Get Off My Lawn, Youngsters
I made a return to Kirksville for our annual Truman Soccer alumni weekend. During this weekend, former players and hanger-ons get together, scrimmage the current varsity team, drink beer, and make fun of how old we are. It is always a good time.
This year we had a record turnout of almost 50 women alums. We also had SIX All-Americans back in town. These two things combine to mean two important things: one, the old ladies won the game for the first time since ’05; two, there were so many damn young ‘uns and all-out ballers that I felt no need to even step foot on the field. I deemed myself Chief Shit Talker and Unflattering Photographer and parked my expanded-since-’01 ass on the bench with my old teammates, some of which I hadn’t seen in years and years. Apparently the cool thing to do is to continue to work out and play soccer after you graduate, even nine years after the end of your career. I vow as soon as I turn 30 and can be in masters’ leagues, I will embark on a second career the likes of which has never been seen in former Iowan/Div II players who insist on only playing half-field. But seriously, some ladies had babies and were looking fierce on the pitch. I will say, however, that my shit-talking hasn’t really lost its game. Sorry, current squad, but you just lost to people with 401ks and visible panty lines. Better step up the off-season training.
Once the game was over, a few of my ladyfriends and I filled up coffee cups with PBR and watched the mens game, then began the long, steady slide into drunkeness that characterizes not only Alumni Weekend, but life in Kirksville in general. What else is there to do? Well, let me show you.
First, we played an epic round of High Kicks. High Kicks is a game that involves several doorways, a cheap plastic bouncy ball, a broken chandelier, beer, and rules invented by a then-three year old. The goal is to score goals and not get nutmegged. Basically, you kick this ball as hard as you can, incorporating minimal soccer-related skills in footwork and deception, and see what happens. While this sounds primitive and unclear, it’s a drunk game you will never forget. I worked up a mean sweat.
Fucking hipsters
After high kicks, we went to a house party and did impersonations of our old coach, my friend Mike, shown here.
Then we went to the bars, which provided me with multiple opportunities for reflections on kids these days. One, while I was known to wear a tube top or two in my day, I never wore this to a bar in rural Northeast Missouri:
Wow
Really? Sequined minidress AND silver 5″ heels? She wasn’t the only one. No offense, I just don’t remember having to try so hard that I dressed my ass as a discoball, but to each his own. Also, it was raining hard all night, so this seems like a somewhat impractical get-up, but what do I know? I’m looking for a sale on Polident and quit teetering around in heels long ago.
They turned what used to be “Northeast Missouri’s Premier Dance Club”, formerly known as Toons, into a new dance club dubbed, no shit, Wrong Daddy’s. Which, ew. Worst name ever if you’re trying to avoid being roofied. That place was trying to take people for a $7 cover. As if. I can buy three beers for that in Kirksville and don’t have to listen to shitty pop music. Happily, there is ANOTHER new dance club in town right next door called Gino’s 70′s Dance Club or something like that. I don’t know, but they had this floor.
In addition to this boss light-up disco floor, they also had strobe lights, disco balls, lasers, blacklights with neon stuff on the walls, and a weird projector screen with a screensaver of a woman’s silhouette dancing, complete with visible nipple on the silhouette. Where does one procure a screensaver like this, and is there a corresponding one with dude’s wang swinging around in profile? Doubt it. Either way, by this point, I had been drinking for a solid 11 hours, and I was pretty sure I was going to have a seizure with all the lights and noise and all-around debauchery, plus I was pissed because I forgot my glowsticks. Also, some dude in an Affliction t-shirt tried to start talking shit to me for no reason. I forgot about how college-aged guys need no rational provocation to try to establish their penis size. I just laughed in his face and asked him who sold him his ‘roids. Trust me, I’ve been meating out on dudes bigger than me since you were trading Pokemon cards, son. Your fellow brosephs are not going to think you are tough when you get verbally beat down by an almost-30 married woman, so walk away now.
At this point (1:30) many people were making their way to a current players house party, but I know my limits. It was time to call it a night. It was a blast while it lasted, Kirksville, but I just can’t do it like I used to. My other responsible friend Anna and I made our way to our hotel room, where we took Metamucil and went to bed.
It was awesome to see so many old friends who share such a strong bond. See you when they induct me into the Hall of Fame, bitches.
Nine MIAA Championships, Eight NCAA Tournament Appearances
Tags: Truman Soccer
(On April 27th, 2010 at 2:07 pm)
very entertaining post.