You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The soccer goal.
It’s like a pitch back. A 6 foot long, 4 foot high net, pulled taught, ready for a soccer ball to bang against the target.
I purchased this for my 15 year old son.
I put it in the back yard, by the back door. It’s against the house, a house built of bricks.
Not straw, not aluminum siding, but bricks.
Gotta be tough, right?
The net was so shiny and bright out of the box.
The cover shows a young man kicking the ball and the ball striking the target and perfectly rebounding back.
The kid looks like a younger vesion of Pele.
Perfect, I think to myself, as I stand in the Sports Academy.
My son can kick the ball and work on his skills while being a social outcast and recluse.
Who needs friends when you have a taught net and some elastic hooks?
My mind races to the Messi’s and Renaldo’s of the world. They only had a tin can and a 3 legged dog to play with.
My son has a super elastic net to fire the ball back at him.
Perfect.
I set it up in the back yard. I bang the fasteners into the ground to secure it tight and firm to the soft grass.
I set it up about six feet from the house.
Bricks. Wood. Solid. No problem.
Hmmmm?
How do you like the net I ask him on the phone.
We’ve got to tighten the nuts and bolts he responds.
Not the answer I was expecting.
Huh?
We were playing on it today.
We?
All ready I sense a problem.
Me and Hudson and Jay Mac.
Uh oh.
And?
“It’s fun, but it’s kinda broke.”
And that’s when I think about truth in advertising.
They don’t tell you “not recommended for 3 high school sophomores” in the instructions.
Never once does it mention that the bolts will come undone with repeated balls to the net. Not once do they mention that the hooks might break under constant duress of a 15 year old soccer blast. Not once do they mention that windows, gutters and tiny woods creatures could be in danger because of the net and the activities associated with it.
I’ll fix it, I say.
I visit with the little net in the back yard.
“Hey, how did these wing nuts on the side of the goal snap off.”
He kicks at the grass.
“huh?”
“The wing nuts that screw the frame into the other part of the frame. Where the hell’d they go?”
“Ah, I guess the ball hit them.”
Doesn’t mention that in the brochure either.
Don’t they test this net in a wind tunnel or something I think to myself.
I start looking at the little net.
When i set it up it was in pristine condition. Now it looks like it’s been blended in a metal tornado.
The net is frayed. It looks like a stocking that’s been used in a bank hold up.
One of the platic hooks is snapped off. There is no handle.
“What were you guys doing?” I say my gaze looking away at my house checking for damage.
“Nothing. Just shooting.”
I check the drain pipe. It has a dent.
“What happened here?”
“I don’t know.”
I look at the dryer vent. It’s still in tact.
I see a branch in the tree 15 feet in the air, in front of the home. The limb is snapped and dangling.
“The goal’s down here,” I remind him.
“Hudson has no aim,” he says.
uh huh. Hudson?
The guy has the aim of a hand grenade.
I watch as my son shoots. The ball explodes off his foot.
The ball strikes the little pitch back with the force of a trip hammer.
BANG!
At the moment of impact, the ball pushes the net back violently. The kinetic energy in that moment is tremendous. I liken it to a hammer smashing a soda bottle.
Wam!
The net catches the ball traveling at 30 mph, stops it within a 6 inch arc, and snaps it back at half the force.
The metal quivers as the ball strikes it.
Pow.
It’s a car wreck of science happening before me..
I imagined a symphony of balls gliding easily into the soft net and being returned with a velvet glove.
That’s not how this works. It is violent, angry, destructive.
It’s like tossing cats in pillow cases out on the freeway.
Meoow. Ouch.
The ball leaves his foot like a bullet leaving the chamber of a Saturday Night Special.
Suddenly the spheroid is sailing at the net.
It is rising and picking up speed.
Whack.
It hits the garage door.
Blam.
Paint chips flake off.
“I had to fix that anyway,” I say.
I bang the stakes back into the soft grass.
I’m exhausted.
“Yeah, they come up every single strike,” he says.
“The grass is wet,” i say, again thinking to the glitzy picture where all is perfect in a soccer world.
Step. Strike. Blam. Whiz.
The ball elevates into the sultry air with a wet whistle.
I see grass blades explode behind the kick.
Rip.
The ball sails into the net.
The kinetic energy is transferred and the ball rebounded back.
“How many times did Hudson hit my house?” I ask looking for more evidence of damage.
“uh. A few times maybe.”
I look at the light over the door. It is not broken. Yet.
I look at the fence. One of the beams is loose.
“What happened here?”
He shrugs.
Suddenly the box represents another time and place.
The little soccer goal on the cover that I got for less than 40 dollars seems like a lie. The net should come with a lie detector kit.
“It’s kinda small,” he moans.
He’s right. The next goal was 3 times as expensive and twice as big.
I eye ball the yard, wondering if there is a better place to put this net.
I think maybe we should go to the local high school field and shoot there.
BANG.
He kicks the ball and it comes right at me.
I watch it leave the ground, rise higher than the net and skid over the cross bar.
It is going t rearrange my nose. I put my hands up at the last second.
Blam.
The ball explodes against my hands.
It knocks me back.
It’s like getting head butted by a ram.
I look at him.
“Goal is too short,” he says matter of fact.
When the hell did he get so strong, I think to myself.
I bought the net imagining my son as a 4th grader.
He’s a man child now with a big swinging pendulum leg that launches soccer balls with the ferocity of an open fire hydrant.
Bang.
The ball strikes the brick a foot from the dryer vent.
I look at him.
He smiles.
Woops.
“i’ll look into a bigger net,” i say.
Bang.
OK
Truth in advertising.
Even Pele would cry foul in two languages.
Life’s Crazy™