There Have Been Bad Games

Okay, I know this space is typically devoted to the professional game. And MLS (ba-dum-bum). But every once in a while, my illustrious, if somewhat out-of-shape recreational career is going to demand some attention.

This is one of those times.

We were fresh off a dominating win in our first week of the new session, which alleviated some fears about being promoted to the top flight on account of a dwindling number of teams willing to shell out for the lower league and, perhaps, travel to the near south side for matches. Heck, I even felt good about playing goalie, which is new and different. Apparently my need to organize and see the game entirely in front of me outweighs my need to run around and pretend I'm getting fit. Plus, we've got a strong defense.

Well, usually we have a strong defense. The good showing was against one of the other promoted sides, so Sunday was our first true test against the stronger opposition. So, naturally, we were left without our two most potent scoring threats, including our best player overall. We still had a numerical advantage, though.

The main premise here is that they were just better than us. Much better than us, to the point that, down 3-1, I thought it was a pretty good result. Or, rather, it would be a pretty good result if we could hold on. We couldn't, and were made to pay for any and all mistakes and bad passes from then on out, to the tune of a 6-1 embarassment.

I don't mind losing. What I don't like -- nay, can't stand -- is being humiliated. I don't care for feeling helpless. And it was a matter of adding injury to insult, as I clearly don't know what I need to stretch to prepare for throwing the few saves I did manage back out to my team. From my shoulder down to my elbow, I was in serious pain.

Also, I learned something. I learned that a ball hit high enough to clear the fence behind the south goal apparently will have enough downward velocity to crack a windshield, especially if it hits the one spot on said windshield that had a tiny dimple in it from a previous encounter with an unidentified flying object. Of course, I could do without the life lesson when I'm already dejected to the point of not saying a word to my teammates as I left the field and wincing in pain.

I guess it could have been worse. I'm not entirely sure how, but there was probably something.