The History of Theodore Barnes by Nelson Pierce

I have reached a milestone in my life.

Yesterday was my last coordinated varsity soccer practice. While I may be attending a bit of a “pep rally / party” that we are having today to eat pizza, watch the game tape of the last time we played the team we face in Finals, and generally get ourselves psyched up, and while I will be attending summer soccer scrimmaging next summer, this is my last season practice.

Ever.

Yesterday, we took down the nets. Those nets have been both friend and foe to me for the last four years. There was my freshman year, when I was a “field player”. I use that term loosely - I believe I only made it on the field in game situations all of two times. Then there were the last three years. The goalkeeper years. The net was an anomaly to me in that times. It still is. It is behind me, my comfort, yet at the same time - it mocks me when I allow even a single ball to assail it. The whisper of the ball sliding into the net, and dropping to the ground. It keeps the ball there. It reminds me of my failures. Yet, at the same time, I am its protector. I must keep the assailants away, to keep it from lecturing me. It is my castle, it is my home - and it is my steady accuser. They say that you must keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Have I done such a thing?

Of course.

Yesterday I took a walk. I followed the white line so meticulously planted upon those green blades of grass - and in some cases, upon the mud. I paused in places, remembering the times I’ve had at our field. Watching the guys’ games. Being a ball girl. Pacing in preparation for our games. I kept walking, and found myself a few paces off from my goal. My goal. It is the goal upon the end that the girls’ team regularly practices on. It is the goal in which I stood. It is my goal. I remembered the saves, the slides, the kicks that I took to the side of this goal. The goal kicks, both the failures and the successes. I regarded the goal carefully - there was, and shall always be, something barren about a goal without it’s net. An open, naked expanse of metal. Without it’s net, it is sad; wounded. It calls to me. I walk to the center of the goal, and sit. I look out over the green and brown field before me, recalling the plays. Shots by Candace, Devon, Emily, Mandy, and so many other teams’ players. Practice shots by Jordana, Woodsie, Dana, Jen, Carissa… there are so many who have shot on me in the last three years, whether in practice, in scrimmage, or in game. They are innumerable. I do not remember them all vividly, but they still find a seat in the back of my mind, comforting me. Then, I remember the shootout. I rememeber the cool, dampened air. The tension. The anxiety. The squelch of the mud beneath my feet. The alternating cheers and stillness from the sidelines. The warm, salty tears that threatened, brimmed, and fell as I walked from the goal to the bench, crestfallen; broken. The feeling of emptiness that followed. The regard and promise that next year, I would give them hellfire and brimstone. I smile at the thought that yes, this is what I have done. It is the closest that I could have come to doing so for my team.

I continued.

As I rounded the corner of the field, and walked toward the center, I saw where the benches once sat. Now, having been carried across the field and placed in storage, they have left behind their pale green patches. The grass here was tried, but it still grew. It was trampled by cleats, covered by benches, and yet… it is indomitable. It continues on. It will be there, waiting, when the next season comes. It will challenge the forces above it another time. As I walk further down, the field, I remember being a ball girl for our guys’ game against B’ville. I remember the goalie, laying upon the ground in front of the goal in a taunting manner. I remember wanting to storm out there and shove the soccer ball down his throat. I remember being such an incredibly pleasant person at times like those.

I found myself once more in the goal on the other end of the field. Their end, as we called it during practice. The foreign end, where the guys’ team practiced. The end where mud reigns supreme, and the soupy mix beneath your feet clings to you, calling you back to the firmament when you leap, attempting to pull a shot from the air. The mud mocked me just so when they took that fateful penalty kick. Yet I mocked it back, managing to knock the ball from the air and over the endline. Of course, it got me back for that when, in the very next game, I found myself on my back in the mud after sending the ball up the field with a goal kick. I remembered the sliding. In celebration of our playoff win, we all linked arms and tore off up the field, determined to take a slide in the mud. And oh, did we ever. Despite it’s feeble attempts to shame us, we got the last word. And many shall be back next year,to defeat the mud once more.

As I kept walking, I remembered the laps. Ah, the glorious laps. Times of a dozen laps or more. Times of few laps, yet laps where Jordana sprinted past and it was all I could do to catch her by the time we finished. Times of jogging, time of running, times of sprinting - times of making amused comments when the guys’ team ran by.

I loved my position. I loved my field. I loved my team. I loved this game.