The Northbrook Game
I loved playing for Mr. Mo, and I’m sure he must have loved coaching me. I was the youngest player on the team, a 6th grader on a U14 team of 7th and 8th graders. What I lacked in size and speed I complemented with no left foot and poor decision making. I felt pretty sure Mr. Mo picked me last for the U14 team; I was certain he did after the Northbrook game.
Northbrook, some random squad from Illinois, was a team we must play and beat, Mr. Mo had decided. His pep talk went something like this: “Northbrook is the best team in Illinois right now. They’re undefeated, better than Scott Gallagher.[1] They may be the greatest team since Bayern Munich. In fact, I heard they played Bayern Munich’s U14 team and beat them. Each player has a personal trainer with a foreign accent.” Mr. Mo had us pumped up and ready to make soccer history.
The history making setting for our Northbrook match was the prestigious Alpine Valley Tournament in East Troy, Wisconsin.[2] The game kicked off on a grey Sunday afternoon, both teams undefeated. I took my usual place at the end of the bench, with my people – my fellow scrubs. We shared an unspoken bond. First, we collectively and silently dreaded being the last person in the game. Second, we all had the same fantasy: One day one of us would score a goal, make a big tackle, keep possession, make a difference – be acknowledged by the cheering crowd as the best of the worst. And Northbrook, I decided, was going to be my game, my day to shine.
I occupied my usual spot on the bench for the entire first half, and we were down 0-1. Coincidence? In the second half The Big Guy (Mr. Mo’s nickname because he was big and a guy) put my two scrub compatriots in the game for a short stint. The score went to 0-2. Hardly coincidental. Obviously, he was planning to deploy me as his special and well-kept-secret weapon late in the game. (Picture here a 12-year-old Ole Gunnar Solsjkaer.[3])
With about 25 minutes remaining in the contest he shot me a look, a look I knew meant one thing, “Warm up and then change the game.” I jumped to my feet, tripping slightly on a stray ball but making a face-saving recovery. I jogged along the sideline, changing directions, swinging my legs, opening my hips, hopping, skipping, jumping, dribbling, juggling. I ran backwards, did crossovers, shuffled, served, shot, spit, did downward dog, upward spider, early adolescent solo Karma Sutra and looked forward to a post-game Turkish massage. All in all, I put in about 21 minutes of warm-up. Still down 2-0, four minutes left in the game, I’m ready…I’m ready…I’m ready….
Big Guy, Mr. Mo, Mr. I like to destroy young boy’s hopes and dreams, whatever you want to call him, offered up a heartfelt postgame speech: “We gave it our best shot, we’ll get them next time, we can do better, we have to finish our chances, we can’t make errors in back, I should have put Harrington in the game because he‘s obviously our difference maker,” I added for him.
I didn’t speak to anyone after the game. When I got in the car with my father, I started wailing like a teething infant. I sounded like Meryl Streep after the Dingo ate her baby, John J Rambo at the end of First Blood. (You do remember Rambo’s speech when the shoeshine boy blew up his buddy and Rambo couldn’t find his buddy’s leg, don’t you? Classic movie! I diverge.) Now, my father was a kind man. An educator and a coach, he never said a nasty word to anyone. I knew that he, if anyone, would offer the sympathy and empathy I sorely needed. Perhaps even offer to have a little talk with Mr. “The Tyrant” Mo.
My father didn’t say a word, just started driving. Maybe he’s missing the point here: his son is obviously in pain. I cried out like Ricky Schroeder wailing in The Champ. Finally, our old brown station wagon came to a stop. My dad stretched his arm across the front seat and looked back at me. “What are you crying about?”
“I ne-never even got-got in the the g-game,” I whimpered.
“What do you want me to do about it? If you don’t like your playing time, talk to your coach. And quit crying.” He turned around and did not look back or speak another word to me for the remainder of the drive.
I stopped crying immediately. Sorry, I have no movie reference for that. I didn’t need a long lecture. I got it. Lack of playing time was not grounds for crying. If you don’t like it, fix it. Play better. Practice harder. Talk to your coach. Join a new team next year. But fix it yourself.
In retrospect, I think my dad just hated crying. In my lifetime, I only saw him shed a tear once at my aunt’s funeral. It was a single tear and must have been boiling up for years.
My dad’s heartwarming speech did convince me to talk to the Big Guy. Apparently, as he explained it, he forgot about me. Obviously, his loss, his mistake, I thought to myself.
Our team closed the season by advancing to the Midwest Regional Championship final. Big Guy put me in the game and about one minute later pulled me out. We lost 1-2.
On the way home, I cried uncontrollably. My dad, a disgusted look on his face, asked me why I was crying.
“Because we lost. We should’ve won.”
I’m not positive, but I think I saw a slight smile cross my dad’s face. And then I understood – it’s acceptable to cry about your team losing a big game, but don’t whine and cry about playing time.
Addendum - Mr. Mo takes a beating in this piece and deservedly so, did you see how he upset me! But he maintains status as the most influential man in life, after my father, in spite of Northbrook Game.
[1] Scott Gallagher is a legendary St. Louis Soccer Club. For years they dominated Midwestern Youth soccer and made sure everyone knew about it.
[2] If you’re not from Wisconsin but Alpine Valley sounds somewhat familiar to you, it’s probably because you vaguely remember spending a weekend at the Amphitheater watching the Grateful Dead and craving veggie burritos.
[3] Before he was the Man United Coach he was The Norwegian Boy Wonder, renowned for his boyish looks and clutch goals off the bench for Man U in the 90s and early 2000s. His most famous goal was the winner against Bayern Munich in extra time in the 99 Champions League final. I watched the game with a native German who promptly and silently left the bar and cried when Ole scored.
