Men nostalgic for the game that they once played have come to reestablish their boyhood at pickup soccer. To score this goal they missed playing children in the back yards of their homes and on street corners together with friends. To reverse the target that they pinpointed as goalie if they let their team down.
Additional grown-ups have come to make the team they knew they should have made, had a child-hating adult or trainer comprehended their talents and the concealed work in their hearts.
Every Saturday at 7 each day, middle-aged and older men baanpolball saunter individually as well as in pairs round a tarred parking lot and through a glass front door, which makes their way to the indoor football building.
Their eyes gleam with a need for revenge because their memories flashback over the decades, and their voices exude awareness of the urgency of their life slipping away minus the necessary correction within their own soccer history. Age, they state, holds no hurdles. Football skills reside from the center, not in brittle legs and aching knees.
Each participant stops by the brownish front desk to pay the ten dollars admittance commission to a cynical, goatee-mustached toaster old enough to compete.
‘Do not enable the young ones to break your legMatt,’ the attendant frequently reacts with all the grit of cynicism in his voice, after receiving the obligations and putting the money in a drawer.
The caution usually prompts Matt to own a fast inner conversation along with himself. By no means did he see or feel an aging Matt. Can his mind be lying ? Can our brain deceive us concerning the condition of our body? What exactly did the attendant see in him he didn’t see from himself?
Poorer by ten dollars, Matt flipped as always, swaggered forward, and followed with a short corridor. A swinging brown wooden doorway let him in to the amazing blue-white light of this football field.
Even a cathedral-high ceiling capped that the indoor arena. Metal frames embedded with fluorescent bulbs criss crossed its matrix, while slowly rotating buffs wrapped with poles a vault jumper would envy provided aeration.
Foam cushioned the side walls of the area. A sheet of netting descended from the medial side metals from the roof into the artificial Astro-turf floor beneath. Between your web and the cushioned walls was a space with three silver alloy chairs. Movable goalposts inhabited both ends of this area along with emergency leave signs hungover two doors on opposite sides.
The players were heating if Matt entered. He had been wearing an ordinary black t shirt and reddish shorts, a small loose around the waist, which he tightened while walking to join the warm up: quad stretching, short runs and short passes, and so forth.
Kris laid supine, extending and bending knee after the opposite. Ejikeme throttled up and down a short distance.
A man whom Matt had seen many times without ever hearing anybody shout his name during a match was yanking his football shoe laces. ‘What a leg’ Matt marveled in silence. Never had seen legs like it, so bowed so large, resembling a horse’s neck.