You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Cold Soccer. I’m talking icicles dripping from your eye brows cold soccer. I’m talking your arm pit sweat freezing cold soccer. I’m talking prehistoric, end of the world, dinosaurs praying for a meteorite to crash into Earth and put them out of their misery cold soccer!
Ever try and hit a baseball in sub freezing temps?
Your hand rings like a thousand hornets for hours.
I’m sure that’s what it’s like trying to kick a rain soaked soccer ball in frozen conditions.
Your toes shatter like glass. You shins crack like fine china.
What did you do for St. Patrick’s Day?
Drink green beer? Hit on girls named Erin Go Get A Brah?
Good for you?
I stood on the sidelines of a soccer pitch. A beautiful turf field decorated like the Sistine Chapel of fake grass and hash marks.
It’s 2pm in Central Kentucky and a blizzard is forming all around us.
The Weather Channel has put out an emergency bulletin: RUN FOR THE HILLS!
The temperature is hovering around 37 degrees. The wind is ferocious, like a soul-less pirate, blowing at 30 miles an hour. As if this wind chill factor of evil is not enough, sheets of rain are coming down. Wet, icy, nasty, stinging pellets of rain.
My skin is bright red, praying for warmth.
The kids are wearing shorts and under armor. I see bare thighs exposed to the elements. I feel terrible for them all. If I had a big blanket I would throw it over them and call it a night. But this is big boy soccer, this is the finals of a serious, hard fought tournament, and like Merrill Lynch, We’re gonna have to earn it.
Some kids have gloves, some are wearing caps. All of them are freezing cold. Bare legs and frosty faces. This looks like the first day of school at the Nanook of the North academy for the criminally insane.
I don’t even know what that means…
It’s like being on the Bering Sea in mid winter fishing for crabs.
I hear kids whining “I’m cold.” That doesn’t even do this cold justice. It’s so damp, it’s like being electrocuted with permafrost. I feel like a cadaver that is on a day trip from the crypt.
It’s cold steak marinating in the refrigerator raw.
But the game is on. Our coaches are Irish and from the Garden State. Their voices drip of toughness where soccer is called futbol and cancelled only if the local nuclear reactor has gone critical.
And so as they say: IT IS WHAT IT IS.
The whistle toots and it is on.
Kids crying and whimpering gives way to hard nosed soccer.
Suddenly I see corner kicks and hard tackling that should crack bones.
I cringe. Man these kids are tough.
After all it is the finals. Can’t mail this one in.
So our little frozen warriors play 35 minutes on this pristine field painted erected by Vincent Van Goh.
They look miserable, but they run and run and run, chasing a ball, perhaps to get the ball, perhaps to stay warm.
They run and run and run, their big hearts pumping life through their freezing bodies.
The other team is the local club, from Louisville. Their kids look frazzled. The cold, the wet, the wind. It is exacting a toll on everyone.
I wince every time a kid goes down. I can only imagine the pain as he wallows in a frozen puddle further inviting hypothermia to set in.
A dozen or so brave hearted parents, wearing hunting garb and 6 layers of clothing stand in the elements, water dripping off their faces, off their shoulders.
This is easily one of the worst soccer moments I’ve had.
I try and ignore the icy burning in my toes. My face is like a swollen igloo.
And finally 70 minutes expire. Three toots on the whistle and it’s over.
We have won 2-1.
Kids scream in Ecstasy and delirium.
I hear yelps of pain quickly followed by “it’s cold,”
A dozen kids rush for the bathroom. I follow behind. The hand dryers are going full force. It sounds like a mechanized tornado. I see 3 kids piled underneath the hot air nozzles, trying to shove their bodies into the warming air flow. It’s a like a game of Twister where the object is to thaw your skin.
Finally the award ceremony. It’s the shortest in the history of awards.
Kids are screaming “let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
Kids are wearing saturated coats, hoodies, and layers of ice.
The tournament director hands our coach the trophy.
“picture. One picture.” someone screams.
No No No. everyone retorts.
Kids are screaming as they run for the parking lot and waiting warmth.
“OK,” the interim coach says. “We’ll hand out the trophy’s at the next practice.”
Who cares.
run run run.
I have been to many award ceremonies and never seen kids run for the parking lot rather than grab their medals.
All in all, it was a character builder. No broken bones. No frost bite. No quitters when it would have been easy to quit.
Ice soccer.
That’s crazy.™