"We can gradually drop our ideas of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look look directly with compassion and humour at who we are."
- Pema Chodron
Heart wrenching.
Once again, I can but stare and watch as the ball - that wondrous, object of desire which also turns grown men into little babies because they get so possessive about it - floats into the back of my team's goal. Euston, our South African keeper, lowers his head. He had no chance. That guy was wide open. Ok, so we're 1-0 and the game only lasts 25 minutes. Still, half of the game remains and we do have the offensive explosiveness to pull it off. We press with deliberate passes and determination. The crosses are poured in relentlessly from the wings but either the finishing just isn't there or their defense is solid. Even later, shots continue to drift wide or their off target or not quite powerful enough. Nothing seems to be going in our favour.
Until, that is, the ball is floated in perfectly to Denton (our Dutch dynamo: ex-gynmnast striker playing in his final tournament for the Phoenix; reputation for powerful and acrobatic headers). He has only to aim it with his head and it's bulgin' the back of the ol' onion bag and celebration time. It couldn't have been scripted more perfectly. We hold our collective breath (team + supporters) as time takes a nap. Mais helas, when time clocks back in, the ball inexplicably bulges into the sidenetting instead. We all know that we unlikely to get another tasty chance like that one with the amount of time left. That was the one. For the Phoenix, it wasn't to be - again.
******************************************
No one likes losing, but losing repeatedly in virtually the the same way is another level of acceptance. It's almost insulting. That's why it teaches us the best lessons. Our team had been preparing semi-seriously for the last 6 months and we had been playing great team football during the build-up games to the tournament. Our new gaffers, Taller-Than-Tall Tom (he is too, if only by a few inches) and Ferg, had put much time and effort into making this team a winner. They, everybody, really wanted to win. Can you smell the danger? That attachment to winning is so dangerous -especially when winning is expected of you. And though I can't deny that I wanted to win it at home, previous experience was my teacher before this competition. My motto: play to win but don't count on it. My personal goal for the tournament was to play as well as I could and provide a good time in between and afterwards with some fine music (DJ MICHELE rocked Saturday's after-party while oj handled Sunday's). And to the gaffers' credit, they did all they possibly could, too (both are Phoenix players currently injured). But it is the uncontrollable factors, the ones beyond our control yet visible that always seem to haunt us, returning only to bite us on the ass when it counts most.
The doom clouds loomed from early on as destiny caught us with an elbow. Within 10 minutes of the first game versus the much hated Taipei Animals (hated of course, because they have the best winning record) when going for the header off of a corner, our captain, Kid Ari, connected not with the ball but with the cranium of their thug defender (actually Ari is probably more of a thug). He went straight to the sideline and disappeared. Throughout the rest of the game, I frequently stole concerned glances over to the sidelines, wondering why Ari hadn't even reappeared to watch the rest of the game. When he didn't, I knew it was hospital time and I feared for arguably the team's strongest weapon: the hip hop central midfield.
Never mind, the French connection it is then. Raf-de-Nantes slides in from the wing to join me in the middle. Jesus, our token, tiny but skillful Bolivian (he, his brother Juan and other latinos are musicans making a living playing their indigenous music around Taiwan) replaces him on the left flank. I am already determined to lead the team and now I know I have to step it up even more with Ari out. We prey on the Animals and win convincingly 2-1 to all but assure a spot in the next round.
On the Sunday, our quarter-final game is against our long-term rivals the Evil Pacers of Mordor (aka Black Lung, really Kaoshiung). As is our Sunday morning habit, after a long Saturday drinking session, we come out as flat as 2-day old half-empty Molson Export and within the first 5 minutes, we are lucky not to be down 1-0 when a powerful strike from their forward rattles off the crossbar. Alarm bells ring like alarm clocks throughout our team's bedheads. We respond emphatically. But it isn't until the dying minutes that I wriggle my way into position in the 18 yard box and spot Hugh the Hammer, having held up on his run, sitting eagerly alone on the penalty spot. I deliver a great cross and he drives a header into the back of the net for a Phoenix birth into the semis. Hey, what's that in my hand? It feels the Pheonix jinx melting away in my hand. Maybe it really is our day at last...
******************************************
It's the downtime between games. I'm in the shade (oh yeah, it's already scorching here)stretching. I'm no spring chick anymore. If I don't stretch properly these days, I am ridiculously sore the following day. However, after a reasonably easy Saturday (one team in our group did not show and so we only played two 35 games as opposed to three 25 minute ones- big difference because the games are short and intense), I still feel remarkably well. I did wake up slightly hungover this morning (above and beyond , these tournaments are excuses to be festive). But I wasn't about to let a slight headache prevent me from leading the team to victory. Other teammates, however, were not quite on the same page. Without boring you with stategical details, we play a 3-4-3 formation (3 defenders, 4 midfielders and 3 forwards). With only 3 at the back to shut down the opponents, it is essential that all 3 are ready to run and see a lot of the ball. Well, two out of three of these integral defenders happened to be out drinking until the wee, wee hours of the morn. They were still slightly drunk and it showed. That crushing goal in the semis described earlier could have likely been prevented if those guys had been even half-sober. Et voila, quelle vie!
So much potential. Wasted.
But wait, isn't there a valuable lesson here to remember?
Just why the hell is it so important to win in this world? To be the best. The Champs.We play some of the best footy on the island. Any other team would back us up on that. But until we win the Cup, we will be known as the perennial bridesmaids. I was disappointed but, oddly, not that disappointed. We didn't play badly. In fact, we outplayed them in that semi-final. We had injuries. We had ill players playing crucial positions. More importantly, I remembered my real, simple goal for the tournament: to play to my ability. And I did that. So my head was up for once during that awkward saunter towards the crowd after a loss. Still, though, losing does really suck. It hits you in such a way that can only be likened with loneliness. When you lose, it feels like you've been rejected, ignored, and abandoned all at once. Nobody loves a loser, right?
Frankly, I'm a bit tired of this world of winners. Competition is a double-edged sword which can bring out amelioration and creativity you never knew you had or, it can transform you into a horrible person that does things he/she would normally never do. It brings out a side of humanity better left to fossilize. I remember scoffing at the classic Nestle (or is it Hershey's) commercial as a kid. You know, the one where the boy comes home dejected after losing his hockey game and his Mom asks, "What's wrong?. "We lost", he mutters glumly. "Well, did you have fun?", she inquires, handing him a cup full of hot chocolate by the roaring fire. "Yeah". "Well, that's all that counts", concludes Mom. The message was simple and admirable. The only problem is that it wasn't the least bit compatible with the philosophy of most of my competitive coaches. Winning was all that mattered, no matter what it took. These are the lessons that many of the kids are growing up with in sports.
So let me now revert back to Pema Chodron's quote at the beginning and place what happened in the context of the Phoenix. The Phoenix must gradually drop the idea that we should win the Cup before it even happens, that we even need to win it in the first place, and stop worrying about the other teams altogether. We are an excellent team that happens to always have players (never the same ones) that seem to show up on the Sunday so hungover they can't kick a ball straight. You have to laugh. People mess up. You have to forgive them in the end. And hey, we still win (and the closest runner-up team isn't even in the same galaxy) the best supporters on the whole island trophy.
Losing is a whole lot easier to handle when you don't expect to win in the first place.
Your loser friend (temporarily)
oj
