Delfín 4, Liga de Quito 1; Portugal 2, Mexico 1; Germany 1, Chile 0; a futile exercise in pickup soccer

The important news is that Delfín S.C. clinched the top spot in the first semester of the Ecuadorian tournament. In so doing, the “Cetaceans” qualified to play in December’s grand finale – and in the group stage of next year’s Copa Libertadores.

This is historic. Delfín will be the first-ever Copa Libertadores team from the longsuffering province of Manabí.

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In the Confederations Cup, in the game for third place, the Portuguese scored a couple of late goals to defeat the Mexicans. Then, in the final game, the Germans tapped the ball into the net after stealing it from one of the Chilean defenders. After that, the Germans simply waited for the game to end.

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I missed the second half of that game because I was playing pickup soccer. It was not one of my best experiences playing soccer.

It was dismal to play as a fatty. I had the strength for just one sprint, and I didn’t want to expend it right away, so I let the opposing players dribble past me. Then, after an old man dribbled past me, I was like, “No more of this.” So when he tried again I got in his way and kicked the ball out of bounds. I did this several times.

I tried to stay on the wing, a region of the field from which the other team would never score any goals. Alas, my teammates failed to occupy the fullback’s area just behind me. (Perhaps they assumed that I was the fullback.) Since I didn’t run back to cover that area – and since I couldn’t have guarded anyone even if I had run back – this was fatal.

After a while, my friend Brandon – another fatty, who was playing for the other team – came over to my side of the field to guard me. I decided to perform my only sprint. I ran into the open space behind Brandon. I called for the ball. It was passed elsewhere.

A little later I decided that it was time for me to go home.

My bachelor party

We held my bachelor party last night. It was nothing very strenuous. I figured I was too fat to fulfill my longtime dream of playing soccer, so I planned only to have a meal.

As the meal began to wind down, various partiers excused themselves. The others wondered what we’d do next.

“We could go to Barnes & Noble,” I said, “and each of you could buy me a book.”

A few more of the partiers excused themselves.

Martin arrived late. A graduating high-school student had chosen him as his most influential teacher, and Martin had been obliged to go to a ceremony to be honored by him. The student hadn’t attended the ceremony.

“We could go home and watch TV,” I said. “Those are the two things that I enjoy doing. I like to buy books and to watch TV.”

“Shots!” said my friend Brandon.

“No.”

My tone was curt. I didn’t want to drink shots.

“I mean, penalty shots!” said Brandon. “Soccer shots!”

That seemed like a good idea. Kicking penalty shots wouldn’t require too much effort.

Brandon and David and Stephen and Martin and our other friend Scott and I got into our cars and headed over to Bethel to take penalty shots at the goals there. But one field was being sprinkled, and the other had players on it, and the remaining goals were chained away out of reach.

“The Kroc Center!” we said.

“Peace out,” said Martin and Scott.

Brandon and David and Stephen and I went to the field at the Kroc Center. It was full of child lacrosse players, playing in some organized league. I felt some resentment toward the middle classes.

“The Trinity School!” we said.

The field at that school is sometimes accessible. We tried our luck. The gate was open.

We played three penalty shootout tournaments. My objective was to score at least one goal. (At a bachelor party, it’s important for the groom-to-be to score at least one goal.) Once this was achieved, I basically stopped trying and let the ball sail wherever it wished to.

Tomorrow, Karin & I’ll get married. I feel the momentousness. I’m slightly quieter than usual.

I lose a race

You play like an old man, Brandon tells me as I limp off the field (not that he’s very limber). I am an old man, I answer. But the truth is, I’ve let myself go; I could refurbish my motor if I wanted to.

This morning, by the river, I run five miles (I can do that any day, irrespective of my rustiness). Half a mile ahead jogs a slim young woman. Slim but slow. Ten minutes later, I’ve passed her. Another slim young woman appears in the distance; five more minutes, and I’ve passed her, too. On a bridge I pass another woman. This one is walking her dog. The bridge is narrow, but the dog is leashed, and the woman pulls it close to her. Comfortably ahead, I slow my pace. This is the life.

Just as I relax, though, I’m passed by a crafty old man: one of these “health fiends.” This won’t do. (A year ago I was on the trail constantly, and no one ever passed me.)

I speed up: for a while I keep pace behind this presumptuous old man. But eventually he pulls well ahead. His legs are toned, but not more than mine. Last year, I would have lapped him.

At home, worn out, I sleep for several hours.