Ahhh soccer... a sport that is more commonly known throughout the world as "football". I'm pretty confident that if this world was to have sport (like the national sports of Canada are hockey and lacrosse...hmmm... I wonder what's more popular?) it would be safe to consider soccer as that sport. I guess that pillaging could be considered a close second, but I still think soccer is more widely embraced by the masses that populate this planet.
So then, why am I talking about soccer after an absence of eleven months that left all three of the people that read my blog in therapy? Well, I guess you could call it the "late awakening": a delayed sense of enjoyment in my blogging. I have no clue why I quit in the first place, as my excuse of being too busy really didn't follow through with how busy I figured I would be. Sure, school has assignments that need to be finished and it has community that needs the presence of someone cool, so it's only natural that they would employ me to find someone to find this person. Yes, I too was hoping that they were coming to me figuring I was the key to community, but evidently I wear tight pants and people are biased towards this imagery.
Back to the matter at hand: I am blogging again. Now I realize that I have committed to it many times and broken that agreement with myself more times than I have told stories, but that is why I will probably not have anyone read my blog until I prove consistency. I readily accept this reality and in fact applaud it; no one should be deceived by someone who gave up piano and is a born-again coconut eater. Yes my friends, I would be skeptical as well.
This blog entry, by the way, has a point behind it. I realize that my frequent rabbit trails lead me into bad marks (ask my Communications teacher Mark Koop) and I am OK with this. It is part of my personality and I am working on fixing it. Actually, perfecting it may be the proper terminology in this case, for I am sure that many would enjoy it if I were to keep my personality and get rid of the annoying shadow that tags along with it. However, as long as I am human I will live on earth, and as long as I live in earth I will be susceptible to stupidity.
Now I shall start the story with the origins of my relationship with soccer: It really started last year while I was in my freshman year. I was introduced to NISL (Nipawin Indoor Soccer League, www.nipawinindoorsoccerleague.com) and was to play for the legendary Expired Milk team. With our intimidating pink jerseys and our lack of soccer knowledge, we were a force on the court. Yes sir and/or madam, we played with joy in our hearts and songs on our lips. Mind you, the joy left at the sound of the whistle and the songs were rather depressing, but we played nonetheless. My career started with one game as a forward and then it dissolved into the position that I feared most: keeper *shudder*
Now you can probably relate in some way or another to the way that I feel. I wanted to be the team hero on offense and lift my team to the playoffs. I wanted to be adored in ways that only a highly talented player could be and have Lindor chocolates raining down upon my head as I lifted the trophy above my head. However, there was problem: I couldn't hit the net worth beans. I couldn't run and my ball handling was only slightly better than that of a comatose redwood stump. After seeing my offensive qualities my team made the decision to put me between the pipes and let me get pelted by inflated bladders.
I had never played soccer goalie before because I had come to the conclusion that it would hurt me in ways that playing forward wouldn't. I had played floor hockey goalie before and was "volunteered" every noon hour to play net, as my classmates liked seeing the scrawny kid in a hoodie having pucks pounding him and sticks slashing off his fingers. They tell me it was because I was quick and flexible but I maintain the position it was one way that they could get away with physical abuse. Yup, life was cruel to me.
Anyways, despite my pleading and constant bribing my team forced me into the yawning soccer net. It really must have looked quite humorous to the veterans of the league: A lanky, scared 18 year-old in a massive pink jersey that was meant for hockey practices. With big white runners swallowing up my feet, thin goalie gloves gracing my hands and red sports socks overtop of my pants, I stood hunched and panting on the court. I came to the hasty conclusion that there was no fun or payoff for me and that I was going to remain celibate for the rest of my life. I mean seriously, who would date the dork in crazy outfit (did I mention that the back of my jersey said “CALL ME”?). Yes, this job was bound to fail miserable. I can tell you are thinking that this is a story where I ask for pity with a side order of cookies and milk, but that is where you are wrong. This story gets worse, but it has a positive message yet, so keep reading when the next section of my story comes out…