In which I mistake myself for a spring chicken

A few months ago LT and I met the wife of one of they guys we play hockey with. We got to talking and as it turns out she's a soccer player and their team was looking for some new blood. When I was about knee high to a grasshopper I did play the game, and did love it muchly. But it's been a good 20 years since I quit. As far as I can recall I must've been close to 16 when I hung up my cleats.

Naturally, I dove at the chance to play again. Since I'm nothing if not enthusiastic I jumped right in with both feet and drug LT along with me to our doom. Mind you, neither one of us has so much as run a single block in over a year and we went out 3 weeks ago to play 90 minutes of non-stop sprinting and ball-chasing soccer in the humid heat of a late summer day in the fields of Indiana.

Our team was short that week and we had no subs on the sidelines to offer us any breaks. Every time either of us started to just walk a bit on the field to recover someone in the backfield would shout a heart RUN! GREEN! GET TO THE BALL!  And so we would dig up some speed from god knows where and zip off after the ball.

With roughly 30 minutes left in the game my shoes had rubbed my heels raw and I was hobbling around still valiantly trying to stay in the play. I was dripping with the sweat of a thousand.... er, sweaty things and generally was knocking at death's door. Or so I thought at the moment.

When the game finally and mercifully ended we both collapsed into a mishapen heap on our bench panting and trying to affix a smile to our faces as our new teammates gathered round and congratulated us on our big comeback to the game. The girl that recruited us got a clap on the back for her "good finds" and I found myself writing out a check to the team leader committing us to play for the next couple of months.

Silly me.

For approximately 9 days following that first game neither LT nor I could walk with out a limp of some sort. Her shoes were not properly fitted and she bruised both of her big toes to the point that they were nearly black. I had ever so lovely blisters on my heels and my quads were generally quite hateful towards me anytime I requested their use.

We ended up skipping our second game so we could heal a bit and get ready for the third game. We shopped for some better shoes and special friction resistant socks and got ourselves all decked out for this week's match.

Last night we trotted out on to the pitch and gave 'er the old college try once more. Probably 40 minutes into the game I attempted a long clearing shot and felt the joy of my left quad asking me for a divorce. Apparently it had had enough of my abusive ways and wanted nothing more to do with me or running or kicking or generally allowing me to walk.

And so...I have come to the realization that my triumphant return to the green spaces of futbol is going to be a short but sweet trip as well as a moderately expensive realization that I am no longer a teenager and should stick to things more appropriate for my age group. Like drinking red wine and watching the world cup on teevee.