By Alan Karickhoff, Swimming World College Intern
Meeting at my house on Cherry Street sporting the Dickinson Red, we prepared for our second intramural soccer game at 7:45 p.m. It was April 26, a cool Tuesday evening following our swim season. Myself and seven other swimmers made the five-minute walk down to Biddle Field where we would play “Washed Up,” a team of varsity women ex-soccer players.
“Is it too late to forfeit?” a voice behind me asked as we approached the field just as the clocked ticked 7:45. The ex-soccer players were already strapping on their cleats and passing the soccer ball around. Most of us just had tennis shoes, but at least we had a uniform, our Dickinson Red. I wore a swimming shirt, just to make it clear this is not my primary athletic choice.
Unclear of all the rules, but fortunate to know the obvious goal of kicking the ball into the net, we stood sporadically on our side of the field while the sun hovered above the horizon. Two girls on our team, Devon and Sammy, played soccer in high school and were quick to organize us into defenders, mid-fielders, and forwards. I stood on defense, as I did in middle school, hoping to keep the ball from our inexperienced goalie, Austin.
“FWEEEEET,” a whistle blew to initiate the start of a 45-minute game.
If anyone has seen Messi play, then that’s what the first play looked like after the ex-soccer players stole the ball. They quickly juked-out our forwards who were too slow to make it back to defense. The quick back and forth passing allowed them to weave through our mid-fielders and kick a 30-foot shot past myself and the other defender, Kevin. Austin didn’t have a chance as the ball quickly hit the back of the net.
Soccer was harder than we remembered. Running in straight lines weren’t going to work on the field. Fortunately, there was no face-off like in hockey to decide possession at the start of the next whistle. We were scored on so we automatically got it back at mid-field.
About eight minutes later and four more shots on goal, our goal, I waved for a sub. After high-fiving to signal the sub change I collapsed on the sideline, winded with burning legs. Once regaining my composure, I yelled from the sideline, which now felt like the side of the pool deck.
“Kick!…I mean…Run faster!”
“Go left, wait now right!”
“Watch the guy in the back!”
“Pass it to Kevin up front!”
My efforts proved fruitless as the whistle blew to signal halftime. 12 – 0. The score cards only went up to 10, but we knew the real score.
“Do you guys want to switch up teams, maybe?” a girl from Washed Up asked us.
“If you guys are bored, then absolutely,” we responded, embarrassed by our situation.
The next half ran by, each team with tough shots on goal and only three more points scored by either team combined. After shaking hands and thanking Washed Up for being good sports about casually weaving around us, we grouped back up to change our shoes and chug our water bottles.
“Not too bad! We got some good plays in this week.”
“Yeah, much better than last week and we didn’t even have any club soccer players on our team this week.”
“I’m not sure I could have finished the second half without switching team, but we had much better communication on the field.”
“Exactly! We just need to figure out how to do what we mean to do.”
Our skills in the pool didn’t translate to the field as much as we thought. While we had the team camaraderie, we lacked basic soccer skills and awareness. We had individual awareness, but we were not used to being aware of others. The field had more than just a black line to follow.
We walked home from the field exhausted and disappointed we couldn’t get at least one point. The game felt like one of those practices where you can’t seem to get ahead and the sets don’t get easier. We finished, though, and we were even more ready for 7:45 p.m. the following Tuesday.