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+---- Thread: The worst goalie in the worst division of soccer (/showthread.php?tid=3774)
- woog - 2023-05-19
My life is one of constant travel. It is a good thing I was born a nomad.
Once I was the most promising goalkeeper prospect in Mongolia. As they say, "damned with faint praise."
I then was the tallest young goalkeeper in Japan. Perhaps that is damned with strange praise.
I then came to Accra to discover new ways to be humble and tenacious in soccer; Accra exiled me to Australia to play and learn among players nearer my level of development.
I learned, I listened, I watched. I savoured the broad blue skies that reminded me of home, though the heat of an overhead sun was unfamiliar. I became, for a time, the best goalkeeper in that academy league, though only for a time. I tip my hat to those who bested me, and the keeper who surpassed me. (I tell a little lie, there; I wear no hat in such hot places.)
In the Academy, we of the Red team had so much skill at frustrating our enemies' attack, but little skill at attacking ourselves. Our fine backline and I learned many ways to annoy strikers and midfielders. Which is good, as we will rely on these shared memories to frustrate still better attackers together in Accra (as many of us on team Red were Accra's flock).
But then Accra decided I may have learned just enough, and I returned to Africa, to the Gulf of Guinea. (It is still a strange thing to me to be in any place where the waters reach to the horizon to touch the sky.) After a few games, soccer is still soccer, and I am still learning. I have gone from being the best keeper in the preschool of world soccer to being the worst keeper in the world's second-best league. I have prevented goals, I have failed to prevent goals. I have faced recognizing where a striker had convinced the ball it wanted to be while being unable to meet the ball there myself. And I have seen a ball lie to me on its way past me about where it wanted to be.
Attackers love to ask the ball to lie, almost as much as passers love setting up a striker so well they can score on an undefended corner of the goal with savage honesty. I have always learned to unravel the lies of the strikers' shots and the manipulative whispers of the passers' crosses. But this is the second-best league in the world - there are whole new languages of lies and whispers to hear and learn. The wind and the grass will bring them all to me in time. I will only be the worst keeper in the worst division of soccer for a time. And then, one day, the strikers and passers will face a pitch on which the ball will be deaf to their deceptions, the ball will instead leap into my hands as a trusted and welcome friend, and the grass and wind will whisper only my resolute mirth, in every language cleats and foreheads and nomads know.
Every goal, striker, loss or cross is my teacher. I learn. I listen. And when I reply, it will be fluent, savage, and honest.