Brotherhood Final
Content
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
Many people play soccer for many reasons. My team was diverse in every way. Nationality, educational goals, skill level, even language. What we shared, was a common goal. Different reasons for accomplishing the same goal. We shared soccer. The wins, and the losses, we shared them all. It’s not about either. It’s about how we shared them. I’ve come to understand that it’s not about triumph. It’s not about the win, the score, or the numbers. Despite what anyone will ever tell me, I know that it’s about the faces. More than that, it’s about a mutual understanding. There’s a word for it, but it escapes me. Then again, it’s about more than words.
I was already strapping on my gloves, getting ready to play in the net for the day. Officially, I was trying out for the goalkeeper position. After the efforts of previous years however, there was no doubt that the position would be mine. Our team was an interesting mix. We all came from different parts of the “social hierarchy” of our high school, (this was the varsity team), and this created a lot of tension. There was daily bickering, arguing, and drama, but at the end of the day we got the job done. We were a good team in a bad conference. Most of our regular season games were easy, so we relied heavily on tough out-of-conference games. “Get off the fucking field!” The freshman we were yelling at clearly had no idea what was going on. We waved at him and he understood that much, but it was too late. Coach Merrill was already grinning with the same look a lion gives a fallen gazelle. “On the baseline, gentlemen!” Try-outs hadn’t even begun yet but we were already being punished for a mistake. You see, we pass the practice football field every day on the way to our own practice field. The single worst mistake a rookie or hopeful can make is stepping on the field that’s not ours-it’s nearly punishable by death. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure a few freshmen offed themselves one year to save themselves the agony that would’ve ensued if they’d faced Merrill. This particular rookie hadn’t been properly warned, and we paid
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
the price. In the spirit of “all for one and one for all,” Coach Merrill lounged as we raced the length of the field once, twice, three times. We lost count. And then tryouts began. The first few days were full of fitness exercises. I understood that we were racing in teams of four to see who was the fastest. “Push!” “Harder now!” “Turn your hips this way, step that way!” “What’s wrong with you? Get up already. We’re starting again.” “Leave him be, I’ll run twice instead.” This veteran changed the exercise completely. It was the same drill, and the coach was writing down which teams won the contest of agility-but suddenly, the purpose was entirely different. Who was faster was no longer relevant.
Kick-off
A few months passed and it was time to play. The regular season was well underway and we were holding our own. We won most of our games with ease. Although we were a team of great players, our differences often determined how we played. Some days we came to play, and some days we just squeezed by with the bare minimum. This weekend, however, was the soccer for a cure tournament-and we would soon realize that this little tournament would shape our soccer careers. The first game was Friday night and we were ready to go. “What kind of team are we playing?” “Coach, can I play barefoot?” “This is a joke.” The team we were to play was small, chunky, and slow. They lacked the skill to control the ball even in a proper warm-up, and their appearance suggested they did not know this. Despite seeming so inexperienced, they were tenacious. They worked hard to achieve half of the results we could. The whistle blew. My team surged forward and the field was suddenly alive. Not but thirty seconds had
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
passed and our striker had taken a shot on the goal. It was stopped, but we relaxed. A beginning like this signaled an easy game ahead. “What’s your problem?!” “Hit the damn goal!” “Get open next time!” Instead of circulating the ball around the field, we charged ahead with haste, and suddenly the impossible was happening. We crumbled, fell inwards. The opposing team, who seemed so sub-par before was circulating the ball around us, frustrating us and infuriating our coach. When they scored, the blame was spread like an infectious disease. Like salt in an open wound, they scored again. By halftime, we were already defeated. It was like we were drowning each other in hopes of gaining one selfish breath of air. A team that previously upset the best team in the state, that had been ranked in years past, was losing to a team that didn’t look like it belonged on the same playing field to begin with. Our coach said nothing at halftime. Not a word; no advice, encouragement, disappointment, or even anger. This was unthinkable. Every second of every game, he was always spouting directions- practically on the field himself. He wore the same baseball cap and chewed the same bubble gum. He was always on the same page as we were. Today however, he seemed to know exactly what was happening. This game was the single most embarrassing moment in our sports careers. The following day, the season started again. Rebirth. No conversations, team meetings, or discussions were had. Suddenly, out of total chaos, we reemerged united. We knew exactly what would be required of us. The team we were to play today was a much better team than we were to begin withboth on paper and in play. We knew that our best wouldn’t be good enough. If we were to win today, we needed a new team. We would need to unite under the same cause; we needed to form a bond that wasn’t there before. The whistle blew and we fought. Our muscles ached, yet we pushed them harder. It was a chilly fifty degrees at best, and the wind was stealing what warmth our bodies had; yet, the sweat
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
hung on the brows of the onlookers like the pendulum of a clock. The ball circulated the field like the blood in our veins and players screamed. “Over here”! “That’s the right idea!” “Once more now!” It was beautiful like nothing we had ever seen. Out of the ashes of the previous day, we rose stronger than ever. Yet we were the same team, same players, the same sport. We were facing even more difficult opponents. What we knew however, is that we were facing fewer opponents. Today we weren’t fighting eachother. Minutes passed like seconds, and the half flew by. It was still a tie game, 0-0. At the half, my coach said nothing. Again. He always has something to say. The words must have been aching to expel themselves from him. But oddly, no such thing happened. We did all the rallying, encouraging, discussing today. The second half began and players leaped from their spots like lead exhaling from the muzzle of a rifle. For forty minutes we fought for every ball, every play. Each move was deliberate, and every second was the most important second of our lives. With five minutes left in a tie ball game, it happened. With our spirits circling the drain, it happened. The ball had been circulating, weaving in and out of the opponents feet like a mouse through a maze. We could feel the pressure building, looking for an escape. In the second most glorious moment of my sports career, we scored. The shot came from about fifteen yards off center to the right side and about thirty yards from the opponent’s baseline. It curved away from the goalkeeper and dropped just enough to bury itself in the far corner. I imagine that VE day in time square must have felt something like this. The field was a festival of excited noise and bustling feet. Arms were raised over head, and smiles lit up the day. In that moment, everything else stood still. It just disappeared. The ground dropped from beneath our feet, and we were soaring, on top of the world. Indivisible, unstoppable. The game was not over yet, however. Time was short, but the opposing team had enough time for one more attempt. Any other day, and we would have been caught off guard. On this day, however,
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
we held salvation in our hands and there was nothing could relinquish our grip. My team rallied, but lost the ball. The counter-attack was quick, elegant, and simple. A single player had stolen the ball and was speeding at me like a freight train. In the moment there were only two things that were important-the ball and the goal behind me. My eyes were focused on the ball, muscles tense and ready to explode. However, I didn’t see any of this. I say my team. I saw their faces just three minutes before. Who was I to cut this moment short? Who is this opponent to steal the win from our clutches? Although this was just a petty tournament, everything was riding on our success. If we succeeded here, this newly formed bond would guide us for the rest of the season. If our hopes fell through, we would lose the moment and the bond with it-the rest of the season and playoffs would be predetermined failure. I dove. My fingertips found the ball and pushed it just enough. Just enough to stop its momentum, and my second leap secured the ball, and the day for us. I remember so clearly, that my first glance upon standing again wasn’t towards the crowd or my stunned opponent or my coach. It was towards my teammate, who helped me up. It was to my team, who in that moment was unstoppable.
I don’t speak with any of them anymore, except on the rare occasion that I run into them in public. They seem like strangers now, but they are the closest sort of strangers I shall ever know. The most treasured feeling I shall ever have experienced is that when we took the field at gametime. There was always this surging moment just before the referee signals the start, when I used to look around the field at my teammates. And in that moment, I knew with no doubt in my soul that every single one of them would go to hell and back for each other, as I would do for them.
This is brotherhood.
Brotherhood
10/18/12
Many people play soccer for many reasons. My team was diverse in every way. Nationality, educational goals, skill level, even language. What we shared, was a common goal. Different reasons for accomplishing the same goal. We shared soccer. The wins, and the losses, we shared them all. It’s not about either. It’s about how we shared them. I’ve come to understand that it’s not about triumph. It’s not about the win, the score, or the numbers. Despite what anyone will ever tell me, I know that it’s about the faces. More than that, it’s about a mutual understanding. There’s a word for it, but it escapes me. Then again, it’s about more than words.
I was already strapping on my gloves, getting ready to play in the net for the day. Officially, I was trying out for the goalkeeper position. After the efforts of previous years however, there was no doubt that the position would be mine. Our team was an interesting mix. We all came from different parts of the “social hierarchy” of our high school, (this was the varsity team), and this created a lot of tension. There was daily bickering, arguing, and drama, but at the end of the day we got the job done. We were a good team in a bad conference. Most of our regular season games were easy, so we relied heavily on tough out-of-conference games. “Get off the fucking field!” The freshman we were yelling at clearly had no idea what was going on. We waved at him and he understood that much, but it was too late. Coach Merrill was already grinning with the same look a lion gives a fallen gazelle. “On the baseline, gentlemen!” Try-outs hadn’t even begun yet but we were already being punished for a mistake. You see, we pass the practice football field every day on the way to our own practice field. The single worst mistake a rookie or hopeful can make is stepping on the field that’s not ours-it’s nearly punishable by death. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure a few freshmen offed themselves one year to save themselves the agony that would’ve ensued if they’d faced Merrill. This particular rookie hadn’t been properly warned, and we paid
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
the price. In the spirit of “all for one and one for all,” Coach Merrill lounged as we raced the length of the field once, twice, three times. We lost count. And then tryouts began. The first few days were full of fitness exercises. I understood that we were racing in teams of four to see who was the fastest. “Push!” “Harder now!” “Turn your hips this way, step that way!” “What’s wrong with you? Get up already. We’re starting again.” “Leave him be, I’ll run twice instead.” This veteran changed the exercise completely. It was the same drill, and the coach was writing down which teams won the contest of agility-but suddenly, the purpose was entirely different. Who was faster was no longer relevant.
Kick-off
A few months passed and it was time to play. The regular season was well underway and we were holding our own. We won most of our games with ease. Although we were a team of great players, our differences often determined how we played. Some days we came to play, and some days we just squeezed by with the bare minimum. This weekend, however, was the soccer for a cure tournament-and we would soon realize that this little tournament would shape our soccer careers. The first game was Friday night and we were ready to go. “What kind of team are we playing?” “Coach, can I play barefoot?” “This is a joke.” The team we were to play was small, chunky, and slow. They lacked the skill to control the ball even in a proper warm-up, and their appearance suggested they did not know this. Despite seeming so inexperienced, they were tenacious. They worked hard to achieve half of the results we could. The whistle blew. My team surged forward and the field was suddenly alive. Not but thirty seconds had
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
passed and our striker had taken a shot on the goal. It was stopped, but we relaxed. A beginning like this signaled an easy game ahead. “What’s your problem?!” “Hit the damn goal!” “Get open next time!” Instead of circulating the ball around the field, we charged ahead with haste, and suddenly the impossible was happening. We crumbled, fell inwards. The opposing team, who seemed so sub-par before was circulating the ball around us, frustrating us and infuriating our coach. When they scored, the blame was spread like an infectious disease. Like salt in an open wound, they scored again. By halftime, we were already defeated. It was like we were drowning each other in hopes of gaining one selfish breath of air. A team that previously upset the best team in the state, that had been ranked in years past, was losing to a team that didn’t look like it belonged on the same playing field to begin with. Our coach said nothing at halftime. Not a word; no advice, encouragement, disappointment, or even anger. This was unthinkable. Every second of every game, he was always spouting directions- practically on the field himself. He wore the same baseball cap and chewed the same bubble gum. He was always on the same page as we were. Today however, he seemed to know exactly what was happening. This game was the single most embarrassing moment in our sports careers. The following day, the season started again. Rebirth. No conversations, team meetings, or discussions were had. Suddenly, out of total chaos, we reemerged united. We knew exactly what would be required of us. The team we were to play today was a much better team than we were to begin withboth on paper and in play. We knew that our best wouldn’t be good enough. If we were to win today, we needed a new team. We would need to unite under the same cause; we needed to form a bond that wasn’t there before. The whistle blew and we fought. Our muscles ached, yet we pushed them harder. It was a chilly fifty degrees at best, and the wind was stealing what warmth our bodies had; yet, the sweat
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
hung on the brows of the onlookers like the pendulum of a clock. The ball circulated the field like the blood in our veins and players screamed. “Over here”! “That’s the right idea!” “Once more now!” It was beautiful like nothing we had ever seen. Out of the ashes of the previous day, we rose stronger than ever. Yet we were the same team, same players, the same sport. We were facing even more difficult opponents. What we knew however, is that we were facing fewer opponents. Today we weren’t fighting eachother. Minutes passed like seconds, and the half flew by. It was still a tie game, 0-0. At the half, my coach said nothing. Again. He always has something to say. The words must have been aching to expel themselves from him. But oddly, no such thing happened. We did all the rallying, encouraging, discussing today. The second half began and players leaped from their spots like lead exhaling from the muzzle of a rifle. For forty minutes we fought for every ball, every play. Each move was deliberate, and every second was the most important second of our lives. With five minutes left in a tie ball game, it happened. With our spirits circling the drain, it happened. The ball had been circulating, weaving in and out of the opponents feet like a mouse through a maze. We could feel the pressure building, looking for an escape. In the second most glorious moment of my sports career, we scored. The shot came from about fifteen yards off center to the right side and about thirty yards from the opponent’s baseline. It curved away from the goalkeeper and dropped just enough to bury itself in the far corner. I imagine that VE day in time square must have felt something like this. The field was a festival of excited noise and bustling feet. Arms were raised over head, and smiles lit up the day. In that moment, everything else stood still. It just disappeared. The ground dropped from beneath our feet, and we were soaring, on top of the world. Indivisible, unstoppable. The game was not over yet, however. Time was short, but the opposing team had enough time for one more attempt. Any other day, and we would have been caught off guard. On this day, however,
Brandon Gail
Brotherhood
10/18/12
we held salvation in our hands and there was nothing could relinquish our grip. My team rallied, but lost the ball. The counter-attack was quick, elegant, and simple. A single player had stolen the ball and was speeding at me like a freight train. In the moment there were only two things that were important-the ball and the goal behind me. My eyes were focused on the ball, muscles tense and ready to explode. However, I didn’t see any of this. I say my team. I saw their faces just three minutes before. Who was I to cut this moment short? Who is this opponent to steal the win from our clutches? Although this was just a petty tournament, everything was riding on our success. If we succeeded here, this newly formed bond would guide us for the rest of the season. If our hopes fell through, we would lose the moment and the bond with it-the rest of the season and playoffs would be predetermined failure. I dove. My fingertips found the ball and pushed it just enough. Just enough to stop its momentum, and my second leap secured the ball, and the day for us. I remember so clearly, that my first glance upon standing again wasn’t towards the crowd or my stunned opponent or my coach. It was towards my teammate, who helped me up. It was to my team, who in that moment was unstoppable.
I don’t speak with any of them anymore, except on the rare occasion that I run into them in public. They seem like strangers now, but they are the closest sort of strangers I shall ever know. The most treasured feeling I shall ever have experienced is that when we took the field at gametime. There was always this surging moment just before the referee signals the start, when I used to look around the field at my teammates. And in that moment, I knew with no doubt in my soul that every single one of them would go to hell and back for each other, as I would do for them.
This is brotherhood.
