What Doesn't Kill Us . . .

What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. I’ve never put too much stock into flavor-of-the-month inspirational books that build on adages like this one. For one, they never seem to work in the sports world. Well, okay maybe it did for Lance Armstrong, who overcame cancer to win a series of tour de France bicycle races. But that’s an anomaly.

I don’t think it’s going to work for me. Not after last night. My older son Greg signed up for a three-on-three soccer tournament. He hasn’t played competitive soccer in almost ten years. And he signed up his younger brother Scott who only played soccer for fun, also many years ago. Then they talked their younger nephew into playing. His playing career ended in something like the second grade.

Greg’s worst mistake was filling out his four-man roster with your’s truly. Besides being 53, I’m not athletic. The closest I’ve ever come to winning an athletic competition was a chess tournament. Oh, and the water balloon toss at the office picnic. Sure, I coached kids’ soccer but only in the those-who-can’t-do-teach school of sports.

Nevertheless, I figured it would be fun. Greg hoped my age would place us in a bracket of weekend athletes like ourselves, rookies out for a little exercise and entertainment. My boss did worry me with the comment, "Maybe they’ll figure you must be the Pele of Ann Arbor playing at your age."

Oh, well. I told Greg I would only trot onto the field if somebody was injured, or during the final minute of the game when players would be so winded from their efforts that I might be able to keep up. Afterall, the open adult division was for ages 18 and up. But then my nephew begged off, saying he had other commitments. Oh, oh.

More oh-ohs when we arrived at the fields and saw the other players "Oh my god. They have uniforms. With NUMBERS on them," my wife Wendy said. My sons and I just made sure we had the same color t-shirts on.

And my boss’s words were prophetic. We were placed in the more competitive division. When I heard a player on another team say his college soccer squad had just finished their two-a-day practices, I thought to myself, "This can’t be good."

And it wasn’t. David would have had better luck with Goliath WITHOUT the slingshot. Custer was more successful at The Little Big Horn. We played against the team with numbered uniforms, then against the team with the college player (he wasn’t even the best on his team). After the games, I asked Wendy the score and she said she lost track. Thank god there was no mercy rule.

Only my sons’ grit and determination made us competitive. Greg actually scored two goals, one each against the above teams and we were only losing 1-0 at halftime during our third and final game. I tried. My legs ached afterwards and I’m sure I’m going to lose the toenail off my bloody big toe.

But I did come out achieving one of my goals. I did NOT have a heart attack. I had warned my boss that was a possibility. Well, maybe in that respect, that which didn’t kill me made me stronger. My heart muscle anyway.