Reminded of this tonight by this post on Hemingway Writes.
My best friend has been around with me since the 5th grade. It's tough to keep a friendship going for that long, not because of anything about people, but because of the world. For a while there, the only time we could manage to get together was Sunday mornings. Early Sunday mornings.
So, I'd find myself hitting the snooze alarm at 6:15 on Sunday morning, and trying to get upright before it went off the second time. If it was my turn to drive, I'd pull my things on and go over to wait in the driveway. I'd call as soon as I got over there to wake Quin up, and he'd shuffle out a few minutes later. Or if it was Quin's turn to drive, I'd call him as I was going out to sit on the curb to wait.
We'd swing by the coffee shop first, because the first thing you need before running around in the heat all morning is a steaming hot cup of coffee. Save on the warm-up time when you get to the field. I always thought it said something about how much we love playing the game that we never once got caught staying in the coffee shop. Picking up the paper, siting in a comfy chair, putting feet up, it would've been so easy.
There's always be somebody already there when we arrived. Pulling on their cleats, sharing jokes or gossip (I couldn't tell which), starting to kick a ball around, some even doing some stretching first. The first day I got there, I got a few double takes. By the time the game was in full swing, there were 25 to 30 soccer players there, all Korean except for me.
The game would run from 7 to about 11:30, with a couple of breaks in-between. We'd start all in a line at midfield, usually someone would look at the line in advance to switch a few players around, and then we would count off. When the count got to me, there was always a good laugh by everybody when I called out in English. The man next to me would usually tell me how to say the same number in Korean, but without the repetition, the numbers never stuck with me. Somebody would volunteer to play keeper from each side, and we'd sort out into positions with unspoken negotiations determining the spread across the field.
Then, we'd play the game. There's not much you need to be able to say to each other, you mostly need to pay attention to the speed, the spacing, the flow, and put yourself into it. The two hours of the first day was mostly frustration for me. I would make the run, be available for support, be open for the attack, get looked at, get recognized, get ignored. Players would take on 3 defenders rather than pass to me in the open, or else they would pass to a clearly weaker player rather than to me. I kept quiet, I was a guest after all.
In the third hour, I moved back to play defense, where it matters less that no one is willing to pass to you. I got identified as the likely weak link, and the opponents attack came through my side of the field nearly every time. This was folly, and gave me plenty of opportunities with the ball after taking it from the other team. I would pass, and I would receive a pass in return, and I was allowed to fully play the game. In the fourth hour, I moved back into the attack, and lit it up from close and far range.
After that, I was just another player in the game. I was allowed to pay in to the team, and received a shirt. In the line-up, I would be one of the ones getting switched to make sure the teams were even strength. I learned a few words, though I still pronounce them with my Virginia mouth: "s-Ho" is run or hurry (people would always be telling me this after that made an errant pass, like I was supposed to have compensated for it with my speed), "ilee" is here, "ga-da" is go (for weeks, Â I thought I was hearing "godamn", and sometimes I was), "fuck" is still fuck apparently. The only time I would notice a difference in how I was treated on the field is when the team was preparing for a tournament, and everyone seemed to want to work on the physicality of their tackling against the challenge of me. That, and in the one actual tournament I went to, when I did not get any playing time for fear that I would draw complaints of not being a usual part of the team.
The game would end at about 11 or 11:30 in the morning. In the summertime, it's often hot and steamy by 9:30, and so by 11:00 there's not much game left in the game, and you can yell s-Ho at me all you want, my legs aren't gong any faster than this. About once a month, the group would all head over to the parking lot, and a barbecue would get lit up for pulgogi, and a cooler of waters and lite beer would get opened, and large tupperware containers of sticky rice. Someone would start passing around a bottle of gin or vodka and no thanks I'll just have a water. The very first time I was at this party, somebody got my plate ready and passed the jar down to me. I snagged a couple of big red pieces of cabbage out of it and flipped them onto my plate. There were sly smiles and hushed tones as I took my first bite which is to say my first bite that day, but not my first bite of kimchi. I'd had it at Quin's house for years by then. I chomped it right down and followed it with another as the group got quiet and waited for a surprised reaction that never came, finally erupting with laughter from all around and claps on the back.
I sure miss those guys and that game.
