On the lighter side of the Nonahood, this is a column about the humorous realities of life in Central Florida. We must choose to laugh and sweat rather than cry and sweat.
Sports in Central Florida: Should they exist? What follows is a pain-riddled case study.
My first encounter with a sport in Florida was in college, playing soccer in Daytona. I scored a fantastic goal with two minutes left on the clock to tie things up, only to lose two minutes into overtime. Life.
But boy, that goal is one I’ll never forget. I received the ball 25 yards from the goal and the moment I made contact, it leaped off my foot and screamed (in obvious pain) into the net.
The goal was a scorcher, a thing of sheer athletic genius, one for the history books, or well, at least the history book I plan on self-publishing called, The Life and Times of Me: a historical account of one amazing moment alongside various sundry other moments that my mother will enjoy.
That game was over 20 years ago, but I still play. The ball doesn’t so much leap off my foot as limp. But that was in Daytona, not in Central Florida.
Here, we play at work during our lunch hour. I know, it’s pretty insane. We’ve tried getting up early before work, before the horrible blazing ball of hotness we call the sun besets us in all its furnace-y fury, but we’re too lazy. So laziness swings around full circle to bite us in our sweaty butts. Laziness is both mean and gross.
Before we play, we have to set up ridiculous foldable goals. The malevolent equipment terrorizes us in its stubborn refusal to cooperate. Once, it took us 45 minutes to untangle the net. I had to take three water breaks, one player laid down in the heat, saying, “I just need to take a nap” (does dehydration work like hypothermia?), and another player began hallucinating, thinking he was on a fishing boat, “Tell the Cap I’ll get to the tangled rigging portside, once I’ve managed this blankety-blank mess.” Sailors.
Yet we face more than mere heat stroke. Our field is situated beside a pond that soccer balls can’t resist. Preferring to cool off rather than be kicked around by shoes that eggs could fry on, our soccer balls merrily flit, fly and limp into the pond. There they blissfully bob, lollygagging and sniggering as they watch the proceedings.
Once, one of our more problematic balls flew onto a nearby road. He got run over. Served him right.
Then there are the little things like tying our shoes. Once tied, there’s no untying them. If they don’t get wet in the pond while we fearfully (gators will get us all) fish protesting balls out, they will get wet by the sweat cascading down our bodies. One day, I scrunched up my toes to see sweat coming out of my shoes. So our laces will get very wet. When rope gets wet, it’s un-un-tie-able. I’ve had this pair on for a week. I think my toes may have bloomed into mushrooms by now.
At the end of every game, since we can’t breathe, we shake hands as if to say with our hands, “Congrats for not sweating yourself into oblivion and turning into a pile of dust.”
Regardless of all the pain and suffering, we do this for fun.
“That ball was out.”
“No, it was in.”
“Are you kidding me? It was out.”
“We need a ref.”
“Shut up, Carl.”
“I didn’t see it. Are anyone else’s eyes stinging?”
“Look what you did, guys. Now the ball’s in the pond.”
“Ha. Losers,” says ball.
Then there’s ant bites that increase our foot speed and sandhill crane droppings that keep us from slide-tackling. And when all’s said and done, we walk fully dressed into the shower because, at that point, what’s the difference?
Is all the pain worthwhile? I believe so. But I would say if you’re going to play a sport in Central Florida, the classic Floridian sport of shuffleboard makes a lot more sense. I suggest shade, a mister, a fan, a wet towel, a cooling vest. Or better yet, find an indoor skate rink and take up curling, which we all know is a rip-off of shuffleboard.
In the meantime, if you see morons running around like human sprinklers in the middle of the day trying to play soccer, it’s not a mirage, we’re out there for the love of the game, or possibly because we think we’re captaining a shipping boat.
Philip is a father and husband who coaches soccer with Coerver Coaching and freelances as a writer, illustrator, and carver. He’s constantly sniggering to himself whilst whittling spoons and toys in the kitchen (hey, it’s way too hot outside). To his wife’s chagrin, the kids track wood chips around the house. He would love to hear from you at plong3510.com, either to giggle with him about something silly he wrote or for any carving, illustration or writing needs. Oh, and please remind him to sweep up.
