Archive for the ‘Crowded House’ Category
I think I can safely say that playing soccer has been the high point of my summer. (Caleb’s weekly making of peach-blueberry crisp, which will be taking place in just a few minutes, runs a close second.) I’ve only played the game three times. I’m only marginally better than I was the first time I played. But I wait for our Saturday game all through the week. The feeling of your foot making contact with the ball, of a really good kick—it’s amazing! How could I not have known this all these years? I thought I was a generally non-competitive person who liked his exercise solitary. But it turns out I really like it when my team scores. I like being part of a team. I like falling down. I like the high-fives. I like playing in the evening as it gradually gets dark, and having to quit because we can’t see any more.
The New York Times Magazine ran a piece the other week about the relationship between music and exercise. Essentially, the more upbeat the music on your headphones, the better the workout. I run with an iPod, which is about 95% loaded with melancholy folk music, and I’ve been making an effort to skip over those songs until I find something that will put a little spring in my step. Obviously, I can’t listen to music while playing soccer, but I usually have a song floating through my head anyway. There is that odious musical genre, the “football anthem”—“Tubthumping,” “Unbelievable,” etc. I can see why it works, though, and tonight, out on the field, I was earworming this new Crowded House song, which has a propulsive beat but is subtler stuff. I keep waiting for the video to go from negative to positive.
Twelve hours later: Last night I lay awake thinking about how few years left I have to play soccer. I’m in my early 40s; I’m in pretty good shape, never been seriously injured (knock, knock). Still … ten more years? Do fifty-somethings play soccer? I don’t see a lot of them out there. And to think of all the years in my 20s and 30s when I didn’t play soccer! I was so misguided then that I got my exercise by going to gyms and health clubs. The worst! I’m now dismayed that I poured good money into pedaling repetitiously on droney elliptical trainers and lifting heavy stupid things—and of course, gyms being pleasureless, I didn’t go all that much, though that didn’t stop the monthly credit card charges from coming—when all I needed was a ten dollar soccer ball and a plot of parkland, and I would have been infinitely happier. Down with gyms! People of the world, take to the pitch!
Soccer. Soccer, soccer, soccer.