Pride of the Red Card
My dad understood two sports: football and boxing. So when I moved to Kansas in sixth grade and told him I played soccer, I may as well have told him [in French] that I wanted to design dresses.
This is what my dad knew about soccer: you couldn't use your hands. You couldn't make real contact or the guy with the ball would most likely fall down and act like a hurt baby until a penalty was called. If a penalty wasn't called, the "injured" played suddenly got better and jumped up to play.
My dad thought soccer players were whiny pussies.
Still, when I moved to Kansas and played soccer, he wanted to see what it was all about. He watched a game on ESPN with me.
Offsides threw him, and he couldn't understand how--in his mind--barely bumping somebody constituted a penalty. When somebody deliberately nailed somebody and the referee held up a yellow card, my dad said, "What's that?"
"That's a yellow card," I said. "If you nail somebody too hard or do something blatant, they give you a yellow card. It's a warning."
"What happens if you hit them again?"
"You get a red card, and you're pulled from the game."
"Do they get to keep them?" he said.
"Keep what?"
"The cards."
It was a weird question. I'm sure--in my dad's mind--that a player with stacks of cards around their house was at least a tough enough soccer player to maybe move up to basketball.
"No," I said, "you don't want yellow or red cards."
My dad owned a business when I lived in Kansas. He worked most Saturday mornings when I played, so my step mother--who also didn't understand the game--took me each weekend. She knew enough to shout when our team had the ball, and boo when somebody on the other team took a cheap shot.
She understood goals.
Near the end of the season, my dad attended a game.
It was over 100 degrees outside, but that didn't stop the game from going on. There was just more water and orange wedges on the benches.
The team we played had a Brazilian coach.
Okay, maybe he wasn't Brazilian, but that's the impression I got when looking and listening to him. He looked like he fathered the entire opposing team! Every kid looked like his seed on legs, and they played soccer like a machine.
They also seemed to be impervious to heat.
The way our league worked: you could change players out, but then you had to wait for the other team to change a player out before making another substitution.
A kid on our team went out because of the heat. I was next to feel the effects of the 100+ degree heat.
I called to my coach, a really nice guy from some Slavic country. He looked sad because he couldn't pull me since the other team didn't make a substitution. I could see the worry on my coach's face.
And I could see my dad getting mad.
The opposing team's coach knew I was sapped. He commanded his genetic army of soccer playing robots to attack my side of the field. I felt dizzy and hot. I wanted out!
But my coach couldn't call me out.
I recognized how sick it was that a grown man (the other coach), was taking pleasure in watching a sixth grader on the verge of going down from heat exhaustion.
Some kid who was probably his second born son had the ball.
I ran up and tackled the kid in a hit that would have made my dad proud had we been playing football.
My dad understood the yellow card the referee held up high.
When play resumed, I went at the other coach's first born.
I hit him hard.
He didn't get up, and the coach looked worried.
I gave him my best evil grin when the red card went up in the referee's hand.
I was told to get off the field.
When the other team's coach ran out to check the injured player, I tried dead-legging him, too.
But I missed.
The thought was there, at least, and it seemed everybody watching understood why I did what I did.
As I stood on the side of the field drinking water and eating orange wedges, I smelled the familiar odor of beer and Lucky Strikes. I felt my dad's hand on my shoulder.
"I'm proud of you, bud,"
This is what my dad knew about soccer: you couldn't use your hands. You couldn't make real contact or the guy with the ball would most likely fall down and act like a hurt baby until a penalty was called. If a penalty wasn't called, the "injured" played suddenly got better and jumped up to play.
My dad thought soccer players were whiny pussies.
Still, when I moved to Kansas and played soccer, he wanted to see what it was all about. He watched a game on ESPN with me.
Offsides threw him, and he couldn't understand how--in his mind--barely bumping somebody constituted a penalty. When somebody deliberately nailed somebody and the referee held up a yellow card, my dad said, "What's that?"
"That's a yellow card," I said. "If you nail somebody too hard or do something blatant, they give you a yellow card. It's a warning."
"What happens if you hit them again?"
"You get a red card, and you're pulled from the game."
"Do they get to keep them?" he said.
"Keep what?"
"The cards."
It was a weird question. I'm sure--in my dad's mind--that a player with stacks of cards around their house was at least a tough enough soccer player to maybe move up to basketball.
"No," I said, "you don't want yellow or red cards."
My dad owned a business when I lived in Kansas. He worked most Saturday mornings when I played, so my step mother--who also didn't understand the game--took me each weekend. She knew enough to shout when our team had the ball, and boo when somebody on the other team took a cheap shot.
She understood goals.
Near the end of the season, my dad attended a game.
It was over 100 degrees outside, but that didn't stop the game from going on. There was just more water and orange wedges on the benches.
The team we played had a Brazilian coach.
Okay, maybe he wasn't Brazilian, but that's the impression I got when looking and listening to him. He looked like he fathered the entire opposing team! Every kid looked like his seed on legs, and they played soccer like a machine.
They also seemed to be impervious to heat.
The way our league worked: you could change players out, but then you had to wait for the other team to change a player out before making another substitution.
A kid on our team went out because of the heat. I was next to feel the effects of the 100+ degree heat.
I called to my coach, a really nice guy from some Slavic country. He looked sad because he couldn't pull me since the other team didn't make a substitution. I could see the worry on my coach's face.
And I could see my dad getting mad.
The opposing team's coach knew I was sapped. He commanded his genetic army of soccer playing robots to attack my side of the field. I felt dizzy and hot. I wanted out!
But my coach couldn't call me out.
I recognized how sick it was that a grown man (the other coach), was taking pleasure in watching a sixth grader on the verge of going down from heat exhaustion.
Some kid who was probably his second born son had the ball.
I ran up and tackled the kid in a hit that would have made my dad proud had we been playing football.
My dad understood the yellow card the referee held up high.
When play resumed, I went at the other coach's first born.
I hit him hard.
He didn't get up, and the coach looked worried.
I gave him my best evil grin when the red card went up in the referee's hand.
I was told to get off the field.
When the other team's coach ran out to check the injured player, I tried dead-legging him, too.
But I missed.
The thought was there, at least, and it seemed everybody watching understood why I did what I did.
As I stood on the side of the field drinking water and eating orange wedges, I smelled the familiar odor of beer and Lucky Strikes. I felt my dad's hand on my shoulder.
"I'm proud of you, bud,"