Washed Up

I used to be a slightly above-average American soccer player. Back in the day, I played against pros and played with a purpose. When I took the field, I was playing for a trophy, I was playing for my school and I was playing for the jersey chasers sitting in the third row.

As you get older though and realize that you’re washed up, you don’t have quite as much to play for. You’re going out for a chance to compete again, maybe for a bit of fun and a post-game beer, and you’re just hoping that you walk away without any injuries.

At 25-years-old I thought my biggest games were behind me. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Little did I know I’d find myself playing in one of the biggest games of my life fighting for the glory of the American people and the future of American soccer on a casual Sunday night at the National Sports Academy in Sofia, Bulgaria.

“How did I get here…?”

This was truly one of those “how the hell did I get here…?” moments. Long story short (and stay with me here, folks), my Australian buddy Nick used to play with this Bulgarian dude in Australia. The Bulgarian dude said he could get him in a quality game while we were in town and put us in touch with this guy Sasho. Sasho said we could come, but couldn’t promise we’d play. He put us in touch with Teodor for a ride to the game. Teodor didn’t speak any English (or really any Bulgaria, either), but he did show up and drive us to the field.

Still with me?

At this point I think we’ve got a better chance of getting murdered than playing a soccer game. We walk through an abandoned lot and some woods and I text my mom to tell her I love her and that she really should have let us get a dog when we were kids. Anyways, death didn’t come calling just yet. The woods finally opened up and we walked up on the beautiful “Vassil Levski” National Sports Academy field.

First impression

Only problem, we’re late. The game has already kicked off and there’s not much English being spoken to figure out which team we’re on. I’m going to pause for a second to tell you that the Bulgarians are very proud people. These guys are proper hard men. Loud and angry-sounding and, if I had to guess, not thrilled to have an American soccer player trying to sub on for them.

After about 15 minutes of half warming-up, half looking on in awe, I get the universal symbol for “I can’t quite move like I used to and tweaked my hammy and need a sub.” My international debut is officially on. But just because you’re on the field doesn’t mean you’re in the game in a match like this.

Earning respect for American soccer

I spend 10 minutes running aimlessly as my entire team refuses to pass the ball. I’m for sure getting the “who brought the American?!” treatment. Finally, the ball squirts loose out to my side and I get the chance to make a challenge. In a game like this you don’t know what you’re going to get for tackles, so I make it a point not to lose this one. I run right through this guy. I would say it was clean as day, but I completely clobber him. He has to come off.

Not sure if that won me respect points or earned me a death sentence.

A few minutes pass and I combine with some kid for a good opportunity on goal (he skies it over). Finally, the first words of English I hear all day as he comes over and nods in approval, “You can play.”

And that was it. That was all I needed to hear. I was in. From there, the game flowed and I could be trusted. I had done my country proud. I had earned respect for American soccer. Who would have thought that the closest I’d ever come to putting on a national team jersey would be in a pickup, beer league game in Bulgaria?

Post-game

I had passed the first test, but everyone knows that the true sign of acceptance is getting the invite to the post-game beers. These guys had an unbelievable setup. Right next to the National Sports Academy was the National Sports Academy pub and the boss was buying the beers. We figured it would be a quick one and we’d be on our way. Once again, very wrong.

Sasho, Teodor and their friend Radoslav (can’t make up these names) sat with us for about three hours drinking beers. They couldn’t speak a ton of English, but I think at this point I’m coming to realize that football and girls are the only universal language you’ll ever need. Sasho, who runs the team, offered me my first ever “professional” contract. 500 Lev a month, a place to stay in the Vitosha mountains with a pool (a tiny kiddie pool, which he thought was the funniest joke ever), access to a car and even more access to all the Bulgarian women I would ever want (he may pimp on the side…). I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think twice about it.

Why do you play?

So yes, I may be washed up. I’m no longer playing for trophies or glory or girls any more and I can’t do a lot of the same things I could do when I was 18 or 19. But in a game like this where you’re playing for the respect of American soccer and that “hey, you can play” it reminds you why you’ve actually played the game all along. You play because you love it.

And no matter how washed up you are, you never lose that.