Invincible me...

I marinated in glory, laud, and honour. My Catholic upbringing taught me not to be prideful, but that’s so hard when you are twelve and defending the World Cup of Soccer and you are amazing. Well that might be a bit of an exaggeration on the reach of the event, but I swear it was a big match, so maybe I can downgrade it to the North Harbour Cup and leave it at that, though I was still amazing.

Picture it! A bright sunny day. Little black birds are sitting on the wires waiting for the culmination of three weeks of soccer play to begin in the meadow next to our house. To be ready for the big day, Dad replaced the skeleton of the net with a new crossbar and post bones from the woodpile. He reused the old orange and green trawler net to stop the ball from either going in the gully at the back of the meadow or going across the road and out in the saltwater on the lower side.

Of course, there were fences on either end but with play such as ours, anything was possible. The net held fast for goals. It stopped hard kicked balls from taking that trajectory that could split a paling or a longer on the dried-out fence.

That day was my day. I was keeper on the saltwater side and I could not be scored upon. I kid you not. Scouts for any university or world team would have scooped me up in those few hours of play if there was such a thing as one of them getting lost and ending up in the harbour at that particular time on that particular day. Unfortunately, that star alignment was not for me but, fortunate for my team, I played like it was.

Around ten o’clock the sides were picked and I can’t say I was chosen close to first but I can say I wasn’t picked last. A few ten-year-olds were still waiting in the hopeful bunch when I was named, but I digress. By the end of the day, the other team captain was sorry my name hadn’t been the initial sound through his lips when he selected the first player.

There was no such thing as cleats, or dare I say sneakers, then. Some of us had the canvas shoes with the white rubber soles, and some had short rubbers, work boots, etc. You never knew what your shin would have to bear as the day went on.

I was sent to the goal because I wasn’t much in the way of size nor was I speedy. Generally, the players on the field just scored at every kick so being a goalie was a meaningless though semi courageous position for the lesser on the athletic spectrum, most of the time. But not that day. Ronnie Hellstrom would have been put to shame had we been compared.

About forty youngsters to young adults were halved at the whim of the two strongest among us and all hands played all the time. There were no positions but for the goalie. No out of bounds, no rules, no whistles, just stampedes of young and old following a genuine soccer ball back and forth, bordered by three fences and the house on Linehan’s meadow, with nothing but harmonized self-regulation to keep them honest.

The game began with the toss of a wood chip or a flat rock with an overzealous spit mark on one side. I couldn’t see who won but before too long, I eyed Charlie coming down along the house with the ball and breaking out ahead of the mass. He kicked it off to Albert who had made an “as the crow flies” dart toward the net and he quickly passed it back. I watched them both and my heart was thundering like the 80 feet that were full-on coming at me, with only 38 of them being on my side. Charlie gave a deke which threw off several of the players and continued to bolt down the right side. Albert was breathing down my neck as I stepped out to block Charlie. He passed it across to Albert knowing I had him cornered and Albert had the open net. Like lightning I was. My legs took me and my feet where I hadn’t thought possible. I intercepted the ball and booted it back up the meadow in such a fluid motion that you wouldn’t know but I’d been at it for years. Albert cursed under his breath and took off behind the pack.

Moments later a cheer and nineteen hands went up. Our team scored. As quick as a wink the play continued. Back toward me Harry came, his eyes bulging and his mouth watering to be the first to score for the other team. I made eye contact when he was passing the porch, several of his teammates were screaming “over here, over hear,” but Harry was not an “over here” type player. I knew he wouldn’t pass. He came in and pretended to kick off but I didn’t take the bait. I moved out on him, he booted with the force that equated to his nineteen years. My arm flew out before I knew what was happening and I deflected the ball up over the crossbar. Our side took control and, like blue-tailed flies to dead fish, the ball and the players swarmed away to the other end.

Scored!

This continued for about thirty minutes before the just kicking and scoring mentality changed to more strategic plays for the other team. I was flailing, kicking, jumping, and all but doing backflips and always in the path of the ball. It was like I had a sixth sense. Me and the ball were in tune with each other, connected somehow. My teammates began to congratulate me. Never in the history of North Harbour soccer had one been so great. We broke for lunch and the score was 32 to zero. I was invincible and smiling from ear to ear as I bit down on the jam sandwich. The other team had changed goalies at least eight times but my team would not hear of taking me out.

Around one o’clock the forty were back in the yard and rearing to go. Mom joined the other side shortly after play started. Bravery was bursting in my belly as player after player tried their luck. Mom came thundering toward me one time and kicked the ball, I stopped it and she clapped me on the back for the effort. I don’t know how many times some of the bigger players tried to bowl me over but I stood my ground and gave some vicious shin kicks to keep them back. Mom gave a scattered “boys” growl when it became blatant some of them could not take my skills as a part of the game. I don’t know how I didn’t break my toes but pain meant nothing.

Some parents came by and watched with Dad from the sawhorse and cheered us all on. The teams changed up because of the unfairness of the score and, really, I simply went to the other side. Now my team was trying to score on me but it was to no avail. I was unbeatable. I knew I was. There had never been the like before and I doubt there will ever be again.

By the time four o’clock came, everyone gave up the game for the day. I had not let in one single goal. Since the teams had changed, nobody knew who won because they stopped counting. Everyone had a good game, but mine was awesome.

Glory, laud, and honour, you marinate well but you do nothing for sore muscles that won’t let you out of bed for two days. Thankfully, my grin muscles weren’t affected. True story (names have been changed to protect the lesser players :)!

Do you remember when you were invincible?