The youngest is knee-high to the ball. The oldest can still see three moves ahead of us all. We are friends, brothers, fathers, sons and uncles. 

The goals are not regulation. Four neon construction cones mark the corners. No painted sidelines. No referees. No whistles blowing. No offsides being called. No scoreboard to watch.

The parking lot fills with familiar cars and trucks. Beach chairs are unloaded and set atop the hill that looks down onto the field. Siblings and parents sit at the picnic table, spread out across the small bleachers, and roll out blankets. A small black and white dog strains at the end of his extended leash. Players make their way down the hill, smiles all around. Father’s stand alongside sons, friends hug, new faces are introduced.

The weather is perfect late July – blue sky framed by full green trees. Just enough breeze to leave the bugs struggling and unable to land on us long enough for a bite. 

Smiles everywhere. A received pass met with a smiling nod – remembering when we had played together in high school. A proud nod of the head from father to a friend as his son hits a swerving shot just wide. A collective cheer as a father pulls the ball back, making his son miss a near tackle. Praise from a senior player to a young goalkeeper for a ball saved and the beaming face of his dad from across the field. A misstep and trip over the ball by the one who will always be the best – laughter led by him.

There are moments of brilliance. The burst of inherited speed by a son. The crafty touch of the ball by a nephew – a family trait recognized. The top corner shot by a friend. A diving far post out-stretched save by a brother. A perfect pass by the one only kee-high to the ball and likely to become the best of them all. The impossible threaded pass by the one who brought them together.

Though some have met for the first time. Some have been passing the ball to each other for over half a century. Most of us play with thoughts of long ago summer pick up games – old movies playing like reruns in the back of our minds. We remember and share stories of the summer league games, the crowds, that championship game when the rival town teams had played so well. Unable to remember for certain the final score.

What is missing is the enforcement of rules, the stopwatch marking of time, the expensive uniforms, the sorting by talent and age to make it fair. The absence of these things make space for us to just play.

The night ends the way the pick up games always end – with a shout out: LAST GOAL WINS!

The intensity steps up. Bragging rights are at stake. A shot goes just wide. A long pass is struck the other way, a perfect first touch, a shot off the post. Back and forth – really playing now – competing like in the old days. The new generation seeing the origins of their speed, their touch, their vision, and their love for the game. The fathers and uncles remembering themselves and smiling as the new generation moves the ball. Hundreds of years of experience and stories pull together on a summer Monday night – just for fun.

The fading light and the settling wind quiet the field. Bugs begin to land and bite. Old legs grow tired. Young stomachs grow hungry. The crowd starts to shuffle in anticipation of going home. The music – hits from the 80s – that had been playing in the background beneath the players’ voices is now the only sound on the field. 

Then the one who brought us together picks up the ball, turns to everyone and makes the first and last call of the evening: DRAW!

Smiles, handshakes, laughter, thank yous, and – as we make our way up the hill and back to the parking lot, promises shouted out to meet again next week: same day, same time, same field, so we can play the game we all love for so many reasons.

Peace
Chris