Long Ball Specialist
New Member
I’ve played in the FVSL for 5 years now. I wasn’t good enough for the mighty VMSL and somehow worked my way into the Peace Arch team. I wear number 15 and I have a bad touch and offer little going forward. Sometimes I do ok, sometimes I **** up. I train twice a week, mostly. I hang out and have a pint or two. Sometimes I have three.
I love soccer. I don’t even call it soccer. To me it’s football. Regardless, it’s November. It’s 8.30pm and 3 degrees outside and raining sideways. There’s 3:25 to go in the second period. Henrik has a pair of assists. My wife is looking hot on the couch. I’m a lock if I sack it off and stay home. However, I drag myself off the couch and drive to soccer. I’m not the top scorer in the FVSL and I’m miserable, it’s a fcuking Tuesday. And then I walk into the changeroom. And there it is. Twenty five other guys missing their couches, wives, X-Boxes, cocks or blow up sheep. Twenty five tired, miserable cold dudes bound by nothing other than their love of some misshaped piece of sponsored plastic peddled by their adoring coach. Nobody is getting paid. Not even the fluffer. Our top scorer doesn’t have the initials KT and doesn’t get paid seven thousand dollars a year. Our top scorer doesn’t owe anyone anything. Ethically we’re in the clear. Sort of.
For me this is amateur soccer. It’s hours of commitment for nothing in return other than the joy of winning and losing as a team. I’m not paid. If my team mate was paid it would ruin it for me. He’s paid to be cold. Paid to be away from his X-Box on a Tuesday. Paid to be uncomfortably fat. Paid to take a shot on the inside of the thigh from thee yards and listen to the laughs from his team mates. Paid to listen to the top scorer talk him through his last goal over and over. Paid to not show up. Paid to laugh at my jokes. What’s the point?
There’s guys on my team who I’d tackle a guy with my teeth for. I’d do that because they’d do that for me, I think. There’s no question about motive. They were there on that cold Tuesday for no other reason than they chose to be there. And they wanted to see me take a ball in the nuts.
And then there is Poco.
I love soccer. I don’t even call it soccer. To me it’s football. Regardless, it’s November. It’s 8.30pm and 3 degrees outside and raining sideways. There’s 3:25 to go in the second period. Henrik has a pair of assists. My wife is looking hot on the couch. I’m a lock if I sack it off and stay home. However, I drag myself off the couch and drive to soccer. I’m not the top scorer in the FVSL and I’m miserable, it’s a fcuking Tuesday. And then I walk into the changeroom. And there it is. Twenty five other guys missing their couches, wives, X-Boxes, cocks or blow up sheep. Twenty five tired, miserable cold dudes bound by nothing other than their love of some misshaped piece of sponsored plastic peddled by their adoring coach. Nobody is getting paid. Not even the fluffer. Our top scorer doesn’t have the initials KT and doesn’t get paid seven thousand dollars a year. Our top scorer doesn’t owe anyone anything. Ethically we’re in the clear. Sort of.
For me this is amateur soccer. It’s hours of commitment for nothing in return other than the joy of winning and losing as a team. I’m not paid. If my team mate was paid it would ruin it for me. He’s paid to be cold. Paid to be away from his X-Box on a Tuesday. Paid to be uncomfortably fat. Paid to take a shot on the inside of the thigh from thee yards and listen to the laughs from his team mates. Paid to listen to the top scorer talk him through his last goal over and over. Paid to not show up. Paid to laugh at my jokes. What’s the point?
There’s guys on my team who I’d tackle a guy with my teeth for. I’d do that because they’d do that for me, I think. There’s no question about motive. They were there on that cold Tuesday for no other reason than they chose to be there. And they wanted to see me take a ball in the nuts.
And then there is Poco.
