With Drake just having dropped Views, leaving fully-grown listeners to descend into a pool of regret consisting mostly of tears and bodily fluids, I couldn’t help but reflect on the toxic 15+ year relationship I’ve found myself trapped in with the sport I love. As un-American as me, soccer is both my first love and has been one of the few constants in my life from when my I immigrated to this country. Although I understand that my perception of the sport undoubtedly elevates it to something extraordinary, romanticizing heavily the intricacies of the game, I hope that in reading the reasons why I am hopelessly forever cursed to live life with a ball at my feet I can rationalize my obsession and encourage others to play some footi.
Futbol to me is, and always has been, less sport and more an arena for artistic expression. While statements such as Bob Marley’s “football is freedom” might seem hyperbolic to some, to those addicted to the sport it encapsulates the central pillar for their obsession. The field itself a massive canvas to be filled in by the players with various explosions of technique, personality, and artistic vision, expression of emotion and individuality are linked very closely to playing the game. Whether creativity is embodied in a quick dribble, incisive pass, or a knuckleball launched on goal, soccer always invited creative expression and also provided a physical space for its experimentation.
Whether it was nut-megging a defender with quick feet, or dictating the pace of play from the midfield like a metronome, playing the sport itself has always given me similar emotions to sketching a piece of art. With my feet now instead of my hands as the conduit for my emotions, soccer allowed me to channel my frustration, anxiety, happiness, and depression into how I played. This cathartic release in the sport provided a euphoria that I can’t relate to anything else, the satisfaction of scoring a goal being one of the top 5 best feelings I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
While I could ramble on about the artistic expression soccer invites for hours, pointing to the great masters of Andrea Pirlo, Andres Iniesta, Ronaldinho, Ronaldo, Messi, Drogba, Zidane, etc… the biggest reason for my obsession would be the overwhelming feeling of happiness I experience just by being near a soccer field. There’s very few things I would rather do than jump into a pick-up game with my friends, a ritual I’ve been taking part in since I moved here, nightly at 6:30PM at the field next door. Whether it’s just kicking the ball around or playing an actual game, the joy of soccer can be seen infecting my demeanor in the inevitable smile which overruns my face whenever I play.
Although this sense of joy is hard to put into words, I would equate it to a childish sense of satisfaction and untainted happiness I haven’t felt otherwise since I had graduated 5th grade. Unfiltered and raw, the sheer fun of the game itself, which sometimes get lost in the competitive atmosphere, reduces me to a childlike state; releasing a rush of nostalgia and turning me back into the rabid ten year old with an unending supply of energy and a severe unwillingness to stop playing.
Since I had last played competitively, I have torn my ACL, broken several toes, and sprained each ankle seemingly alternatively depending on the weekend. I’ve had my doctor tell me to stop playing unless I wanted to walk with a cane in my near future. I’ve had my mom threaten to disown me. To them the sport is nothing more than just a sport, an unnecessary risk I thick-headedly put myself in font of. To me futbol is freedom. It is the expression of human emotion. An art form, a teacher of life-lessons, the great equalizer for people of different backgrounds, and the purest fountain of joy I’ve ever had the opportunity to drink from; essentially leaving me paralyzed in between a rock and a hard place. How can I be expected to stop playing soccer, even when it’s slowly killing me, when soccer itself is a reason to live?
