Little Ball of Hate, Jr.

So I was watching my oldest kid Mike playing in a pre-season soccer scrimmage last Saturday afternoon. He's 15, and a sophomore at Arvada West High School. During play, the goalie on his team went up for a ball, got control of it, and then got upended by a Smoky Hills player who came in late trying to get a head on it. It was a borderline dirty play, because goalies are so vulnerable when they're up in the air. Plus it was just a scrimmage, so kids shouldn't be anywhere near colliding with goalies under the circumstances. Here's a great picture of it:


Didn't end well

Our keeper went down hard, and got pretty shaken up. He stayed on the ground for some time, while our coach came out to check on him. Apparently while they were all waiting, one of their players said something like "Stop being gay, get up and play soccer".

Well, Mike happened to be close enough to hear the remark, and went over to have a little discussion with their guy. Of course, I was on the sidelines, well out of earshot, so I didn't have any idea what was going on.

I looked over, and it appeared at first that they were just having a regular conversation. Then Mike stepped a little closer to the Smoky Hill guy, and stuck his finger in his face. Next thing you know, they were nose to nose and needed to be pulled apart by some teammates. Well, that's not quite right. The other kid was about six inches taller than Mike. It was more like nose to throat.

Play started a couple of minutes later, and it turned out that the same two players were going for a loose ball near my sideline. They were running side by side, and right when they got to the ball, Mike dipped his shoulder and blasted the Smoky Hill kid with a perfectly legal bump, sending him stumbling out of the play. I don't think the kid was expecting the hit, and it pissed him right off.

The ball went upfield, and Mike challenged another one their players for the ball. It was a taller, blond kid with a great big Jew-Fro. Just as the kid kicked the ball away, Mike came in, stuck a shoulder into his chest, and then gave him a great two-handed shove. The guy he originally had a problem with came running up and said "Don't push him again! You wanna go?". I guess that's a challenge for a fight.

Mike said, "Yeah, let's go, dickfuck". The Smoky Hill kid said, "What are you, four feet tall?" Mike smiled and calmly replied, "Yeah, four feet. No problem- let's go." Then they got separated again, the Smoky Hill coach took his player out of the game, and they were done for the rest of the scrimmage.

Now, please don't get the idea that I'm telling you all this because I'm proud of his actions out there (though I have to admit I'm a little impressed by the creativity of the word dickfuck) . Honestly, I'm pretty pleased that he stuck up for his teammate, and that he won't shy away from physical play. At this level, sometimes you need to bang a little bit, and the timid kids aren't going to last very long. But I don't want him to come out talking shit every game unless he's provoked, or he's standing up for one of his buddies.

Here's why I'm relating the story to you. Because for the first time last Saturday, I watched him play, and I saw me. You see, when I was a younger man, I was what the hockey players like to call a "Little Ball of Hate".

What is that? Well, that's a term given to a guy with a smaller size that needs to show that he's not afraid to play with the big boys. You come to the game angry, and stay that way until it's over. You're not intimidated, and you're not shy about getting physical and talking trash. Sometimes you get your ass kicked, but you'd rather have that happen than back down from a confrontation.

You little guys out there know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?

And that's what I saw in Mike last Saturday. His body is very similar to what mine was when I was his age. He's actually a little taller than I was at the time (5'3" vs. around 5'1"), but the small frame he has is built like a brick shithouse. He has a low center of gravity, and thick legs, so he's pretty hard to move. He's not little- he's short. And there is a huge difference between those two things. Here he is:


Good lookin' kid, eh? Takes after his mom

As I watched him during his little episode Saturday, I got a flashback from around 35 years ago, when I was playing soccer for Pomona High School. I was a sophomore, just like Mike, and it was the only season I've ever played that I wasn't a goalie. The keeper we had was a senior, and much, much better than me, so I played sweeper, which is the last line of defense.

During a game against Columbine (yep, that Columbine), our goalie Steve picked up a ball in our penalty area. Back at that time, a keeper could roll the ball along the ground in that area, and then pick it back up again, gaining ground for the punt upfield. The rule's changed since then- now once it's on the ground, you can't pick it up- you have to play it with your feet.

So Stever rolled the ball, and right as he picked it back up, a lanky Columbine player ran over and banged into him pretty hard. Steve punted the ball upfield, and as we jogged together, I told the guy that he had better not run into my goalie again. Then the fucker laughed at me. Looking back, I can't really blame him- shit, he was about 9 inches taller than me. But at the time, your little pal got what my dad calls "the ol' red-ass". Somehow, some way, I was going to get a chunk of that dickhole. The only thing that could have made me madder was if he had patted my head.

Then about five minutes later, the exact same thing happened. Steve picked up the ball, and this time the kid came into him hard. Cleated Stever right above his shin guard. I guess the ref didn't see it, because he didn't call anything. Steve kind of winced, but shook it off and hit the punt back upfield. The Columbine guy smiled at me as he ran by.

Again, back in the old days, there were only two referees in soccer. One on each sideline, where linemen stand today. There was no middle ref like they have now. That's a lot of field for two guys to patrol, and they couldn't watch everything.

At least, that's what I was hoping.

Stever punted the ball way up in the air, and I took a quick glance to make sure Mr. Referee was following the flight of the ball. I saw the Columbine jagoff about 15 yards in front of me, standing with his back turned. Big mistake, son. I took off, and was at ramming speed when I got to him.

Because of our height difference, I stuck my shoulder right in the middle of his back, and actually heard the air go out of the cocksucker when I hit him. His neck snapped back, and I got to hear what 170 pounds of shit sounds like when it hits the ground. In retrospect, I probably could have really hurt him, but I didn't give a flying fuck at the time. I was The Little Ball of Hate, and he had hit my goalie twice. And laughed at me. So, you know...fuck him.

The ref came running over, and the kid hadn't regained his breath yet. He just rolled back and forth, and pointed at me. The ref said, "What happened?" I said, "The ball was up in the air, and we just ran into each other. We hit pretty hard- my shoulder must have got him somewhere. That really hurt- he's a lot bigger than me. But I think I'm okay." I rubbed my shoulder and bent over a little to sell it better.

By that time, the other kid had gotten his breath back. "He cheap shotted me from behind! Red card! Red card!"

I shrugged. "We just ran into each other. Look how much bigger he is than me. I'm not stupid." He was still on the ground, so I stuck out my hand to help him up. "You okay, buddy?" Believe it or not, he didn't take my hand. The ref said, "Let's just play soccer, guys", and ran back to the sideline.

As the ref took his place, the Columbine guy said, "I'm going to kick your ass". I said "You think that hurt? Come near my goalie again, and I'm going for your fuckin' knees."

So that was pretty much the way I was through high school and young adulthood. Well, actually it was until my thirties, when I finally grew up a little bit and knocked that shit off. But I always played hard, just with a little bit of chippiness. And I always ran my mouth, especially if I was provoked.

In other words, I was just the kind of guy that I love to hate these days. But dammit, I was good at it. I could turn a phrase with the best of them- I had hundreds of ways of questioning a guy's sexuality. Wait...I still do that, but not when I'm playing anymore. Just when I'm busting balls in the locker room, or on this blogsite.

It's a lot different now. I've been around so long, I know most of the guys I play with and against, and we're pretty cordial. Shit, the closest I ever get to nasty anymore is when I'm sitting on the front porch, yelling at the local hooligans to get off my lawn while I whittle.

Looking back, I'm not very proud of my behavior during those years. And like I said before, I don't want Mike or any of my kids to be like that as a regular thing. But when it's necessary- when one of my guys needs to stand up for himself or a teammate, or if play gets a little nasty, I don't want any of them to be afraid to get their nose dirty. Like Keanu Reeves says in The Replacements, "Pain heals...chicks dig scars...glory...lasts forever" (goddamn, I love a good Keanu Reeves reference).

And when you're our size, sometimes the only way to survive is to morph into the Little Ball of Hate. Or Little Ball of Hate, Jr.