Who says intramural sports are devoid of all competition?
Not the way I play, at least.
Sunday afternoon, my all-girls soccer team hit the field in search of our first win of the season. Until then, we’d played three games and had our asses handed to us on a platter each time. We have an abundance of enthusiasm but – aside from a handful of people who last played before the onset of puberty, one seasoned goalie and a single star striker – we are otherwise devoid of real soccer experience.
On Sunday, things seemed to click for the first time. The defense was airtight, our goalkeeper was on fire and punching away everything, and we had finally found a way to get the ball out of our defensive half – which is helpful because scoring mandates that the ball has to roll into the OTHER goal.
I’m absolutely convinced that I’m a defender at heart, but the team played me in midfield because I also have Ball Magnetism Syndrome – I get excited and just follow the ball, regardless of where I’m supposed to be playing.
Midway through the first half, I’m running downfield, yelling for the ball, and excited by the mass of open space in front of me. All the defenders have disappeared, I’m damn sure I’m onside, and the only person between me and the goal is the goalie. A teammate sends that little orb coming at me, threaded right through everyone else. It’s a perfect pass, once the ball lands right at my feet. I silently pray that I won’t screw up the shot, and let loose.
It rolls in and we’re ahead 1-0.
Scoring is a high like none other. It gets me even more amped up than I was before, and this beast kicks in. It doesn’t matter that this is a crummy little intramural game. We’re NOT losing this one. Not losing. No.
The other team equalizes on a penalty kick just before the half, but we come out roaring in the second. (I mean that literally because apparently I have a tendency to growl when I’m going after the ball.)
Our champ striker scores from open play to put us up 2-1, our fiery little red-headed defender scores another from beyond the half-field line, and we’re up 3-1.
With our two-goal cushion, it was probably unnecessary for me – now back on defense in the dying minutes of the game – to charge after a ball at the feet of an attacker who was, in my estimation, getting too damn close to our goal.
I hunted down that ball at full speed. I could see it in front of me, so close I could visualize booting it way the hell out of danger zone. Then my cleat caught on something – probably an opponent’s foot.
I went up in the air, and hit the turf on my left shoulder. The ensuing crunch proves that soccer is indeed a contact sport. The ref’s whistle blows, and it’s game over. Adrenaline is pumping so hard that, while I can’t lift my damn arm, nothing really hurts until I’m walking to the car and reality sets in. A trip to the emergency room reveals that I’ve broken my collarbone in two places.
Still, the only part of the whole deal that drives me insane is that I’m looking at six long weeks without physical activity. I’m. Going To. Go. Crazy.
But hey, at least we won.
See, who says there’s no competition in rec sports?
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