He asks, “You all right?” Me: “I think I broke it?” He: “Your nose?” Me: “My ass.”
Before the term “viral” existed, rollersoccer was a fledgling sport, the brainchild of the San Francisco-based Zack Phillips, who got the roller soccer brainstorm after kicking a pine cone in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park with his in-line skates.
Courtesy @SoccerHeadZach on X
Phillips — whose head is shaved to look like a soccer ball and is dyed red, white, and blue — had made “the pilgrimage” to New York and scrimmaged with some fellow free-thinking inline skaters, self included.
Phillips proceeded to travel the globe, kicking a soccer ball with his skates at soccer events and garnering followers, as well as strange looks, everywhere. With his unorthodox appearance, Phillips was often filmed with Uncle Sam’s Army, the U.S. soccer team’s traveling fan club.
Following his New York visit, Phillips continued to keep me abreast of roller soccer’s progress. He had already staged a few roller soccer World Cups, including one in Paris, with teams coming from all over Europe. Phillips’s ultimate dream: hold The Rollersoccer World Cup in San Francisco, the sports birthplace, featuring teams from every continent.
I reached out to about a half dozen in-line diehards. I figured if I got a few, they’d get a few others, and we’d have a respectable New York contingent. I wound up getting a lot of excuses, but Spinner, an optimistic industrial artist, was all in. After the lukewarm response, however, I was ready to balk.
I emailed Spinner: I am ready to throw in the towel — and not go. If you want to cancel your trip, I will cover the cost of your plane ticket or the rescheduling fee for a different journey. I feel bad, but a lot of people let me down. Let me know what your plans are.
Spinner’s Reply….
Re: Quit freaking whining, or I will skip out. Come on, we’ll figure something out if I have to find an all-night diner or pull a Francois and skate all night…. I think once we get there, the doors of benevolent empowerment will open wide and welcome all our needs and requirements, comfort, and amusement. So hang in there, and if I don’t talk to you tonight, send along your flight info. Are you flying into Oakland on Continental?
Clearly, Spinner needed this trip, and he was going with or without me. No, I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to let Spinner down.
When we arrive in San Francisco, we learn that the World Cup is coming apart at the seams. Just off the runway, we’re greeted with this frantic Phillips email:
Subject: Bad News From Brazil and England
Hello Team Captains/Organizers:
I just received news from Brazil. They kept trying until the last minute, but even with the help of politicians, they were unable to get visas. Regarding England, Alvin recently suffered a knee injury playing regular soccer. Jana and Steve arrived in the USA a few days ago but had to fly back to London due to a family emergency. As a result, the Netherlands, England, and Germany will be combined into one team.
Even without Brazil and some of the key European players, the Roller Soccer World Cup kicks off. The first day of the tournament, Spinner and I set out to the tournament’s site, Treasure Island, which used to house a military base. Besides roller soccer enthusiasts, no one’s there.
Ultimately, Phillips has somehow attracted an array of international teams: two from France (Paris and Marseille), one from Belgium, and players from Scandinavian countries, England, and Germany. Then, of course, there’s Phillips and his fellow Bay Area players, as well as Spinner and me.
Phillips assigns Spinner and me to separate U.S. squads, and we’re ready to roll. I’m not overly concerned. A while back, I was a good skater, and I had kicked a soccer ball while wearing skates when Phillips visited.
Courtesy Roller Soccer USA
Immediately, I learn that roller soccer is way tougher than it looks. In roller soccer, there’s no stability. Trying to kick a ball on skates is the perfect formula for falling on your ass and looking like a complete jackass. You have to roll with care, or your feet will likely roll out from under you. I figure I’ll adjust to the new sport, and I do, as I concentrate on one goal: not falling. As the games progress on the first day, things roll along just fine. We’re not winning any games, but much, much more importantly, I’m not falling on my ass. That’s OK. I’m just playing not to fall.
At some point in one of the games, which are being played on a hardwood surface surrounded by hockey boards, I find myself at mid-rink in the vicinity of the ball and a much taller opponent, Cherry.
After a tentative start, my competitive juices have kicked in, and we’re both going for the ball. I have the angle and am going hard — Cherry or no Cherry. Cherry is a tough, roller soccer veteran. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop her from losing her balance. Right before Cherry goes down, in a desperate attempt to balance herself, she wildly flings out her arms.
Before Cherry falls, one of her wrists firmly connects with my face. The blow itself might not have been that bad, but Cherry was wearing a metal wrist guard. In short, I got clocked with a metal pipe. Immediately, I fall on my ass — hard.
Play is stopped.
There’s no blood, but my face, not to mention the rest of my body, is awfully sore. For the duration, I play with a sore throat. My team, now in the losers’ bracket after losing its first game, didn’t win a game the entire day.
Bruised and beaten, Spinner and I return to our lodging: a two-star, modest hotel. I’m thrilled to be there. I’m more beaten up than Spinner. His team had somehow managed to win a game, and he had even scored a goal, a rocket from way out and off to the side. Now, though, we’re thinking about two things: rest and recuperation. We hit the beds with a vengeance. I take a few aspirin, ice my face, and fall asleep.
Hours later, Spinner shows up with dinner for two.
“Thanks, Spin.”
“You all right?”
“I think I broke it?”
“Your nose?”
“My ass.”
“You’re just getting older,” he says with a laugh.
“I am not!” I snap, annoyed. “A roller soccer amazon hit me in the face with a steel bar!”
We don’t say much after that. In the dark, we scarf down and drift off.
The next day, I’m still sore but ready to give roller soccer another go. Unfortunately, my winless team is deflated and continues to be outplayed. The European teams have more of a knack for roller soccer. There’s one kid from Belgium who’s particularly good. When I say kid, I mean kid. At about five feet tall on wheels, he’s approximately 14 years old. His parents have chaperoned him across the world so that he can participate. He’s quick to the ball, and falling doesn’t bother him one iota. With ease, he skates around flailing bodies. I’ve traveled across the country to get beaten by a 14-year 14-year-old. However, there is some good news.
I’m no longer disappointed that the World Cup is so off the beaten path, on a deserted island, rather than in a central location with heavy pedestrian traffic, like, say, Ghirardelli Square. Now, I’m grateful that the tournament is in the boondocks, so no one will see me fall on my ass and get beaten by a 14-year-old.
There’s one other thing that I mind almost as much as my soreness. As our losses became increasingly lopsided, one malcontent on our team, Beckham, grew increasingly agitated and attempted to coach us. Beckham’s style veers overwhelmingly towards critical rather than constructive. Lighten up, Beckham. We’re in the losers’ bracket of the Roller Soccer World Cup. Deal with it and don’t take it out on the rest of us. My ass is broken!
Meanwhile, Spinner’s squad is faring much, much better than I am. His team has won a few games and is on the verge of winning another. If Spinner can convert a penalty kick, his team will advance to the next round. It’s poetic justice or something like that. When the whistle blows, Spinner dribbles towards the net and boots the ball. I’m ready to yell GOAL! Sadly, Spinner’s shot doesn’t have a prayer, slowly rolling off to the side. It’s over. Both our teams are out.
For our last night, Spinner and I engage in our favorite vacation activity. As we rest and recuperate, we watch the romantic comedy No Reservations, starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Aaron Eckhart. It’s about chefs who are so wrong for one another, they’re… well … I don’t want to be a spoiler.
Aaron Eckhart stars as Nick and Catherine Zeta-Jones stars as Kate in Castle Rock Entertainment’s and Village Roadshow Pictures’ romantic drama “No Reservations,” distributed by Warner Bros. Pictures (photo courtesy IMDb).
It’s the only thing on and turns out to be thoroughly enjoyable thanks to Spinner’s excellent commentary, which carries us through to the closing credits.
I will never play roller soccer again. However, whenever it’s on, I do watch No Reservations.
Spinner and I will always have San Francisco.
____________
Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available, illustrated by Coverkitchen
