Tales of a Man Marker
When I played youth soccer, we employed a sweeper, (the intellectually-mature-manchild who organized the defense, understood angles, connected passes), and marking backs (three numbskulls who chased and kicked opposing players). I was one of the numbskulls.
I remember the first game my coach, Big Jim, gave me a man-marking assignment. I was assigned their star player, and my former teammate, David Nikolic. In retrospect, it was a bit insane. I was U10. I was a 3rd grader.
In practices, proceeding the game, Mr. Moynihan gave me all the clichés: “You need to be close enough to him to pull the lint out his belly button”, “You need to be so close you can smell the Cevaps[1] he ate for breakfast”, “You need to be so close you can perform a rectal exam (okay, I made that one up).” When the whistle blew, I ran to David as if I was paparazzi and he was the Prince of Wales. I stayed close enough to tell you that he didn’t eat Cevaps for breakfast, he ate Burek and Kajmak.[2] David had the skills of a Serbian.[3] He could dribble the ball like he was pulling it by a string. He could do all the cuts, the scissors, the Rivellino, the Matthews.[4] Of course, being Serbian, he didn’t play any defense. I, on the other hand, being the son of a football coach and younger of two boys, doled out Ray Nitchke[5] like hits. The ball was of no concern to me, except making sure David never touched it. For four periods, I chased him around like an angry puppy. Mr. Mo considered it the greatest tactic ever employed, “Don’t lose him Robbie.” “That’s it Robbie.” “Tackle him Robbie.” David did not share his enthusiasm. “Are you supposed to follow me around and kick me the whole game?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I responded matter-of-factly.
This was my on-again off-again duty during my youth soccer career. Usually I did okay. My biggest man-marking test came at the Midwest Regional Championships in 1980. Our team was U12. Our opponent was Ohio South. We needed a win to advance to the semi-finals. Mr. Mo provided my marking assignment, a goal scoring phenom who needed a strong dose of “The Defending Fly”[6]. I was confident. “Bring him on,” I thought to my 11-year-old self. “Annoying good players is what I do. I’m tough and quick and when I play tackle football, others get hurt when I smash my head into them. And this kid is gonna”… and then I saw him. He looked like a miniature man. He had quads, and by quads I mean large cinder blocks underneath his flesh. He had biceps, and by biceps I mean major league baseball’s underneath his flesh. He also had facial hair, and by facial hair I mean he looked like Merlin Olson.[7]
The game began and I immediately glued myself to the baby gorilla. In minutes, he began speaking to me in a language foreign to my ears. Of note, I was an innocent Catholic kid. There wasn’t cable TV or the internet to teach me words and things I was not supposed to know. My parents never swore in front of me. My dad, as far as I know, never swore – ever. In fact, the harshest word I heard him say was shit. I was 14. “He’s alright for a little shit” he told his friend at an afternoon barbeque. “Your job is to mark me huh? Just effin’ follow me around the whole game.” The kid just swore. I don’t know if I ever heard a swear word before, at least not in conversation, certainly never in a conversation I was in. It was terrifying. Who was this tiny little man with actual muscles, facial hair, freely accentuating his speech with cuss words? Then he got the ball and he was scarier. I was quick, but this kid moved like Earl Campbell.[8] If I tried to get close to him, he hammered me with his elbows and hands. He maneuvered around me and when that didn’t work, he went through me. And he kept talking. “You gonna keep doin this? Just running around with me? – You want to s___ m_ d___ too?” I’m trying to keep this PG but, hopefully, you read those blanks and heard something rated X. Yes, you read that correctly. Are you disturbed? Are you afraid for humanity? I was 11 and I was terrified. I was marking the spawn of Satan. I should have walked off the field. I was intimidated, afraid, freaked out – useless. I was no longer playing a soccer game. I was enduring. In abject fear, I chased the man-child around the field, while he had a good ol’ time: scoring a few goals, getting a few assists, knocking me to the ground, stepping on my face, giving me a purple-nurple and insulting my mother. Post-game, in the handshake line, he flicked a match across my face, lit a cigarette, took a swig of Jack Daniels, and drove off on his Harley. And in case you wanted to know, we lost by, at least, five goals. Our Regional Cup was over.
It’s about 38 years since man-boy from Ohio South destroyed me physically, athletically and psychologically. After all these years one might wonder, what lessons I learned from that day?
Did it make me tougher? Probably.
Did I learn the value of developing actual muscles? Nope.
Did I learn the value of trash talk? Not really.
Did I assess and approach how to man mark a baby hippopotamus better? Yes but it took significant time to get over the PTSD.
Did I learn, people from different regional and geographical areas learn things at different ages and don’t judge them, but assess what kind of person I want to be? Well now that I write this, yes.
What it taught me at the time though was – I need to get back to Wauwatosa, where kids don’t have muscles and our opponents aren’t Merchant Marines.
[1] Incredibly tasty Serbian Sausages. You should try them.
[2] The Burek is a meat, cheese or vegetable filled pastry. Kajmak is un-homogenized goat or sheep’s milk turned into a cream. Serbians eat both and still don’t get fat.
[3] Serbian’s were once called The Brazilians of Europe for their sublime skills. They were mostly called this, by fellow Serbians. They were also called the Faroe Islands of Europe for their ridiculous defending. They were called this by me.
[4] Rivellino, of Brazil, and Sir Stanley Matthews were great players whose trademark moves earned their name. Notice, neither are Serbian.
[5] The greatest middle linebacker from the greatest team (The Green Bay Packers) in the history of American Football.
[6] My soccer nickname, created many years after this game but provided, in this instance, for dramatic effect.
[7] You probably remember Merlin Olson as the defensive tackle for the infamous ‘fearsome foursome’ of the Los Angeles Rams. If you don’t remember him from that, then you probably remember him as John Garvey in “Little House on The Prairie” or as Father Murphy in “Father Murphy”. If none of those jog your memory, than you must remember him as a NFL broadcaster. If you still don’t remember him than I would like you to speak with the INS.
[8] Of course, you know, Earl Campbell, the third best running back in the history of the NFL – decided by me. The Houston Oilers running back and Texas native was known for his punishing running style and massive thighs. He was my favorite player growing up, so much so that I asked my parents if I could switch my birthday from December 29th to March 29th, Earl’s B-day. Interestingly, it is also exactly nine months from my birthday.
