Soccer, Mom?

By F. Josephine Arrowood
Sun contributor
As the crackling of a frenetic workday fizzles into late afternoon, witness a scene familiar to many soccer families in Leelanau: rush home from work, gather up scattered cleats, knee-high socks, uniform, shin guards, soccer ball, water bottle, nutritious snack, then head back out the door to get to the soccer game in Petoskey, two hours away. What’s missing from the car as I peel away from the driveway is my 13-year-old child. Yes, I’m a traditional, 44-year-old soccer mom – but tonight, I’m a soccer-playing mom.

My personal kickoff into this most universal of sports began somewhat accidentally last fall, when our family received a signup form for a kids’ winter indoor soccer league through TBAYS in late September. My daughter, still immersed in fall soccer, expressed disinterest, but I spied the words, “Adult League” at the bottom of the page. My only previous and rather dismal sports experience, many years ago, had been cross-country running at our all-girls’ high school – definitely a loner sport with few rules to master. However, after watching kids’ soccer for umpteen years (and even coaching a couple of teams with help from library books), I reasoned, “How hard can it be?” Yes, I decided, soccer would be Fun!
On a treacherously icy Saturday night in January, I arrived white-knuckled at the Just For Kicks building on Hammond Road in Traverse City. Inside, the arena was bright, warm, and boisterous with the shouts of players swarming across a field that resembled an Astroturfed hockey rink, lined with plexiglass and netting stretched from walls to ceiling.
I went into the women’s locker room to don my battle gear, which included shiny silver shin guards that made me feel absurdly and happily like a Roman gladiator. Then I thought about what unknowns lay ahead, and felt nothing but sick dread.
I’d been assigned to the “house” team, with our one-hour game scheduled for 7pm, so I forced myself out of the locker room and over to the players’ boxes. Staring at my 11 new teammates, I thought, “Where are the other women?” There weren’t any. I resolved right then to ask for no favors from these hairy strangers who stared warily back at me, and to give none, either. Then, at the referee’s whistle, several men rushed from the box onto the turf, and the game began.
Back in the box, one player, more cordial, introduced himself as Sam, and explained the peculiarities of indoor soccer: for two 25-minute halves, five players plus a goal keeper field each team; when a player is tired, he lopes out of the game, shouting “Sub, sub!” – the signal for a waiting teammate, who stands in a tense line of fidgeting players, to rush out and take his place. The ball is in fair play if hitting solid walls, but foul in the nets on upper walls or ceiling, and there are no “off sides,” (getting ahead of the ball at the opponents’ end of the arena). I realized that, despite my fears that no one would pass me the ball, it was inevitable that sooner or later, the wildly caroming orb would fly at me, and then what was I going to do with it? In a few moments, I heard the shout to sub in; Sam threw open the door — I began to discover just what to do with a soccer ball, with five determined men rushing at it, and five more exhorting me to “Take it!” “Pass!” “Hold the wall!” and “Shoot it!”
Over the course of the next eight weeks, I spent my days obsessing over the games that lay ahead, and marveling at the exotic vernacular, such as “Man on!” (even when you’re a woman, you can be a man on, closing in on an unsuspecting opponent).”Time, time!” was short for “You got time,” to dribble the ball, or better, ricochet it off the wall like a billiard ball to get it to your teammate, or the goal itself. “Hold the wall!” uttered frequently by Sam, our intrepid leader, meant, “Don’t let that guy get up the field by using the wall as his extra player!” Unaccustomed to the jagged rhythms of the sprinting, dodging, high-kicking game, I also nursed a few war wounds such as strained muscles, bruises, and stomped toes, but felt my strength and endurance increase with each week’s strenuous encounter. Despite every player’s intensity of purpose during the heat of the game, remarkably few of us were injured, and none seriously.
Playing on a largely men’s team (which, technically, was coed) had both rewards and drawbacks. Most on my team were taciturn about sharing personal details; in fact, I never knew anyone’s surname, much less their day jobs or family situations. I only knew that Junior played like a graceful otter, but could be a ball hog; Sam had a chunky, full-body style that bowled over the opposition; and Steve ran with “little feet,” short steps that kept the ball firmly welded to his ankles all the way down the field. Like mercenary soldiers, we were there for one reason: to take on the enemy and defeat them if we could.
To that end, we were in the thick of it as a team. My cohorts freely gave me encouragement, showed me their coolest moves, and shared their strategies. No one held a grudge, played dirty, behaved like a boor, or commented on the fact that I’d naively worn cleats during my first game. Players were from a surprising plurality of countries that included England, Mexico, Columbia, Guatemala, and somewhere in Eastern Europe. One fellow, on a formidable team known as Son of a Preacher Man, would swear in beautifully lilting Welsh while dashing for the ball, or shout (but not at me), “Ye play like a gel!” which I found highly amusing.
When the indoor soccer season came to its inevitable end, I realized that I was solidly addicted to this so simple yet so complex game. I wanted to know and learn and do more. Just For Kicks also hosts a women’s weekly drop-in session, which I promptly joined, only to discover quite a different flavor to the play. Much more informal, and lacking in the intensity I’d come to crave, the drop-ins were nevertheless an opportunity to practice new moves unselfconsciously, and to meet other women players who also wanted to advance their understanding and skills.
In May, nine of us decided to join the Petoskey Women’s League, since (incredibly) Traverse City has no adult summer soccer organization. Insane tactic, I knew, but rationalized that for only eight weeks in the height of summer, I’d spend Thursday nights carpooling to doubleheader games in a league boasting six full teams of women. Plenty of scope there to grow and learn.
And learn I did, sometimes the hard way. Anyone who strained a muscle would be fair game for goalkeeping duty. I happily performed this chore twice, and both times was hit stoutly in the face for my pains. While I rethink my affinity for intense situations, I’m leaving that position to more experienced players who own protective gear, and have health insurance.
After Petoskey ended, I joined a team in Kalkaska, a more sane one-hour drive away. We even have a coach who volunteers her time, and envisions a Traverse City-based regional women’s league within three to five years. Our goal for this year is to field a team at a tournament to be held at the end of September in Lansing. After that, Just For Kicks will be open again for the indoor season. This soccer obsession, it’s a keeper.
To sign up for adult indoor soccer, contact Just For Kicks at www.tbays.org or call (231) 933-8229. Interested in TC-based summer women’s league? Contact Lindsay at (231) 883-5193 or Josephine at (231) 228-4528.