I am finally recovering my ability to type..

And why would I need to recover my ability to type you may ask? The simple answer is that I have a fractured right wrist. The more complex answer goes something like this...


Summer 1994, this was my last season of competitive soccer. I was 18 years old and my team, the University Cities United, was in the final of the Idaho state cup competition. We were up against the defending champs, the Boise something or others. They looked to be the better team, but you could not count the small town team out. We had played a good tournament so far, and I had played a role in getting us to the final, scoring in one of the qualifying games.

I played center forward. My role was simply to get the ball in a dangerous position and put it in the goal. I wasn't the most skilled player on the field, but rather than relying on finesse, I had speed and strength and a wicked shot (when I didn't launch it over the top of the goal). I also was not the starting center forward, the coach used me like a secret weapon. He would bring me on in the second half to shake up the opposing defense with my physical play.

So the time came in the final for the coach to bring me on. The coach seemed to have waited longer than usual, but we were loosing 1-0 and we needed to create some scoring opportunities. I was so psyched up from watching the tense match for 70 minutes, I could hardly contain myself. I had a chance to be the hero, to put in the goal that would tie the match. I sprinted out onto the field into my familiar center forward role. I lined up near the menacing figure of the opposing center full back. It wasn't long before the ball was coming my way. Unfortunately, the center back was also well aware of this and he gained the upper hand by getting between me and the ball. I wasn't going to give up the opportunity that easily, I went into a vicious sliding tackle to retrieve the ball. I missed the ball and completely took out the player from behind. I was lucky to only receive a yellow card for my offense. But the worst insult was yet to come. Two minutes later, I was substituted out of the game. The coach didn't like my out of control play, he decided I was a liability and he put someone else on in my place. I sat on the sidelines in disgrace. We lost the match 1-0 never getting any good attacks on our opponents goal.


That was my last competitive outdoor football match until last Tuesday night. This match brought a new challenge. My colleagues and I were facing a team composed of young men with different mental disabilities. It was a charity match in support of the program that they were enrolled in. Looking at these guys, they did not seem at all disabled to me. If anything, my team with the fat old engineers on it was the disabled one. On this occasion, I was a starting player; playing on the left wing. All game long I was causing the opponents problems, putting in the crosses for two of our three goals and almost getting one of my own. In the closing minutes, we were winning 3-2. They were pressing very hard for an equalizer, and I had dropped back to help defend our lead. One of them made a break on goal and I was the only defender with a chance of catching him. He was almost to the goal and my only chance of stopping him was a pin-point accurate sliding tackle. If I missed the ball and got the man in that location, it would be a penalty kick and would allow them to tie the game. I threw myself down stretching my left foot out after the ball and I just scraped the ball away from him and out of play. I was a hero, I had saved an almost certain goal.


In the process of making this wonder of a challenge, I landed very clumsily on my right arm. The net result is that it will be in plaster for the next 4-6 weeks. Was it worth it?

Of course!

JE