The Half-Life of Soccer

I haven't played soccer in seven years. That's a long time, but apparently not long enough.

I still dream about soccer. Quite often, actually. At least as often as I dream my other recurring dream, in which my gums are coated in a thick paste--like that mold the orthodontist gives you to make your retainer--and as I try to pull it off all my teeth come out.

Like the teeth dream, my soccer dreams aren't pleasant. Usually the team I'm playing for is cobbled together from all the teams I played for over the years (the Tigers when I was four, the Blast from about eight to 11, the Crush from about 11 to 13, the Pizzazz and Crush, the Pizzazz, and finally, in college, that fiercest of mascots, the Terriers-). Usually we're losing and I'm needed in the game. The whole team is waiting for me to come in on a substitution or to start the game, only--and here a variety of things play out on my dream-field: I can't find my shin guards; I only have one cleat; one of my contacts has mysteriously torn in half rendering me legally blind; I don't have a jersey.

In my soccer dreams, I'm never doing something awe-inspiring, like tearing down the field on a break-away or scoring a game-winning goal. No. I'm about to cry because I'm searching my bag for that shinguard, cleat or jersey or struggling to see with only one eye, all while my coach stands over me ominously and my teammates, the referees and opposing team all wait with hands on hips.

None of these things ever happened to me in real life. Okay, once I forgot my shin guards when I was about 12 in a tournament in Oklahoma City. I had just switched from the Crush to Pizzazz and none of the girls liked me yet (or even spoke to me much, which makes for an interesting playing experience), and I did want to cry. But somehow an extra pair was provided and I was able to play.

Anyway, I wouldn't go so far as to call these dreams nightmares. No one is chasing me with an axe or pushing me off a cliff. But they aren't fun. The other night I dreamed I was running full-field sprints without any cut-off point. We weren't running 10 of them or until we did them in a certain time. We were just running them, over and over again.

I woke up, thankfully. Otherwise, who knows how long I would have continued up and down that field, racing through some past world of mine while the real world waited for me outside my head?

What's so weird is I never dream that I've forgotten to pay our bills or rent or missed one of the daily deadlines I face at work. Which leads me to think I'm doomed to dream anxiety-ridden soccer dreams until I haven't played as long as I did play... in eleven more years.