Ponytails: The Life Cycle of A Girl's Soccer Team

 

The ponytail just fell into her hand.  What else could she do?  It happened so fast.

After a hard breakaway bump-o-matic,  squinchy-faced,  stretched-out gazelle sprint, they were alone in the corner with the ball.  They toed, touched, and trapped the ball between them with cleat-clad feet, teeth gritted with spiraling frustration.  

Tardy teammates were no immediate help, jogging, seemingly in slo-mo (but not really), to catch up/mark up.  By some trick of physics and raw passion, slow motion and hyper action co-existed on that field. 

No one moved in to provide “a little help here” for either player.  Everyone knew the two girls in the tangle were due to duke it out.  It was expected.  Even the Field Marshals noticed the defender had taken a dirty barrage of low blows, trips and hooks from the striker from the first touch.  It was inevitable they would lock up once the defender decided to defend herself.

Circling like a flock of ospreys, all the players moved into position transfixed by the potential of this open-air clash.  They were ready to dole out the leverage should the ball squirt free from the girl gladiators.

The defender’s only immediate companion, a crouched, captive and queasy goalie, shouted and prowled the pitch ready to bat it away, or worse, helplessly watch it fly by her outstretched glove encased fingers, should the defender lose this battle. 

 On fire, in an Amazonian warrior fury of jabbing elbows, lethal knees and streaming ponytails, they connected skin to skin in resounding bitch- slaps causing the spectators to intone, “ooooooh.”  The trick of physics made this dancing dust-up seem like forever.

With every panting breath:  This is for coach. This is for mom.  This is for my team. This is to bond us, best friends forever.  This is for all the training and the money and the sweat and the tears.  This is to win State Cup.  This is for my future…

Turn it and burn it.  Turn it AND BURN IT.  TURN IT AND BURN IT!

The ponytail fell into her hand. A column of hair smooth and whippy and tempting in her fingers.

She couldn’t resist in the nanosecond it took to decide.  A sacrificial offering.  A retaliation. A stop to this stalemate.

She yanked the ponytail. 

They disengaged.

And the whistle blew.

And in clear ringing syllables here it came. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” shouted the striker. 

The defender raised her hands to her face in shock.

For a beat, only the chattering of the green parrots nesting in the field lights was heard.  The rubber band, stretched beyond its capacity, had snapped. The play was over.  Both received yellow cards from the referee with a stern warning. The defender for the hair pulling, the striker for the language.

What the fuck was wrong with the defender became abundantly clear as she and her team lost two games and tied just one during this high-end tournament where scouts were taking note.  They should have won, they have the skills, strength and talent.  At times they have played brilliantly as linked and like-minded as if they were sisters from other mothers. But when it counted, like this tournament, when there was pressure, they could be angry and distant from each other giving opposing teams the gaping chink in the armor.   The defender knew she’d be alone in the box dancing for her life, and what did it matter.  What was wrong?  Everyone could see and hear the cracking fractures.

 

At the volatile age of 15, her team mates don’t share the same vision of the sport.  Boys, hormones, cars, malls, cell phones are carving chunks out of the girls she had come to love.  The need to make college soccer scholarships materialize or never see higher education is exacting its pound of flesh in this repressed economy.   At 15, real life is forcing choices.   Real life is shouting in their faces to grow up, choose.   Do you play this game, or do you play more grown up games now?

The team?  It is splintering. 

“If we split up now, I know I’ll never see some of them ever again. Starting over with a new team is so hard.  I am so tired.  I am so sad."

And for a defender who thought her beloved team would last forever, grief gave way to an angry yank of a ponytail.

photos by Linnnn

Officer Krupke, I'm Down On My Knees

I got popped for speeding. I paid my fine online swiftly, felt like ripping a band aid off a furry spot, or even an energetic bikini wax, to ameliorate the pain of supporting Brevard County’s latest public works project. There goes all those quarters and nickels and Canadian dimes I saved up for a new reclining chair and the co-payment on the colonoscopy I am supposed to have as a freakishly undignified reminder that my last birthday makes me old… Whatever.

Now the “points” problem. It's going to take me 4 hours to complete this Florida Driver Safety Course online. I thought when I tuned into the Course, well hell, I can just skim this stuff, take the module quizzes and be done with it in no time. But no. Those wily imps, the Safety Course people, have affixed a timer, an infernal speed bump, to each module so that you cannot skim, skip ahead and just merrily guess your way to completion in a fraction of the time like I did in college. No Way. You've been a bad bad girl! Time out!

From the Course: "The operation of a motor vehicle takes a clear and focused mind, uncluttered by thoughts of aggravation and distress..."

Well, Officer Krupke, try this on for size -

"Mom! We’re LATE! Coach's going to make me do pushups. One for every minute we’re late! And laps too. Everyone will yell at me for being late. I'll sit the bench first half. Then I’ll pull a muscle from not being warmed up…”

"It’s not my fault you overslept and didn’t put out your things last night like I told you to not less than four damn times little missy. But oh no! Miley frickin’ helium head Cyrus and those fat kids living in the hotel show just couldn’t be missed…”

“My socks are dirty looking, did you wash them? My hair is awful. A-W-E --- - no how do you spell awful? OMG I can't find my cleats, we got to stop at the Sports Authority and buy some...”

“It is your responsibility to keep track of...WTF? You’re playing in your bare feet I don’t care now"

“Can't you drive any faster? God, you drive like an old lady!"

The Safety Course Voice: Must you always be right? (YES) Do other people upset you, particularly when they don't do things your way? (YES INDEEDY THEY DO!) Try cooperation instead of confrontation; it's better than fighting and always being "right"." (MAKE ME!)

At this point the Safety Course Voice begins speaking to me in a just-put-the-weapon-down-and-come-on-out-of-there-with-your-hands-up voice:

“Good drivers have a quiet level of efficiency in their actions. What do you do when emotional distress has taken over?

1. Take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds and then let it out. (Done) Go for a walk. (Can't. Got to roll. We are now officially really late.) Do anything non-violent. (Check! Chewing soda straw to smithereens.) Do not get in your motor vehicle and drive angry. (Whoops! Too late!)

2. Try to displace yourself from what it is that is upsetting you. (But she’s right there---> Can’t you see her there in the passenger seat?) Take a time out and go sit in your room. (Going to my happy place....Connecting in Atlanta.)

3. Take a moment and recognize your anger for what it is, some hurt, real or imagined. (Huh? Can’t hear you because of the blood rushing through my ears.)”

“With severe emotional pain, the driver could turn to substance ______ to hide emotional pain.
_use
_abuse
_neither
_both


Exhaustion can manifest itself in your life in such things as:
_migraine headaches
_insomnia
_both a and b
_neither a or b”

This is when I spontaneously consider this: “At what Blood Alcohol Concentration (BAC) are you considered impaired?” Sports Authority is next to the ABC store. Then I punch in all the data into the mental calculator and decide the beer goggles are not worth it.

Hey look! The Safety Voice has calculated it all out like I did:

“Towing - $150
Lawyer - $3500
Fine - $250 to $500
DUI School - $190 to $285
Insurance - $1500
Lost Wages - $1000
Court Costs - $450
Substance Abuse Evaluation - $75
Treatment - $400
License Reinstatement - $155
Cost Recovery - $350
That "one" 5 oz. glass of Pinot Grigio costs you in the neighborhood of $8000.”

Check. No green light for the coping liquids. Only at home when the keys are missing.

So migraine it is... here comes the aura, wham, and it's black. Just as black as the inexpensive cleats my daughter does not want, nor even glances at, perched like adorable enthusiastic “pick me, pick me” mutt dogs in the pound on a rickety folding table to the right. After screeching into the Authority, leaping out and scurrying barefoot into the just opening store, she sees with supernatural laser eyes, yes, the pure white shimmering aura of the sacred Nikes elevated on an altar of just Windexed plexiglass.

“I LOVE these.”

“Get them; just get themmmmm (my devil voice in lowest octave) GGEETTT THEMMMMMMMMM!”

“Mom you're scaring me.”

Deep breath, charge card, and the birds are released, cue the balloons and angels sing.

11 minutes more to go on this Florida Safety Course module. So carrying on…

Back in the vehicle we call Ursula, we peel out and step on it to make time. Ursula bleats at us incessantly until the seat belts are clicked. Ursula says; “Oh hell no! None of your faces are going to come to a splattering stop on my pretty windshield! Put those belts on, my bitches!”

Still we were 20 minutes away and going to be late by as much. So it's Sunday, everyone safely tucked away in church except we heathen soccer pagans, no one on the road, and I put the pedal down on a straightaway leading to the soccer fields.

She says, I shit you not: "Wow Mom you are driving much faster in this car than the last one!"

“Yeah well it was falling apart. I was trying to baby it into living longer. Remember it tried to kill us in Port Charlotte by not letting me release cruise control at 70 mph? It croaked anyway. Put your damn shoes on."

I felt assaulted, betrayed and abandoned by the Mazda 626 until I found Ursula. Now I could cook down the highway leaving flames in the rear view like I had my very own Flux Capacitor and could warp time and distance at will. Rock n roll!

Safety Course Voice, where the hell were you at this juncture. Sitting somewhere sipping tea after church pursing your lips and waving a naughty, naughty finger in my direction. I got another finger gesture in mind right now.

"One should avoid dangerous driving situations (excessive speed, running red lights or stop signs, etc.)"

I could have USED that information right then.

"If the vehicles are the same weight, the vehicle with the higher speed will have the greater force of impact. If one vehicle is going 20 mph and the other is going 60 mph, the one going 60 mph has nine times the force at impact than the one going 20 mph. This is a squared relationship. Three times the speed will have nine times the force of impact (32). Four times the speed will have sixteen times the force of impact (42). Five times the speed will have twenty five times the force of impact (52), and so on."

They told me there would BE no Math, not wired for it in any way at all, but holy hell! If this Safety Course has done anything for me that last piece of demonic natural was it.

"The belted-in occupants count their lucky stars and continue on with their lives. The unbelted occupants are carted off to the hospital or morgue for an extended stay; some longer than others."

You try it:

If one vehicle is going 20 mph and another is going 60 mph, the one going 60 mph has ______ times the force at impact as the one going 20 mph.

_three
_six
_nine
_twelve
_Oh God Help Me Sweet Mother of Quantum Physics!

"Drivers should … not let outside distractions deter them from safe driving habits. Billboards, homes, pedestrians, etc., can be observed yet should not consume one’s full attention. Drivers must realize that an awareness of the road is vital in safe driving.”

“I see the field lights, we're almost there. Maybe Coach will forgive us the pushups or laps or whatever.”

“Well YOU don't have to do them Mom, I do, so hurry.”

“I see lots of cars up ahead, it's right there on the right, we’re ALMOST there..."

"Mom, I see police lights behind us."

"Oh I’ll pull over so he can get to where he's going"

"He's where he's going Mom"

"Am I getting popped?"

Stopping. Turning car off.

"Eh, yeah Mom you are. See ya!"

She scampered like a happy bunny off to the relative safety of her team where I found out later, they wondered aloud whether I'd flash the cop to avoid the ticket.

Safety Course Voice,  a fey cavorting guardian angel right by my side, reminds me in a prissy lisping I-told-you-so tone: “Everyday driving is hours and hours of the same thing, followed by a few moments of terror. Imagine running as fast as you can into a wall. You'd expect to get pretty banged up. Do you think you could stop yourself if the wall suddenly popped up when you were two feet away from it?"

“Hello Officer. What can I do for you today?”

“License and registration please...”

What the Funk?

I-4. Wekiva Springs. 70 miles an hour. Rain storm.

We looked at each other, eyes bugging out and watering, in four-alarm panic as the stink permeated the confines of my small rice-burner car. This was an aroma like no other we had ever encountered.

It beat the smashed skunk we rolled over and pasted to the undercarriage a few years back. Had to sacrifice a spatula from the kitchen and slide in under the car nauseatingly close to the splattered remains to scrape bits of that critter off the axle.

It far outpaced the stench we created by storing used cat litter in a sealed can until it was “full enough” to dispose of on the curb. My idea, I admit it. Not a good one, but impressive to all who encountered it.

This reek outdistanced in sheer back-of-throat-gag-impact of the dead deer carcass someone threw in our neighbor’s yard a few Christmases back. It looked like some darkly gothic Christmas gift, all festooned with vultures picking away. They stripped it in an hour. Nature’s garbage disposers are efficient…

This noisome odor shattered the puke-inducing record of my parent’s refrigerator when it ceased to be cool and croaked in a spectacular way with a few bags of my brother’s fish bait inside during the heat wave a few summers back. Cleaning that up, I looked like a deranged Bedouin with kitchen towels wrapped around my head and swim goggles on my eyes to ward off the visible fumes created by maggot-infested bait fish and Eggo waffles.

It actually beat the famous acidic cloud of funk my son can create after incubating Hormel Chili with Beans somewhere in his lower intestines overnight.  Pulling the lid off a can of that is like pulling the pin on a stink grenade!  We hear the "click! shuraack!" of the can opening in the kitchen and make plans to evacuate! T-minus a few scant hours until emission. Best to be out of the house or suffer the indignities of the hi-larious "chase mom until cornered, lift a leg and attempt to alter her olfactory reality" game.

But, as usual, the origin of the fetid miasma gassing us to unconsciousness in my car was a mystery. No one in their right mind would cop to this!

“Mom! What IS that?” she said.  Here it was...my stunningly beautiful blonde daughter glowing with good health and looking adorably quirky, her hair pulled back in her signature Tinkerbell-on-crack soccer hairdo, had removed her soccer cleats. A pervasive layer of tangy aroma wafted past. She then rolled down her soccer socks in preparation to un-velcro her shin guards. Another thick yet piquant odor pancaked down on the first aroma enthusiastically arousing my gag reflex and bringing water to my eyes. And to seal the fruity yet feisty vintage of this bacterial bacchanal, her soccer backpack, oozing with used soccer uniforms, spare cleats and more socks, gaped open next to her like an alien mouth orifice emitting what looked like its own exhalations.  A primeval perfume, it possessed three distinct notes:  Tangy, piquant and hideously vomitous.


The windows fogged in a sheen of toxic condensation. The air conditioner gasped and recoiled.  I pulled over.

Dr. Frankenstein said it best: “It’s ALIVE!”

The Supreme Soccer Stench trumps all. It came from the most unexpected place. It symbiotically set up its own  unique bio-system in my daughter’s soccer bag, home of vinyl cleats and polyester socks and sweat under cover of darkness and in perfect camouflage. And, it competes with similiar demon spawn in every other soccer bag toted around by the team according to reports from reliable sources (parents).

The bag goes in the trunk now.