Older Crowd Can Still Get Its Kicks

I’ve become a soccer fan these last eight years; a necessity since both of my children have played soccer through our town’s sports association.  My younger son played for a few seasons before deciding that baseball was more to his liking, while my older son has played every fall and spring season since kindergarten.  In addition to spending endless hours on the sidelines watching my sons practice and play, I’ve enjoyed attending some of the New England Revolution games at Foxboro, and watching World Cup Soccer on television.

With all that in mind, I can honestly say that I’ve found something infinitely more entertaining than watching my children play soccer.  And that’s watching my husband play soccer.

Recently, my husband was invited to join a local “over 40” soccer league.  My husband is over 40 and then some, so you can imagine my concern about him suddenly deciding to sprint around an indoor soccer court for fifty minutes every Friday night.  Though a regular at the gym, at his age every physical endeavor brings potentially new and exciting ways to hurt himself. The team’s name, “Under Construction”was a little puzzling, but definitely preferable to something more ominous, like say, “Condemned”.

My husband had a brief stint on a co-ed team just a few years ago, and what I remember most was each game ending with someone limping off the field in need of an ice pack.  At the end of that season, I was thankful that most of his body parts were still intact.  There were no subsequent invites to join another team until earlier this fall when the “over 40” team came calling.

And so for the past month, my Friday nights have been spent sitting in the stands at the South Shore Sports Center in Hingham, cheering on the efforts of my husband and his fellow soccer cronies…er, I mean teammates.  I can honestly say that there are marked differences between watching children play soccer and watching mature men play the game.

For example, the language is much more colorful.  Mind you, the teams do try to keep their exclamations PG-13, given that there are often kids in the gallery, but I’ve seen a few missed plays result in an f-bomb.  I guess I can’t expect men entering their golden years to yell, “Oh POOPY!” when they miss a goal.  Though that would be funny.

Speaking of language, my Friday nights have taken on an international flavor.  My husband’s team was slaughtered three weeks ago by the Brazilian team.  Big surprise there, since Brazilians come out of the womb with cleats on their feet.  My husband’s team was definitely at a disadvantage because their opponents were shouting instructions to each other in Portuguese.   That and the fact that they’re Brazilian.  Things didn’t go much better the following week when they played the Irish team.  Though instructions were shouted in heavily-accented English, my husband’s team just couldn’t get out from under the luck o’ the Irish.

I don’t remember much fighting when my children played soccer, but in my husband’s league I see players posturing, chest bumping and getting in each other’s faces over the most minor infractions.  At one point I wondered if I was watching soccer or hockey.  Luckily, most of the blowups dissolved quickly, and no one came after us in the dark parking lot after the game. 

The adult games also offer something the kids’ games never could: booze.  There’s nothing that can’t be improved by the addition of alcohol, and that includes watching an assortment of older men, some in questionable physical condition, sweat their way up and down the pitch for the better part of an hour.  Cheers!

I will say that with age comes improved skill at (ahem) ball control. These over-40 teams have perfected the art of carefully passing of the ball to each other, rather than slam-kicking the ball at every opportunity as children often do.

As far as injuries, so far my husband has strained a muscle in one leg, necessitating the use of a wintergreen-scented muscle rub that stinks up the entire house, and just recently twisted his foot, causing a big, swollen bruise to appear.  No serious injuries or trips to the emergency room…yet!

While I wouldn’t mind the occasional Friday night movie or dinner out, I know that one of the things my husband enjoys most about these evenings, other than his pure love of the game, is to have his family in the stands cheering him on. When he comes off the field with that big, beaming smile on his face, looking almost like a kid himself, I’m reminded of how much this means to him, and I’m tempted to  throw my arms around him and share his joy.

But I don’t.  Because let’s face it, he’s pretty sweaty.