Soccer Tourney in Awajishima
On Friday, after teaching some English at one of the four high schools I’m assigned to, I was on my way to an island near Osaka for a soccer tournament.
The entire senior class of Takamata High School (23 students total)
There were four occupants in the car I was riding in, 2 Americans including myself, and two Brits. The driver is Welsh, and my partner in the backseat, who also happens to be the only Muslim I know who drinks, is a scholarly gentleman who goes by the name of Shak. His vocabulary is so impressive, at times I feel as though I need to bring a Thesaurus in order to converse at his level.
Shak Attack
The other American, whose name I will not mention, is basically that Star Trek enthusiast from The Simpson’s who owns the comic book store (the guy who holds a Master’s degree in folklore and mythology, and who translated The Lord of the Rings into Klingon for his thesis); the 6-hour car ride was very entertaining.
Comic Book Store Owner
After arriving at around midnight, a few of us had some beers before going to bed. I stayed up and met some of the other JET teachers from neighboring prefectures, and tried to size them up in terms of their soccer ability. I remember thinking that although our team wasn’t as strong as I would’ve liked, we should still be able to hold our own. I have never in all my life made more of what would prove to be pernicious prediction.
On Saturday morning, when the first whistle blew, the floodgates opened. We were handed the most vicious romping I’d ever seen, and it immediately reminded of the Ronald Reagan-Walter Mondale election of 1984. The games were only two 15-minute halves long, but by the end, our backs were sore from the constant bending over to pick the ball out of the back of our own net. The only goal I remember being scored on us was the first, because at the start of every game, whatever hope and optimism I had was immediately crushed as soon as soon as the ball rolled past our goal line.
Despite the frustrations, there was some inspiration throughout this ordeal. After the score started climbing to a number that was ridiculous, I had a plan. There is an old schoolyard trick we used in recreational soccer, codenamed "the sling shot”. In this play, at the start of the kickoff, the ball is laid back to a midfielder standing at the edge of the circle who kicks the ball as far and as high towards the opposing goal as possible. It’s the soccer player’s version of a Hail Mary. I was surprised at how well my teammate was able to launch the ball over everyone, and after the fortuitous bounce over the head of the last defender, the goalie charged. I leapt into the air, and laced the most beautiful floater over the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper. The crowd went wild. I lifted my shirt over my head and ran like a madman, as our team celebrated like we had just beaten Brazil in a World Cup final. We were soon brought back to the reality of it all as the other team pounded in a few more goals before the game ended. At the end of the tournament however, there was no amount of scoring we could’ve suffered that would’ve erased the feeling of perfectly orchestrating that wonderful secret play.
After our last game on Sunday, our severely languid bodies could take no more punishment, so we went to a nearby Onsen (Japanese hot spring bath/spa) to soothe our aching muscles and joints. At first, the concept of an Onsen was a little strange to me, but now I’m beginning to feel at ease with the experience of being completely naked in a public bath with Japanese males aged from the infants to the elderly. It is a bit strange to me when some of the dad’s bring their daughters, which is the only time I feel its proper to shield my reproductive equipment from plain sight. Despite it all, there aren’t many moments that can compare to standing stark naked at the edge of a hot-spring pool, thousands of feet above the ground, assuming the likeness of a massive bronze statue commemorating some valiant hero of the past, with chest out, both hands on my hips, proudly displaying my boules d'amour for the entire world to see, and marveling at the beautiful horizon of a Japanese city miles off in the distance. This is one of the more powerful things about being here that it would be impossible to forget.
View of Koube from the Onsen
The entire senior class of Takamata High School (23 students total)
There were four occupants in the car I was riding in, 2 Americans including myself, and two Brits. The driver is Welsh, and my partner in the backseat, who also happens to be the only Muslim I know who drinks, is a scholarly gentleman who goes by the name of Shak. His vocabulary is so impressive, at times I feel as though I need to bring a Thesaurus in order to converse at his level.
Shak Attack
The other American, whose name I will not mention, is basically that Star Trek enthusiast from The Simpson’s who owns the comic book store (the guy who holds a Master’s degree in folklore and mythology, and who translated The Lord of the Rings into Klingon for his thesis); the 6-hour car ride was very entertaining.
Comic Book Store Owner
After arriving at around midnight, a few of us had some beers before going to bed. I stayed up and met some of the other JET teachers from neighboring prefectures, and tried to size them up in terms of their soccer ability. I remember thinking that although our team wasn’t as strong as I would’ve liked, we should still be able to hold our own. I have never in all my life made more of what would prove to be pernicious prediction.
On Saturday morning, when the first whistle blew, the floodgates opened. We were handed the most vicious romping I’d ever seen, and it immediately reminded of the Ronald Reagan-Walter Mondale election of 1984. The games were only two 15-minute halves long, but by the end, our backs were sore from the constant bending over to pick the ball out of the back of our own net. The only goal I remember being scored on us was the first, because at the start of every game, whatever hope and optimism I had was immediately crushed as soon as soon as the ball rolled past our goal line.
Despite the frustrations, there was some inspiration throughout this ordeal. After the score started climbing to a number that was ridiculous, I had a plan. There is an old schoolyard trick we used in recreational soccer, codenamed "the sling shot”. In this play, at the start of the kickoff, the ball is laid back to a midfielder standing at the edge of the circle who kicks the ball as far and as high towards the opposing goal as possible. It’s the soccer player’s version of a Hail Mary. I was surprised at how well my teammate was able to launch the ball over everyone, and after the fortuitous bounce over the head of the last defender, the goalie charged. I leapt into the air, and laced the most beautiful floater over the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper. The crowd went wild. I lifted my shirt over my head and ran like a madman, as our team celebrated like we had just beaten Brazil in a World Cup final. We were soon brought back to the reality of it all as the other team pounded in a few more goals before the game ended. At the end of the tournament however, there was no amount of scoring we could’ve suffered that would’ve erased the feeling of perfectly orchestrating that wonderful secret play.
After our last game on Sunday, our severely languid bodies could take no more punishment, so we went to a nearby Onsen (Japanese hot spring bath/spa) to soothe our aching muscles and joints. At first, the concept of an Onsen was a little strange to me, but now I’m beginning to feel at ease with the experience of being completely naked in a public bath with Japanese males aged from the infants to the elderly. It is a bit strange to me when some of the dad’s bring their daughters, which is the only time I feel its proper to shield my reproductive equipment from plain sight. Despite it all, there aren’t many moments that can compare to standing stark naked at the edge of a hot-spring pool, thousands of feet above the ground, assuming the likeness of a massive bronze statue commemorating some valiant hero of the past, with chest out, both hands on my hips, proudly displaying my boules d'amour for the entire world to see, and marveling at the beautiful horizon of a Japanese city miles off in the distance. This is one of the more powerful things about being here that it would be impossible to forget.
View of Koube from the Onsen
posted by Alex Cruz at
10:15 PM
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