On Soccer

I just finished watching my boys Die Mannschaft (Team Germany) advance the second round of the 2010 World Cup. I have a serious case of soccer fever and the only cure is more of that sweet sport.

The following is an article that I wrote about a year ago for Bleacher Report. The original article can be viewed here.


I'm currently watching The Green Street Hooligans on DVD (God Bless Netflix!), and rowdy soccer fans aside, it made me very nostalgic.

From an early age, the game of soccer was pounded into my head. Coming from a German family, you would think that my family would have seen the source of my love for the game, but that could not be farther from the truth.

No one in my family, save my grandfather, was or is a sports fan. My love for all things athletic has always been the source of a lot of speculation at family functions. Rumors of my mother sleeping with that proverbial milkman, in my case, one that loved sports, have always floated around.

That aside, I think my first love has always been soccer.

Sure, I’ve strayed and loved other sports briefly, but you never forget your first love. Just thinking about it now makes me want to lace up the old cleats and run out onto a field and defend my net against anyone who dares to test me.

I was a goalie for six seasons of Police Athletic League soccer. And not to brag, but I was very good at it. I routinely recorded shutouts, and have the newspaper clippings to prove it. But the game offered more than that.

One, I always earned the praise of those around me. Coaches, players, parents, it didn’t matter, I was vain and just loved to be recognized as having a true talent.

Second, as a goalie, I would stand in net, ready to defend, but during the off-moments, I would bite my nails like they were the greatest source of nutrition on Earth. My aunt agreed to pay me one dollar for every game that I did not partake in that dirty habit.

She still owes me three dollars.

But as life goes on, frustrations mount and people change.

At age 12, I hung up my cleats and walked away from the game.

Why? My genius coach (whose name I remember so vividly that I want to scream it…but I won’t) decided to replace me in goal with his son. Now granted, his son was a talented net-minder, but he had nothing on me.

After playing four games as an offensive player (career goal total; two), I told my parents that I no longer wanted to play the game.

They didn’t fight me.

I have regretted the decision many times over the years. But there’s nothing that can be done now except to look back fondly at my time on the field, my accomplishments, and all the kudos I had received.

I’m smiling right now.