Zidane and why I quit soccer.
We've all had a few days to recover from the excitement of this year's World Cup final between France and Italy, and I've been obsessively following all of the articles written about the game, the rivalry, and of course, the notorious headbutt.
I haven't been a soccer fan for a long time -- I wouldn't have labeled myself a real *spectator* of the professional version of the sport until the Fall of 2001, when I studied abroad in Rome -- but I did play soccer in high school. I basically idolized all the upper class girls on the Varsity team -- Lili, Amanda, Alice, Caroline, Colby, the list goes on -- and I joined middle
school soccer for the chance to be mentored by one of them (I got Alice), even though, with my body type, I probably would have been better at field hockey, or volleyball. Off the field, we silk-screened t-shirts for Homecoming, drew "psych signs" emblazoned with each other's names in bright marker and exchanged mix tapes in admiration and mutual respect. On the field, we had joint practices, where we'd play drills with our "sister" players on Varsity, and it would inspire me to try harder and juggle better.
When Lili, Caroline, Alice and co. graduated, I thought my soccer career might come to end, too. It was an emotional time, and I can remember standing on the sidelines at the Asphalt Green during their last championship game. I thought about leaving my own team that year, but ended up sticking wth soccer for a few more seasons, and then quitting later in high school. I didn't go out with a red card like our French friend, 
although I probably had my share of fits on the field, fouled, muddied, and tired. When I did quit, I did it with a note to the head coach during preseason, who was also at the time the head of our Athletics department. I explained to her that I didn't want to play because being on that field reminded me so much of my father, who had passed away that spring, and who made it to the sidelines on Ward's Island as much as he could during my soccer career. There was something about that emotional, personal element to the game that overshadowed the triumphs and the team spirit and everything great that comes along with belonging to a sports team.
What possessed Zinedine Zidane to headbutt that Italian defender? Why did a man so respected for his technique, a man who came *out* of retirement to play for his nation, a man who I sometimes pretend is my secret boyfriend, turn around, lower his head and ram a man who looked like a waste of time? I've been following this story in the news. First the papers said the defender made some racist remark, and now Zidane has spoken out and said that Materazzi repeatedly insulted his mother and sister. "I am a man before anything else," he said to the press. It seems that he just couldn't get past the personal, even after years and years of playing at the top levels of the soccer world. The last ten minutes of overtime, and that deciding penalty shootout, just weren't worth it to him. I think I sort of understand that, even if it seems like a stretch.
I wanted to end this post with an excerpt from a slate.com article I love about the end of Zidane's career and the World Cup final on Sunday:
"France-Italy wasn't by any stretch the best game of the tournament. It did display, though, that the world is so manic about the beautiful game precisely because it's so often anything but beautiful. A soccer match is a frequently boring, occasionally tragic, and periodically triumphant affair, all compressed into 90 minutes. Yesterday's game, and Zidane's moments of mastery and mayhem, displayed the sport's full range of emotions. Nobody would have fantasized about a final that ended with penalty kicks after the best player on the field got ejected. Not a very romantic turn of events, perhaps, but soccer isn't much for Hollywood endings."
I haven't been a soccer fan for a long time -- I wouldn't have labeled myself a real *spectator* of the professional version of the sport until the Fall of 2001, when I studied abroad in Rome -- but I did play soccer in high school. I basically idolized all the upper class girls on the Varsity team -- Lili, Amanda, Alice, Caroline, Colby, the list goes on -- and I joined middle
school soccer for the chance to be mentored by one of them (I got Alice), even though, with my body type, I probably would have been better at field hockey, or volleyball. Off the field, we silk-screened t-shirts for Homecoming, drew "psych signs" emblazoned with each other's names in bright marker and exchanged mix tapes in admiration and mutual respect. On the field, we had joint practices, where we'd play drills with our "sister" players on Varsity, and it would inspire me to try harder and juggle better. 
When Lili, Caroline, Alice and co. graduated, I thought my soccer career might come to end, too. It was an emotional time, and I can remember standing on the sidelines at the Asphalt Green during their last championship game. I thought about leaving my own team that year, but ended up sticking wth soccer for a few more seasons, and then quitting later in high school. I didn't go out with a red card like our French friend, 
although I probably had my share of fits on the field, fouled, muddied, and tired. When I did quit, I did it with a note to the head coach during preseason, who was also at the time the head of our Athletics department. I explained to her that I didn't want to play because being on that field reminded me so much of my father, who had passed away that spring, and who made it to the sidelines on Ward's Island as much as he could during my soccer career. There was something about that emotional, personal element to the game that overshadowed the triumphs and the team spirit and everything great that comes along with belonging to a sports team.
What possessed Zinedine Zidane to headbutt that Italian defender? Why did a man so respected for his technique, a man who came *out* of retirement to play for his nation, a man who I sometimes pretend is my secret boyfriend, turn around, lower his head and ram a man who looked like a waste of time? I've been following this story in the news. First the papers said the defender made some racist remark, and now Zidane has spoken out and said that Materazzi repeatedly insulted his mother and sister. "I am a man before anything else," he said to the press. It seems that he just couldn't get past the personal, even after years and years of playing at the top levels of the soccer world. The last ten minutes of overtime, and that deciding penalty shootout, just weren't worth it to him. I think I sort of understand that, even if it seems like a stretch.I wanted to end this post with an excerpt from a slate.com article I love about the end of Zidane's career and the World Cup final on Sunday:
"France-Italy wasn't by any stretch the best game of the tournament. It did display, though, that the world is so manic about the beautiful game precisely because it's so often anything but beautiful. A soccer match is a frequently boring, occasionally tragic, and periodically triumphant affair, all compressed into 90 minutes. Yesterday's game, and Zidane's moments of mastery and mayhem, displayed the sport's full range of emotions. Nobody would have fantasized about a final that ended with penalty kicks after the best player on the field got ejected. Not a very romantic turn of events, perhaps, but soccer isn't much for Hollywood endings."
posted by brad board babe at 5:07 PM
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