Summer camp and why I hate soccer
Thinking tonight about the coming summer and starting to make plans for the girls, my mind went back to my one and only summer camp experience. It was a Catholic soccer camp outside of Cleveland, Ohio circa 1980. Might sound innocent enough. Perhaps even fun. But here's two things you should know:
1) I'm not Catholic
2) I friggin' HATE soccer. Never liked it, never will. And in 1980, my only experience with soccer was touching a soccer ball in a sporting goods store.
So why did I go to Catholic soccer camp, you might logically ask? No clue. None. Perhaps it was the only thing Avon, Ohio had to offer along the lines of summer camp in 1980. Maybe my mom was desperate to get me off my butt and out of the house. Maybe she was grooming me for priesthood. I have no idea, but it sucked. Let me just say that, I hated Catholic soccer camp.
First, it was taught by honest-to-goodness Italian priests. Like the on-loan-from-Italy kind. What they were doing in Avon, Ohio, I'll never know but unless you spoke Italian or the international language of soccer (both of which I most certainly didn't), you had no idea what the hell they said. Ever. Their idea of communication was to hold up a soccer ball, flare their eyebrows at you and bob their head a bit, and then chuck the ball at you. Roughly the same approach to non-verbal dialogue you have with a puppy.
Second, as mentioned before, I am not Catholic. So I had never been to Mass in my life. Nor was I even the slightest bit prepared to attend my first-ever Mass as a sweaty soccer camp halftime show. Really weird. All the recitations, the genuflecting, the totally awkward way I just looked around at everyone with no flippin' clue what to do. I'm not sure what I was supposed to say when I took the bread at Communion, but I'm pretty sure I subvocalized through clenched teeth "what the hell am I doing here?"
Third, also mentioned before, I hate soccer. When we went out to the field for the first time, the priests lined up across from us and garbled out some question like "poh-see-shen?" They queried each cluster of us and, taking my cues from the kids who actually LIKED the sport, I realized that they were dividing us up into groups by our positions. Having never played soccer, I had no idea what any positions were actually called (still don't). Save for one. Goalie. Thank God, I thought. I'll play goalie! No running...use my hands. Got it.
Of the forty or fifty kids there, only one other kid and I wanted to play goalie. Pretty cool, I thought. Fewer kids to reveal my total lack of skill or interest to. Said "other kid" and I followed one of the olive-skinned priests down to the goal at the end of the field.
The very first thing Father Luigi Goalie taught us was how to properly catch the ball. Maybe he could speak a few words of English, but we relied mostly on him pantomiming, moving our limbs like marionettes and then looking into our eyes with a little "eh?" and an inquisitive nod seeking understanding. He demonstrated how to hold our hands in a diamond formation in front of our faces and bend our knees. How to move laterally and always be ready for the ball. Sure, I can catch a stupid ball, I thought. My compatriot lined up first and Father Goalie kicked a ball at him. Hands comfortably in diamond formation, he caught the ball easily. Twice. Three times. I felt the tension drain from my shoulders. The priest was nodding with enthusiastic encouragement. The sun was out. This was going to be a great day!
My turn.
I jogged into position. Put my hands up in diamond position and bent my knees, earning a little nod of affirmation from the priest. Then he took one step back in preparation to kick. He smiled and nodded to make sure I was ready. I smiled back, thinking bring it on, Padre. This isn't so tough.
Father Goalie launched a ball at me like a hair trigger mule that just spent the afternoon grazing amphetamines. Like a bionic Pele drunk on Red Bull. This ball screamed through my ridiculous diamond hands and hammered squarely against my Adam's Apple with the force of the Chicxulub meteor impacting Earth with reckless mass extinction on its iron ore mind. It knocked me back to my ass. The embarrassment of which was surpassed by the fact that I could only muster this weird squawking, gagging sound in response to the other kid laughing "you okay?" and Father Goalie looking at me with flaring eyebrows and a countenance of subtle contempt. I'm sure, later that night, he and the other priests laughed over the stupid American kid and how much he sucked at their beloved sport. And the other one would say "Was that the same little shit from Communion?" (Era quella la stessa poca merda dalla comunione?)
So, yeah. Summer camp a good experience for me? Not so much. I won't be converting to Catholicism or watching the World Cup anytime soon either. So, at least summer camp did teach me those life lessons.
1) I'm not Catholic
2) I friggin' HATE soccer. Never liked it, never will. And in 1980, my only experience with soccer was touching a soccer ball in a sporting goods store.
So why did I go to Catholic soccer camp, you might logically ask? No clue. None. Perhaps it was the only thing Avon, Ohio had to offer along the lines of summer camp in 1980. Maybe my mom was desperate to get me off my butt and out of the house. Maybe she was grooming me for priesthood. I have no idea, but it sucked. Let me just say that, I hated Catholic soccer camp.
First, it was taught by honest-to-goodness Italian priests. Like the on-loan-from-Italy kind. What they were doing in Avon, Ohio, I'll never know but unless you spoke Italian or the international language of soccer (both of which I most certainly didn't), you had no idea what the hell they said. Ever. Their idea of communication was to hold up a soccer ball, flare their eyebrows at you and bob their head a bit, and then chuck the ball at you. Roughly the same approach to non-verbal dialogue you have with a puppy.
Second, as mentioned before, I am not Catholic. So I had never been to Mass in my life. Nor was I even the slightest bit prepared to attend my first-ever Mass as a sweaty soccer camp halftime show. Really weird. All the recitations, the genuflecting, the totally awkward way I just looked around at everyone with no flippin' clue what to do. I'm not sure what I was supposed to say when I took the bread at Communion, but I'm pretty sure I subvocalized through clenched teeth "what the hell am I doing here?"
Third, also mentioned before, I hate soccer. When we went out to the field for the first time, the priests lined up across from us and garbled out some question like "poh-see-shen?" They queried each cluster of us and, taking my cues from the kids who actually LIKED the sport, I realized that they were dividing us up into groups by our positions. Having never played soccer, I had no idea what any positions were actually called (still don't). Save for one. Goalie. Thank God, I thought. I'll play goalie! No running...use my hands. Got it.
Of the forty or fifty kids there, only one other kid and I wanted to play goalie. Pretty cool, I thought. Fewer kids to reveal my total lack of skill or interest to. Said "other kid" and I followed one of the olive-skinned priests down to the goal at the end of the field.
The very first thing Father Luigi Goalie taught us was how to properly catch the ball. Maybe he could speak a few words of English, but we relied mostly on him pantomiming, moving our limbs like marionettes and then looking into our eyes with a little "eh?" and an inquisitive nod seeking understanding. He demonstrated how to hold our hands in a diamond formation in front of our faces and bend our knees. How to move laterally and always be ready for the ball. Sure, I can catch a stupid ball, I thought. My compatriot lined up first and Father Goalie kicked a ball at him. Hands comfortably in diamond formation, he caught the ball easily. Twice. Three times. I felt the tension drain from my shoulders. The priest was nodding with enthusiastic encouragement. The sun was out. This was going to be a great day!
My turn.
I jogged into position. Put my hands up in diamond position and bent my knees, earning a little nod of affirmation from the priest. Then he took one step back in preparation to kick. He smiled and nodded to make sure I was ready. I smiled back, thinking bring it on, Padre. This isn't so tough.
Father Goalie launched a ball at me like a hair trigger mule that just spent the afternoon grazing amphetamines. Like a bionic Pele drunk on Red Bull. This ball screamed through my ridiculous diamond hands and hammered squarely against my Adam's Apple with the force of the Chicxulub meteor impacting Earth with reckless mass extinction on its iron ore mind. It knocked me back to my ass. The embarrassment of which was surpassed by the fact that I could only muster this weird squawking, gagging sound in response to the other kid laughing "you okay?" and Father Goalie looking at me with flaring eyebrows and a countenance of subtle contempt. I'm sure, later that night, he and the other priests laughed over the stupid American kid and how much he sucked at their beloved sport. And the other one would say "Was that the same little shit from Communion?" (Era quella la stessa poca merda dalla comunione?)
So, yeah. Summer camp a good experience for me? Not so much. I won't be converting to Catholicism or watching the World Cup anytime soon either. So, at least summer camp did teach me those life lessons.
Labels: Total recall
posted by JabberDrew at 11:17 PM
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