Published in Musing Publications “Bloom & Blossom” issue in April 2023. This essay got Honorable Mention in the WOW! Women On Writing nonfiction essay contest in Q1 2023.
My husband calls me a soccer freak. I’m 64 years old and I play soccer twice a week.
I’m excited to watch the upcoming 2023 Women’s World Cup and cheer on the U.S. team. I recall the thrill when our women brought home World Cup titles, Olympic gold, and won historic battles for equal pay. But still, I prefer to play than watch.
When I’m on the field and the ball comes to me, I’m off and running. A soccer freak doesn’t notice weary legs or a racing heart. Laughing with my teammates, keeping fit, and occasionally placing the ball in the goal are the sweet rewards.
I found this passion almost twenty years ago. I recall my simmering frustration as I stood on the sidelines watching my daughters play soccer. My husband and I cheered them on in blistering heat, soaking rain, and even snow flurries. All the while my desire to run onto the field grew from a simmer to a full boil.
I can run five miles. How much harder could it be to run while chasing a soccer ball? Why didn’t she pass? Her teammate was wide open.
Could I have made that shot on goal?
Let me on the field!
Coffee in hand, I chatted with other mothers on the sidelines. “Is there a women’s soccer group in town?” I asked. “Don’t you want to play too?” Mostly I received blank stares. Occasionally I found an enthusiastic recruit.
In the spring of 2004, a group of women who shared my crazed desire assembled for the first time. We practiced dribbling, passing, and shooting on goal. “Don’t kick with your toe. Use the inside or the outside of your foot; you’ll have more control,” the one experienced player instructed . The soccer drills left us sore, but we came back for more. Meeting weekly through the summer and the fall our numbers grew by word of mouth. All from Lexington, Massachusetts and honoring our coffee-in-hand origin, we named ourselves The Lexpressas.
As winter approached and temperatures plummeted, we layered on jackets, hats, and gloves. Soon enough those same items littered the sidelines as our body temperatures rose.
We joined an indoor futsal league to keep playing even when snow blanketed the ground. Futsal is a version of soccer played on a basketball court with two teeny goals positioned under the hoops. The ball is slightly smaller and softer than a traditional soccer ball. On the Sunday morning of our first league game, we packed seven women into a minivan and drove to a school a few towns away.
I had never played a team sport as a kid. Not in junior high, high school, nor college. Here I was, at age 47, about to participate in my first-ever refereed game of any sort. “I’m so nervous. I tossed and turned all night,” I admitted to a teammate.
“Me too. My husband made me promise not to get hurt,” one of my carpool buddies replied.
I eyed our competition, the Banshees, warming up in their matching scarlet shirts, shorts, and socks emblazoned with a lightning bolt. In our eclectic mix of blue and bluish tank tops and T-shirts, my teammates and I giggled on the sidelines and made final dashes to the bathroom.
Catherine, who played and coached, attempted to reassure us, “You ladies will do fine. It’s going to be fun.” She selected the first five players to take the field. I took my usual position as right forward.
As the game clock started, our nascent skills vanished. It was as if we had never seen a soccer ball before. In a state of panic, several of us dashed to the action. We intended to help, but our mass rush on the ball meant we left the other team’s players wide open. The Banshees passed and weaved around us as if we were bluish cones set up for a drill. Except these cones were gasping for breath. The other team scored again and again.
“Mark your player,” Catherine hollered, when the Banshees had the ball. “Spread out, you are bunching up. Get open for a pass,” she yelled in the fleeting seconds when we had control of the ball.
In an act of kindness, the referee froze the scoreboard at 10-0. Fifteen minutes into the game, the other team suggested we put an extra player on the field. Humbly, we accepted their offer. Still, we were pummeled. On the car ride home, we laughed at our foibles and strategized for the next game. “We can only do better, right?” I asked with a laugh.
Determined to improve, we attended soccer clinics and slowly gained confidence on the field. More often I felt the thrill of placing the ball in the goal. Now it was me playing in the sun, the rain, and the snow, and this freak was loving it. Soccer became a treasured time of the week. No matter what was going on in my life, for that hour I focused on chasing the ball and forgot about everything else.
As the years passed, the Lexpressas welcomed new players––neighbors, friends, and co-workers. Word spread of our team to younger ringers, the beneficiaries of Title IX, who had played soccer in high school and college. We actually began to win games.
Twenty years after that first fledgling practice, there are now opportunities for the Lexpressas to play soccer almost every day of the week—whether it is indoor or outdoor leagues or friendly pick-up games. We attend tournaments, near and far, and meet older women who share our passion for the game.
Our team spirit extends off the field. If a player is out with a soccer injury or other life emergency, the team delivers casserole dinners, runs errands, or shovels snow. More than just a game, soccer has become a caring community.
This soccer freak is grateful I found my way to the pitch.
Oh yes, and “Go team, USA!“