A Time For Renewal

Here comes the sun.

Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t been around as much for a while. You’re welcome. Truth be told, we’re right around my one-year anniversary here at UF, and more than once recently I have considered stepping away from the blog.

I’m not leaving, but not because of any of you—even though I like some of you. I’m sticking around for my son, for my sanity, and for days like Sunday.

A little backstory…

I’ve made reference to some of this stuff over the past few months, mostly on the podcast (and if you’re not subscribed on iTunes, do it now, dammit!), but during my time at UF, life has been one hell of a roller-coaster. I had just moved away from my kids and back to California from Kansas when I started here, that job turned into hell on Earth, then I lost the job right after the World Cup, moved in with my parents (which is awesome when you’re in your late thirties), got a job back in Sacramento, quit that job after a week because I got a job in New Jersey, then waited through most of December back at the parents’ house because the new job was pushed back. All of this while trying to be the best long-distance dad I could be.

All in all, 2010 wasn’t a banner year. The constants were soccer and UF.

I was reminded of that recently, then again on Sunday afternoon.

Now that I’m on the East Coast, it’s been more difficult to find a team to join. I live in central Jersey, and the winter indoor/turf seasons had already begun when I arrived. Besides, I hadn’t played organized soccer since mid-August, so I assumed I would be quite rusty. Soccer is what kept me sane during the Sacramento debacle. I played on three teams, and I loved every minute of it. I was getting my touch and my stamina back. I met new people and had a great time. That had been missing for months. It’s amazing how much of a hole soccer—or the lack thereof—can leave.

One of my new co-workers is an Arsenal supporter. She gave me stick for putting a Manchester United scarf up above my desk. What did I expect? She invited me to play with her Sunday team. To be honest, I’m not sure if this is a formal team or just a kick-around group (I suspect both, but I’m just showing up at this point). The snow finally melted enough to play on Sunday afternoon, so the game was on.

I showed up a half-hour early for a pick-up game because I was so excited to kick a ball again. I just wanted to feel my boots on my feet. The air was cold but refreshing, and the field was a mid-winter bog. One by one, people arrived. They all smiled, blew into their hands, jogged around to see if the field would be playable. It really didn’t matter because we were going to play no matter what.

We ended up playing 9v9 on an under-12 size field. Good space, lots of running, but not a place for dribbling a lot. The passes were crisp. I was winded after my first run up the right wing, but I hit a nice little one-two with a guy named David, then put in a cross that was just a little too tall for Vivian the striker.

And so it went for two hours. Back and forth, running, resting, playing keeper. I played in the back a lot more than I’m used to, but in this kind of game you play where you’re needed. I tweaked my hip but kept on. I juked a guy who played soccer at Harvard a few years ago.

It was an amazing time. It was like new life had been forced into my lungs. It was the return of soccer to my life.

I got in the car to drive home, still dripping with sweat and feeling vaguely like I was going to puke. The first thing I did was call my son in Kansas. He didn’t answer. I had forgotten that he was at a birthday party…

In December, when I drove across the country for the new job, I spent a couple of days in Kansas with my kids. My daughter, 8, tried playing soccer once but didn’t really enjoy it. She’s in gymnastics now and has flatly said she would only play soccer again if I’m her coach. She likely wouldn’t be into playing again anyway.

My son, 10, hasn’t played organized soccer in a year. After the divorce two years ago, I chose to not coach his team for a season and let him have a different coach (and also to avoid any awkward moments with my ex). It went well, and he really made some strides. He’s great on the ball, a natural midfielder. He talked about playing club and premier-level soccer. After I took the job in California, he told me he was “taking a break” from soccer. He did gymnastics for a semester. He appeared in community theater with his sister and his mother. I was glad he was being more well-rounded than I was as a kid.

Back to December. I asked my son if he was going to play during the spring season. He balked. After a while, I asked him if it was because I don’t live there anymore. He said it wasn’t about that, but I knew better. I remember how much soccer mattered in the fractured relationship I had with my father.

A couple of weeks into January, I called my son on a Friday evening. “Can’t talk, dad, getting my shin guards on,” he said. He was heading out with some of his friends to a pick-up indoor game run by the dads who coached his rec league team. The smile on my face couldn’t have been larger. My son is in a theater production of “The Music Man” this spring, so he’s not playing in the league, but he had decided to get back on the field (or court, as it were).

A couple of weeks later, he called crying. He loves playing soccer, but when he goes to this pick-up game, all the other kids have dads except him. Smile gone.

Since then, I’ve tried to make sure I call him or get in touch somehow to connect with him when he plays. I make sure he knows that I’m part of his life and that I’m proud of him for getting back on that field.

Soccer is more than just a little game with a ball and two nets. Soccer is a passion. And passions need to be shared. Much like Americana is filled with tales of fathers and sons having a catch in some kind of dysfunctional “Field of Dreams” redux, my life is a collage of juggling, throw-ins and penalty kicks. It’s obvious now that my son has the same passion, and he wants to share that passion with me, as well. All I can do is the best I can.

I need to share my passion. And so I renew my commitment to all three things: My family, my sport, and this site (in that order).

My name is Ian Cahir. I write under the name The Stretford End.

I hope you can handle it.