer dude (he was the defender marking me) was to step on his foot really hard, deliver a hip-check while he was immobilized, and then flee to the open space. What, this isn’t hockey?

By the time the drills finished I was practically coughing up blood. We were allowed some water, and I thought to myself, “Right, it’s finally over, I’ve survived, and I’ll never ever do this again.” THEN the scrimmage started. I managed to ignore the ominous pains in my knees, ankles, lower back, feet, shoulders, hell, EVERYWHERE, and actually made some good plays. I was feeling pretty chuffed when the practice ended, having redeemed myself somewhat. But then, when my brain was starved of oxygen and everything was a blur, a woman shoved a piece of paper and a pen at me and forced my frostbitten fingers to clumsily sign, and I realized too late that my showing-off in the scrimmage had the heinous result of convincing them I should join the team and do this EVERY WEEK.

Today I hurt all over. And they’d better finish those bathroom tiles SOON because I really need a shower!

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This past weekend we went for a walk on the Port Meadow. It was windy, and people were sailing on the Thames River. It looked odd from a distance …