I woke up Tuesday morning, a little short of breath and my back/chest quite sore. I thought, well I am almost 30 and this is to be expected. In my men’s league game I had taken quite a thrashing. Several ex-high school “all stars” (still reliving their Glory Days as if they can hear Springstein in the background the whole game) did their best to tackle me in mid air and propel me into the boards.Their speed and skills longs since depleted have been replaced with reckless abandon and lunging tackles. I spent just as much time picking up my turf burned knees up from the ground as they did picking the ball out from in back of their net. NOW, don’t get me wrong I love men’s league soccer–it is an amazing way for people like me, who still love soccer with a passion, to pretend that for 50 minutes I am still in my prime. It allows me to work out..without really working out, and since I was a pretty decent player in my day (Dunny can back me up on this) I seem to do ok.

However, in the end I am there to have fun. I am not there to fight, injure, or talk inordinate amounts of trash because in the end it is a Monday night men’s league in Massachusetts. Bob Bradley is not in the stands ready with an invite to the next National Team camp for any of these guys. This past Monday I met the king of all trash-talking, used to be good, a$$holes I have ever played against. After beating him three times to his left, he decided he had enough and a la Karate Kid (1984) pulled a Bobby on me and jump kicked me into the boards. Yikes..I calmly rose to my feet and continued to play and simply suggested.

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