It is not whether you win or lose; it is playing the game. Winning and losing, they are not what create memories. It is the excitement: the moment you smell the freshly mowed pitch, the feel of the ball, freshly inflated and perfectly round, the gathering of the team, the soft sound of the perfectly even green grass under-foot, parting as tiny cleats drive into it… not to mention the bright, juicy half-time oranges and popsicles that dribble down sweaty chins, melting in the noon-day sun.
Bright and early, with the first rays of the sun, I rolled out of bed, rested and energized for the day’s events. My uniform was there, waiting on my chair, diligently and lovingly collected and folded by my mother. I put each piece of the uniform on, smoothing it so that it looked just so, tucking in my jersey so that I wouldn’t be called out by the referee. It was very important for my jersey to be tucked in, though I could never figure out why. I thought that the billowing, oversized black shorts looked all the more ridiculous with an equally-oversized jersey tucked into them. But rules are rules. I wouldn’t miss this day for the sake of a silly rule! I struggled to cram my bulky shin pads into my too-tight socks. I pulled and yanked, and my foot finally slid in, the sock un-bundling itself straight up past my knee. A few neat folds of the sock, and I was ready to go.
I remember the struggle to get through breakfast. I ate, but could not quite finish, as nerves and excitement got the better of me. Besides, I knew that I would be greeted with a right feast after the game. There were bright pink cloud-like balls of sugar, spun around and around on a stick until it was just right. Then there were the juiciest hot-dogs in the softest, chewiest buns, meticulously wrapped and folded into paper homes, each one crafted in the exact image of the one before it, and with the power of making pickles and relish seem like a feast for the gods. There were the nachos—so crisp and delightful. Who knew that cheese came in such colours?! Then there was the soda, cold as ice, with bubbles that tingled the tired tongue. And all of these wonderful delicacies could be mine with the simple exchange of a neon coloured piece of cardboard. If only everything in life could come so easily!
Each year, after barely-breakfast, I remember sitting on the stair at the front door. I crammed my feet into well-worn cleats, usually torn in at least one place by the end of the season. I grabbed the laces and I pulled those laces with all my might. I pulled and tightened until they were just right. I knotted each, and then knotted them again, just to be sure. I couldn’t have my cleats coming undone on my way to scoring the game winning goal!
Stepping outside was always deceptive. The sun, which looked so warm and gentle from inside, carried with it the prick of the first chilly air of the year. This day was truly the marker for the end of a season, the end of a summer.
I hopped into the car, impatient for my parents to be there. The two minute drive lasted an eternity…as did trying to find place to cram a car into an already overflowing lot. The moment finally came. Stepping out of the car, I took off at a run. Straight down the too-steep hill, no time for the staircase when running beside was faster! I looked for others wearing the same colour as I, and when I found them, we ran together, giggling excitedly. To the lower hill we ran. The grass here was not so soft, haphazardly splotched with dried patches of hard dirt and tufts of prickly grasses. Yet this could not stop us from rolling, fast as we could, to the bottom—only to run back up and do it again. Around and around we rolled until all of the colours around blurred into one and even when we stopped the world still spun. We threw ourselves down this hill until the coach stopped us, taking us from one game to another.
The soccer game was somehow the least important part of this weekend. We played, we all tried our hardest. Sometimes we won, sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes I scored, sometimes I didn’t. There was always sweat, laughter, and sometimes tears as the season culminated in this day.
Twenty years have passed since the first tournament. Nineteen tournaments since, I have never missed a single year. As I have grown older, somehow the hill has grown smaller, and the rolling has slowed—mainly because of the bruises it now leads to. If someone were to ask me how many tournament games I have won, I wouldn’t have an answer. What I can answer is that for twenty years, this one weekend is a time of excitement, of wonderful delicacies, and of popsicles dribbling down sweaty chins.
With new turf fields and new fences, the Terra Cotta fields have changed over the years. Upcoming soccer stars—the ones who run in circles around the ball, barely come up to my ankles, and seem to wear soccer pants and dresses instead of shorts and jerseys—they may miss out on the sound and the smell of freshly cut and chalked grass, but the hill, the food, and the spirit of the tournament will always be the same. After the game—win or lose–feats and friends await tired legs and muddied cleats. The Pointe-Claire Soccer tournament has never been about winning or losing. Now, where is my hotdog?