Part Three: Season’s End
If you recall, sports fans, the previous installment of The Cobras(’) Bite ended with a disheartening defeat at the hands of a brutish crew of soccer thugs sponsored by a local diner. In classical mythology, the second part of a trilogy is typically the darkest chapter (e.g. The Empire Strikes Back, Look Who’s Talking, Too!, etc.), and the third details the hero’s triumph against all odds.
Sadly, in the adventure that is the Sebago Cobras Men’s Rec League soccer team season, that pattern does not apply.
Our next game was against Donno United. This was the match when we realized the only thing worse than being beaten by cheap shots and loutish manhandling is being beaten by teamwork, skill and sportsmanship. By the second half of the game we were down by nine goals, and with their victory assured, the Donnos started trying out moves they’d most likely seen in some kung-fu movie. Rough.
The rest of the season was a blur of pulled hamstrings, socks and beer. I even have a strange memory of playing goalie, though that may have been a bad dream.
Our last game of the regular season was against Portland Divided, a team I had been looking forward to playing all season, as they were the only team that was also… whatever the opposite of “undefeated” is. As the game began, we sized each other up with quiet respect – no matter who won, one team was going home ecstatic.
Again, sadly, that team was not us.
After this game, Nathaniel suggested that next season we take the field dressed as sad clowns. I countered that it was not yet time for self-parody (this chronicle notwithstanding), as we still had one chance to redeem ourselves: The Finals.
We mused about how amazing it would be if, against all odds, our tens of hours of hard work culminated in glory during the post-season tournament. We would blast our way through bracket after bracket as the dumbfounded players of JD Stewart Financial and Pizza Time stood slack-jawed, unable to stop us. I pictured myself being hoisted up on my teammates’ shoulders in slow-motion to the strains of the Karate Kid victory theme, “You’re The Best,” holding aloft some kind of trophy or keepsake from a recently deceased mentor, whose ghostly presence would smile down on me as the credits rolled. Athletic glory, as mysterious to me as the appeal of professional wrestling and NASCAR, would finally be mine.
Then I saw our first-round opponent in the playoff bracket: B—–‘s Diner.
The playoff games are only one half long, which we figured would be to our advantage. Usually after the first half, our legs tire, the post-game pitchers of beer strike up their siren song, and we start to really suck. But the Diners were not fooling around, as they made clear with specific verbal threats. Undaunted, the Cobras managed three goals and I managed to kick one of the fuckers really hard in the shin. But ultimately, we lost.
If Gatorade made a flavor called Xtreme Sour Grapes, I would have drunk a whole thermos of it that night. But they don’t, so I chose beer.
However, just like a real cobra, I have since shed my skin of disappointment and emerged stronger, wiser, more resilient. I’m already looking forward to next season – men’s rec league basketball season, that is.
