Soccer Debacle Part 1: My Debut

I’m hungry. I have a red stain on my shirt. I feel the pain in my knee and see it’s swollen. What the fuck happened tonight, I ask as I catch a blank stare from myself in the mirror. My downward gaze sees my green shorts. Soccer shorts! A mind bomb goes off as I suddenly remember that I was playing soccer earlier tonight. That’s when it happened.

Rewind to a few of weeks ago. It’s game 7 of the Stanley Cup. The Bruins of Boston are facing the Canucks of Vancouver. A friend of mine, let’s call him HotMom72, the same friend who helped coin the phrase “Tootsie Roll,” asks me if I want to come over to watch the game.

“I may have to leave early cuz I have intramural soccer at 9:15,” he says. “But you can come watch and we can hang out afterward.”

“What ever you say, Captain Asshole!” I should have said. Instead I went with something like, “Sure.”

We sit through the hockey game, me secretly hoping for a tie to push it into overtime so I won’t have to go watch soccer. I should have known then. I should have listened to my instincts, because if wouldn’t have gone to that game, I’d be able to walk normal right now.  Instead, the Canucks lose in 3 periods and we’re on our way. I reward myself by getting high. After all, I reason, I’m an American and an American team won the cup, so naturally, as a full-blooded, cry-when-the-national-anthem-is-sung-beautifully child of the red, white and blue, I turn to drugs to dull my boredom. Or, just because it makes me feel good.

As I’m about to revisit the car for my forgotten water bottle (a necessity when you’re high), HotMom72 yells at me.

“Hey man, wanna be our sub?”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” my brain screams. “I’m high as fuck right now! No, I can’t play in your Goddamn soccer game!” I stand there like a deer in headlights, contemplating how large of an explosion it would take to make everyone look the other way so I can escape undetected. I’m terrified, so I do what anyone on the “gateway drug” would do: I say yes. 

I run to the other side of the stadium and realize I’m higher than I thought. I’m bouncing on the concrete like Neil on the moon and the walls are vibrating with each stride.

Fuck. I’m actually doing this.

I haven’t played soccer in over 13 years, not since sophomore year of high school when I was so out of shape that I didn’t even finish tryouts. My self-doubt swallows me, which is part of the reason I want in. I want to redeem myself, another shot at doing something that I could’ve done years before. But right now all I can think of is looming disaster.

I circle around the field, which is basically a hockey rink with artificial turf instead of ice. There are two bench areas for the players, both with doors that latch, and between the two there’s a box for the score clock.

How do I get into my sudden team’s bench, I ask myself, frozen in fear. There’s an opening in the score clock box, but then I’ll have to walk onto the field. Hmmm. I’ll just stand here behind this nice net. And there I wait. “Why don’t you come around,” asks a female teammate of HotMom72. “They’ll let you through.”

Damn.

I creep around the corner, cautiously, to prevent complete and utter embarrassment. I tiptoe through the press box, as if landmines are buried beneath. The ref lets me onto the field and said teammate opens the door to “our” bench. And there I wait, wondering if I’ll actually sub in, or if they just needed an extra body to start the game so they pointed me out with no intentions of calling on my services.

I get my answer in the form of HotMom72 jogging to the bench and gasping for me to take his place.

Holy shit. This is it.

I run onto the field, frantic like an idiot. I put myself into a play, start to feel comfortable, but a whistle halts my imminent stardom. “You need shin guards,” says the white-haired ref. I look past my khaki cargo shorts to my sneakers and tube socks, and a sudden revelation dawns on me: I am a moron. Of course I need shin guards.

I guess when your high you forget these things, little things, like pretty much the only piece of equipment that you actually need to play soccer. A “minor” detail I failed to recall from the three years I played before the fat and lazy summer of ’98.

I feel dumb. All my worries of being laughed at have come true. Paranoid, I glance to the bleachers to make sure no one is filming this. I don’t want to become a YouTube sensation for the wrong reasons. I jog over to the bench and jump over the side instead of opening the door and stepping in like a civilized human being. Shit, I don’t need a fucking door, especially when I just want to duck behind the boards, which is where my dignity is surely hiding.

Well apparently another rule, besides the shitty “You must protect your shins to play,” is that you can’t jump over the boards to enter the bench area. You must unlatch the door, step in with an air of self-righteousness, all whilst sipping a cup of English Breakfast with your pinky in the air. The zebra locks onto my position and follows me to the bench. “Next time your team will get a yellow card.”

A part of me is incredibly relieved. No more blossoming into a muttonhead for all laughing eyes to see.

Half time brings HotMom72 and the rest of his team to the bench. He says he knew I was going to get kicked off the field. “But I needed a break.”

Asshole!

The other ref comes over during half time with a pity-driven smile. He tells me they probably have shin guards I can use in the lost and found. “If someone has socks, you’re set.” One of my new teammates does have a pair in her car. “But they’re kid socks, so they’ll probably be a little tight.”

They. Are. Incredibly. Tight. And take me what seems like forever to get on.

HotMom72 recalls it this way: I look over and he’s putting on a sock. I continue to play and about 5 minutes later I look over again. What the fuck? He’s still putting on the same sock. By the way, don’t my tits look great for a mother of three?

O.K. He didn’t say that last part, but whatever. Finally the socks are on and snuggly hug the borrowed shin guards. I step back into the bench and soon after I’m on the field, nervous, spazzing my way to almost scoring two goals.

After the game I get asked to join the team, obviously due to my on-the-field wonders, says my ego. But the side of me that keeps it real, bitches, reminds me that I just got done making a fool out of myself and it’s because they just need another body. I had a lot of fun, so another yes leaves my lips.

If only I would’ve said no.

Click here for part two of "Soccer Debacle." 

Tasteless Tendencies

I have a devil inside of me. I’m not talking a disease or a cancer. And I’m not saying there’s a miniature Dennis Quaid traveling throughout my body, because no matter how much I bought into that at age 7, it’s simply not possible. I’ve done my research.

What I’m talking about is a devil, impulsive thoughts trying to get me to say and do certain things that are completely inappropriate. Right now you’re probably thinking, “Hey guy, you’re pretty inappropriate already, and man does my asshole itch!” Well friend, make sure no one is looking, give it hell, and then wash your hands. Butt you’re right, I am pretty inappropriate, however, the devil inside me pushes my tasteless tendencies to a new level.

Take for instance my adventures in the realm online dating. About three months ago I decided to drive around on the information superhighway, whistling at female drivers who were listening for whistles or doing some of their own whistling. Yup. I just typed that sentence. Anyway, I’ve joined a site called OKCupid, which actually is one of the better online dating sites I’ve found (and I’ve looked at a total of three of these mate match search engines so I basically have my Ph.D. in this shit). Online dating is an amazing land where rejection, in the form of unanswered messages, grows like weeds but occasionally a flower blooms. Sometimes that flower turns out to smell like rotting flesh, but hey, I scored a response. She’s vetted my profile, gauged me to be a relatively normal guy, and deemed me worthy of a conversation. 

That’s when the devil creeps in, telling me things to write, phrases you’ll never find in any dating manual, words that will end the conversation in seconds and probably lead her to consider deleting her profile.

To help convey my point, here’s a scenario. The role of “Me” will be played by me. The role of “Devil” will be played by Al Pacino, or the part of me that rarely sees the light of day. And the role of “Her” will be played by a mash up of online conversations I’ve had with women.

Me: You mentioned you like to do art in your profile. Which kind do you fancy the most? I’m a photographer (here’s a link to some of my work) but I used to do a lot of drawing. Anyway, you seem pretty cool. Message me back if you’d like, -Me

Her: I like all kinds of art but I stick mostly to painting and mixed media. I love your photos and you made me laugh in your profile. What’s your favorite subject matter to take photographs of?

Now I have two potential answers to her question: an honest one about how my current favs are abstract photos, OR an amazing nugget of disaster from my terrible idea factory.

Devil: Well in college I interned at a morgue, which, I know, seems a little creepy. But it was almost the only place I could be alone with a dead body. So the honest answer to your question is photographs of dead bodies. You wouldn’t happen to have any elderly relatives? Possibly (cross my fingers) one or two on their death beds?

Now you may be laughing at that or you may be disgusted. Or who knows, you may still be itching your asshole from before. The point is, you should probably get that checked out. The second point is: I have an absolute jerk inside of me that I have to ignore in order to form new relationships, maintain current ones, and potentially stay out of jail.

Another example came recently. I was at a bluegrass festival with some friends. Bluegrass is definitely not my type of music, so it should be noted that I was a little bit irritated already, but I was there to see an old friend. During my conversation to drown out the banjo and contrived southern accents my devil urged me to do something I’ve wanted to do for quite some time.

“When I’m rich,” I told my friend. “I’m gonna just walk up to people, hand them a hundred dollar bill, and then slam whatever they’re holding onto the ground.”

He laughed.

“And then I’d just walk away. Because first you have to win them over. “Oh, he seems like a nice rich guy,” they’d say. And then, boom. Walk away.”

If it’s a plate full of food, a drink, a baby, I don’t care, I want to spike it onto the ground. Chill out Grandma, I would never spike a baby onto the ground for a hundred bucks. Fifty. I don’t know what it is. I just feel this sudden urge to destroy anything that people are holding.

It also happens in K-Mart, Walmart, or any mart that has shelved items so perfectly. “Haven’t you ever wanted to just knock every single thing off these shelves,” I’ve asked multiple people as we stroll through the isles looking for Preparation H. Maybe it’s because so many hours during my high school years were spent stocking the shelves at a Walgreen’s. Whatever it is, I think it would be grand. And I may just do that when I can shell out the cash to pay for hundreds of smashed jars of pickles and olives. And bail. And lawyer fees. And medical bills from slipping on thousands of kosher dills.

I probably won’t though. I’m too reserved.

And just because I feel like it, here are a few more lines that have flickered across my untamed brain when messaging women online:

“My favorite movie… hmmm. I’m actually not a big fan of movies, unless I’m directing them, and you’re naked.”

“Nice shoes! Wanna – fuck I forgot what I was going to type! I think it was along the lines of “Do you want to grab a bite to eat, maybe see a movie, and then bang like 5 times in the back of my Buick?””

“Well, in five years I see myself hiding inside a very fat person, mostly to stay warm. But if the Mayans are wrong and the sun hasn’t exploded, I’ll probably still be hiding in a fat person, just for fun.”

“On a typical Friday night I’m either out with my friends or at home trying to wash the blood off my hands. So much blood.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty personal question. The craziest place I’ve had sex is on top of a guy who was passed out. How about you?”

“So for our date I was thinking we could have a picnic, go play some Frisbee, you could fall head over heels into the trunk of my car after you met my shovel, and then we could play a game called “Who can fit in the hole I just dug?” You first. No, I insist. Have you met my taser?”

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Tomfoolery 101 With Professor Pops, Part One: General Troublemaking

This post is part one of a 3-part series titled "Tomfoolery 101 With Professor Pops." It chronicles my shenanigans with my father. To read part two, " 'Splosions," click your face. To read part three, "His Pyro Side," click your Mom's face.  

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We're on our way into town when my dad suddenly pulls the car to the side of the road. "Let's go," he says, ejecting from the driver seat and walking straight into the forest. I am perplexed. This jungle of birch and oak trees surrounding a small pond in northern Minnesota is clearly not the hardware store we had set out for. 

I hurry to catch up. "What are we doing, Dad?" I ask while  swatting away the mosquitoes and horseflies that buzz around my head.

“You’ll see.”

I smell an adventure so I drop the questions and follow as he goes from dead tree to dead tree, shoving them as he meanders through the thick. He finds one that gives slightly with his push, and summons me over, looking toward the road for a passing car. I realize what comes next and a smile widens my face.

Once the coast is clear we push the birch in unison, keeping our eyes skyward. “You have to be careful the top doesn’t come crashing down on you,” he says while smiling. The tree rocks back and forth, teetering farther and farther. We hear a sudden crack, feel the tree give out, and watch as the pole shatters onto the ground.

“WOOO-OOT,” he shouts excitedly. “How about that!?!”

I temporarily set aside my teenage feelings of disgust for my father, because, that was pretty cool.

A search of the surrounding area yields a dozen more tired trees that need to lie down. We oblige every one of them.

I laugh to myself as we make our way back to the car, wondering why I am continually surprised by this small man. I look at him as he drives us away from the scene of our crimes and see his mischievous grin. 

This is my pops: devout Catholic, husband of 40+ years, father of four, avid outdoorsman, homemade bomb enthusiast, pyromaniac, and tenured teacher of Tomfoolery 101.

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My brother has been pretty blatant about his smoking habit. Lately he has been using gum wrappers to roll his tobacco and/or other smoke-able plants. I’m not blind to this, so when an idea explodes in my head to dry and smoke mint leaves, I go to my dad for approval. To my surprise, he not only gives me the O.K., but decides to join me in the adventure.

I grab a couple of gum wrappers and like my brother has inadvertently taught me, scrape the metallic covering off of the sticky, plasticy paper. Looking back, I realize how much of an idiot my brother was as the wrappers were probably filled with carcinogens and how much of an idiot I was to follow his example. But isn’t everything you smoke already chalked full of terribly bad-for-you things?

My dad and I harvest the largest leaves we can find from the cluster of mint growing next to the slab of concrete we call a basketball court. I slice the leaves with my Swiss Army knife and lay the thin strips on paper towels, letting the yellow orb in the sky emaciate the plant with its dehydration witchcraft. A few hours later the leaves are ready for further humiliation by flame.

My dad and I sit down and roll our mint joints. I’m still a little shocked he’s come along with me on this journey, with bad-idea potential written all over it, and he’s probably a little concerned that his 11-year-old knows how to roll a joint. We finish and grab the fire stick from the grill. Lighting them up we take a puff. The backs of our throats burn with smoke that tastes nothing like the fresh smelling plant that started this brain gem and we start convulsing with coughs. As our hacks dwindle, we lock bleary eyes and know that this isn’t a proud moment for either of us. Throwing out our joints, we grab some lemonade to cool our raw throats, and go our separate ways without words.

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My paps started honing his art of shenanigans at a very young age. Placing third out of seven siblings, he had the trial-and-error guidance of his two older brothers, and the pressure to impress his four younger brothers and sisters. His days were filled with school, working on his uncle’s farm, and finding ways to spice up life in a town of less than 50 residents.

No wonder he loves blowing shit up.

READ part two of "Tomfoolery 101 With Professor Pops" by clicking here.