Bringing my "A" game, part two

I’m sure you’re all wondering how my career as a semi-professional soccer player is going, now that I’ve somewhat inadvertently signed with a club. (I still say "soccer" here, because when I say "football" people don’t know what game I’m referring to as a North American.)

It has become painfully obvious that here there are two levels of women's soccer: hardcore and nonexistent. I set out for my first game with considerable trepidation, given that after my inaugural training session it took five days to rise from a chair without groaning. In the changeroom I was assigned a uniform, consisting of long-sleeved shirt, shorts and socks. (I eyed the ostensibly one-size-fits-all shorts and wondered if the same size of shorts could possibly fit both myself and the 100-pounds-soaking-wet right-winger.) The captain passed around plays while lecturing us on the weaknesses of the opposing team. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. I don’t know the names of my own teammates, and I’m supposed to remember diagrams with arrows every which way?

We got out to the field, ankle-deep in mud and buffeted by gale-force winds, and were put through a half-hour of drills that had me swearing mutiny before the game even began. Then a head-count revealed the awful truth: we had no subs. I would have to play the whole hour and a half, on a full-sized field. In this league anything goes, referee notwithstanding. Including slide-tackling. But, further proving I’m in over my head, I just don’t care enough about the score to fling myself to the ground and risk someone’s boot taking my teeth out. (Teeth of a pearly perfection that cost my parents approximately five years’ salary.) By half time my new cleats were turning my feet into hamburger (through three pairs of socks and pre-emptive band-aids!) and I felt like I’d been subjected to the medieval torture of having my chest crushed with heavy rocks. I’d tell you about the second half but I can’t remember it. I was too delirious from pain and exhaustion. I will say that my bright orange team shirt (yes, orange again!) was increasingly appropriate as I contributed about as much as a pylon would have. Afterwards my teammates propped me up in the University Club bar and plied me with drinks while I delicately picked the mud from my hair. During the game I had decided I would bow out. The older I get the stronger my instinct for self-preservation becomes. But they were so nice off the field that I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. So I’m not sure what I’ll do.

We watched the Oxford-Cambridge boat race at the University Club yesterday, and cheered as Oxford clobbered Cambridge, whose boat had apparently taken on 30 or 40 kg of water due to choppy conditions. Apparently for every stroke these crews complete in the 4-mile race, they’ve done four hours of training. They take rowing rather seriously here! Then again, the series of races between Oxford’s colleges, which takes place in February, is charmingly called the "Torpids."

We also biked downtown and explored New College (despite the name, it was founded in 1379 to replenish the supply of trained clergy that had been decimated during the Black Death, and was built on land vacated when all its inhabitants succumbed to the plague). It’s just inside the thirteenth-century city wall, which is still visible in the gardens, and was really peaceful now that the students are gone. (Oxford University undergrads really only study for about six months of the year … nice deal, eh?) And it wouldn’t be Britain if we didn’t experience ridiculously contradictory weather along the way.




(By the way, you can click on any of the photos I've been posting to enlarge them.)