Shimmy
Image courtesy of Fachry Zella Devandra
The last time I graced a soccer field it was windy out, and also a Saturday. My favorite part believe it or not was always lacing up my boots. Angel wings with lashes of red and the Nike logo smeared onto the sides like warpaint. I liked watching the metamorphosis, civvies into armor, right beneath my waist. I’d be on the bench, hunched over slightly, talking hoops with Roy, who was a loudmouth. Trash talk from some new arrival would float above my head like a boomerang, expecting return. “My hangover’s worse than yours,” said Craig from Accounting, “but I’m still gonna ball out.” When you finally stood up it was all yours. All that grass. All those white lines meant to tame your speed. All that avocado tree above the northern goal. The warm-up ball came at you the second time you called for it – like a gift, like a warning.
Usually someone from senior management split the crowd up into four groups of reds and blues. We sometimes pulled a couple stray midfielders from one of the tournaments to help make up the numbers. I’d heard the last time Maggie showed up to cheer she was two weeks into the job, just trying to make a decent impression on her new employers. She didn’t say much, honestly. I visited Marketing an awful lot just to talk prestige television with Roy, and show Maggie how diverse my personality was. But she never looked up from her machine. When her Nissan pulled up at the futsal arena that morning I swear the breeze picked up. I’d just planted a worldie in the top corner of the practice goal, acted like it was nothing. She’d killed the engine beneath the avocado tree.
“Hey.”
She strolled across the grass, for the dugout. I dreamt she’d checked my legs out, the swell of my ass in shorts. She was here as everybody’s colleague, as Roy’s homie, but the stakes had risen considerably. I had to put on a show.
HR did its thing. There were four teams and two goalkeepers to share, a couple interns in reserve. Each game would be five minutes a half. A two-goal difference ended a game instantly and the winning team soldiered on. In the event of a draw, both sides ceded the field. Maggie volunteered to keep the time and promised to capture highlights “for the ‘Gram.” Roy volunteered to keep goal, his tactical bellows roughhousing the summer clouds. HR said if you had to slide-tackle it was best for everybody but Legal especially if you did so with your mouth closed. All that black soot from the AstroTurf was already inside my socks. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I imagine the snap of a sports whistle, all that movement it suddenly prompts, is a lot like the blast of a firearm. I was a little all over the place for that first game. Stealing only soft touches, constantly searching for Maggie’s gaze. I made a nice run up her flank to intercept one of the kids, made sure to gallop by. I had to be careful, though. All these teenagers with nothing better to do on a Saturday morning, they could pull the ball out from behind your ear in an instant; and chances were Roy would have his phone out for it, even in goal. Record the whole thing and show it to everybody in the status meeting on Monday. I jogged back into position, made high art of pretending Maggie was invisible.
We were doing way too much with the ball, trying too hard to spread it around. They were faster than us, more decisive in their passing, and they had more kids. They took the lead after six minutes and we were scrambling. Roy turtled up and hid his face from the assault. When he got back up he yelled some stuff about lack of coverage, man-to-man pressure, and chided Luther from PR for never tracking back. Luther pointed out that it was only futsal, bro, and I chuckled at how incredulous Roy looked.
I was pulled back to cover Luther on defense. It was ironic how a body as toned as his was could barely dash a meter when we needed it to. I was right beside the bench now, and right beside Maggie. HR consulted her stopwatch and yelled out two and a half minutes. We played it out from the back, Roy cursing under his breath still. I fed the ball to Cupcake, an alleged high school prospect. He beat his man handily, and another, the Messi jersey on his back almost glowing for the jig. I drifted into the center meantime, half trailing him as he lit up the wing. I could never be accused of going anywhere in particular. Closer to the box, sure. The wind carried me forward and it smoothed across all my fillings too. Cupcake shifted the ball between boots and teed me up. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me screaming CENTER THAT SHIT, CENTER THAT SHIT, I SAID CENTER THAT SHIT, or cared for it really. It felt like I’d floated right off the face of the earth for a second but the ball entered my orbit. Like an apology, or a concession, or a dare.
I had no right from thirty, maybe forty yards out. What with a futsal goal barely four meters wide, what with so many bodies in the way. But I lifted my right foot all the same, smacked the son of a bitch, and watched it sail for a leap year before it bounced off the post. People so rarely applauded a close call, especially if they worked in Accounting. HR lost its shit all over the bench. Maggie just nodded at the scene, her tongue in her cheek, a finger on her chin. My heart in my mouth.
The whistle blew and my guys surrendered the field.
