Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Playing Soccer and Pushing 40

Photo by sarahviz 
So this week began the fall season of Women's Over-30 Indoor Soccer League.

I played last spring as well.  Our team, aptly titled Purple Pain, didn't win one single game.

But we had fun.  And drank pitchers of beer afterwards.  And decided (after said pitchers of beer) that we were definitely the best-looking team in the what if we couldn't score a goal?  At least we looked good.  Heh.

And now this fall we are back. The return of Purple Pain.

There are 10 ladies on the team.  And one of them is my sister!

My Sis and I last played high school Varsity soccer together in 1990. (I was a senior and she was a sophomore.)  Yes, THAT LONG AGO.  Pardon me while I grab my cane and remove my false teeth.

 This picture brought to you by Aqua Net hairspray.  Lots of it.

Monday night was our first game.  I was eager to see how my Sis would fare, she being the decidedly better soccer player in the fam.

(Truth be told, I was totally looking forward to her sucking wind, much like I knew I would be.)

(Hi, sibling rivalry, how are you?)

And sweat.  OMG, the sweat.

Sweat dripping down my face.  Sweat in my eyes.  Sweat everywhere.

Those required short bursts of speed that make you feel like you want to DIE.

We lost.  5-1.  Purple Pain has YET to win a game.

But we played much better than last spring.  And could have won, if we hadn't shot directly AT their goalie, every.single.time.  I don't think she even broke a sweat.  She just had to bend down and grab the ball at her feet, over and over again. 

Afterwards, my Sis and I were laughing about how OLD we are (and FEEL) now, compared to when we were spring chickens on a FULL soccer field in those good ole late 80's/early 90's.

We both know the game of soccer pretty well.  We know what we need to do.  And how to do it.

But actually executing?

Man, that's tough at this ripe old age.

I mean, I know where I SHOULD be on the field.  I know when I SHOULD be marking my man.  But when I'm sweating and huffing and puffing and wanting to collapse?  It doesn't seem so important to actually GET THERE, you know?  Besides, the ball will eventually come back to my end of the field again.  Right?

This post-game soreness is KILLING ME.  I mean, I expected my legs to be sore.  But my stomach muscles (wherever they may be buried)?  And my arms (which didn't touch the ball at all)?

What the hell?!

P.S.  But I can't wait to do it all over again next Monday!

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