Nice guys finish first

A few weeks ago, my best and most enjoyable soccer season in years came to an end. It was so special that I just had to dust off the old finger pads and inject some life into my neglected blog.

I feel that I owe this to the man that really made it all happen, Georgios (no, not the model, the other Georgios). Of course, football is a team game, but it was George’s inspiration, motivation and tactical brains that led to our stellar year.

Let’s start with a few team accomplishments:

- 15 wins, 2 ties and 1 loss in the league

- Promotion into Division 1

- An unbeaten streak that lasted from September to February

Last year, we had a decent start, but then petered out. So what made this year so different? So much better? It’s not what made it better, it’s who.

The new gaffer

Last summer, a somewhat shocking email from Hugh landed in our inboxes:

George will take over as Manager.  He has a ton of good ideas surrounding team culture/unity and is enthusiastic to take this on.  So we’re lucky.  Everybody welcome George and he’ll now be emailing even more.

It wasn’t surprising in the sense of, “Oh no!”, but more like, “Huh, change? With the Burnaby Wolves?” I’ve been around the team five years now and I tell ya, things have changed about as much as my wardrobe.

Ok, back to George. He’s a newcomer who joined the team as a goalie last year and made an immediate positive impact. His friendly, engaging personality made him easy to talk during post-game sessions and he did not try to hide his passion for the game and the team.

Hugh’s comment about “emailing even more now” was spot on. He’d been sending comments and links to footy videos, but when he took over as manager, we began receiving a flood of communications. His pre-game emails were well thought out and inspiring and full of grammar errors (sorry, it’s in my blood to notice!). Sometimes a pre-pre-game email game a day earlier because he just couldn’t resist. His enthusiasm was infectious and it never wavered for a minute all year. His post-game recaps were always insightful and injected with humour.

He’s smart, too. He recruited new players but made sure that the long-time players knew they still had a place on the team if they wanted it. He's stated from the start that his priority is to keep the chemistry that makes this team so special. All anyone had to do to be a part of the team was show up consistently. We ended up with a deep squad, with more subs than any other team. And with no subbing restrictions for us old boys, George made sure to use our advantage in numbers, and it worked. We subbed frequently and had the freshest legs in the second half in pretty much every game we played. And we were less sore the day after a game!

What about me?

Last summer, I made a pact with myself that I would only continue playing unless I was really enjoying myself. If I was going to feel so sore and old after playing, it had to be worth it. A big part of doing it for the love also meant that I had to stop being so hard on myself whenever I made mistakes during a game.

And I succeeded. Last summer, I managed to stop putting too much pressure on myself and started just being grateful to be out there, healthy, playing decent soccer with a great bunch of guys. After all, the quality grass* that we play on at Burnaby South is so nice that millions of players around the globe would give an arm to play on it (unless they were a goalie). The good vibes became ingrained in me over in the summer and carried over into the winter league. I ended up playing some of my best soccer in ages. Sure, I made plenty of mistakes, but I didn’t harp on them like I used to. I joked around on the field and was really just happy to be out there playing - even in the cold and rain. That’s true love, right there.

Who are the Wolves

We play in the “Masters” division (a polite way of saying “old farts”) of the VMSL. Many of the guys have been playing together for years, and years, and a few more years beyond those ones. What’s more, they’ve been playing the same two nights - Tuesday & Thursday - at the same spots, depending on the season, for just as long. Sure, a ton of players and characters have come and gone over the years, but a core group has remained unchanged and old faces are welcomed back every now and again. The camaraderie created on the pitch and afterwards during the post-game beer+ is what makes the B-Wolves so special. This winter, I happily spent hours upon hours outdoors, staying in shape, just hanging out and chatting after a good run. I'm lucky.

Though last week’s loss in the Cup to end the season was disappointing (In George’s words: “With a ref eager to see his long time friends to win the game.. couple terrible calls on the first half in a combination of the very good opponent and game went south. With 10 players for half of the game, Wolves played their best minutes when they were shorthanded”), we should be proud of what we accomplished this year!

It’s been a hell of a ride and I would like to thank George and all of the guys for not only great footy, but quality companionship, too. I’m grateful to be a member of the Burnaby Wolves pack - arooooooooooooo!

This blog is dedicated to Hans - the nicest Wolf of them all.

+ Special shout out to Jeff for never failing to bing a cooler full of cold beer for us week in, week out, all year-round.

* Special shout out to Brian for being there early every Tuesday & Thursday to ensure we've got our "usual" spot.

A little suffering is good for you

"Guys, relax. Be patient." - The Ref

Last Friday night, we played our final game of the winter season on a shitty turf field in North Van. The field was surrounded by forest, and the sounds of the river could be heard while staring at the Coastal Mountains from the halfway line. A timid, sideways drizzle showered down harmlessly.

Hardly the tense setting for the drama that was about to unfold.

We have to win
Sitting in first place, we need a win against TAK to likely secure a promotion to Division 2 next year. TAK are bottom of the heap in the other division, so we're pretty confident that it should be a cakewalk.

But things don't start off well. The turf field is too big and waaaay too bouncy. Controlling the ball is difficult and the ball never stays on the ground long enough to string a few passes together. These conditions almost inevitably result in a poor game lacking in flow. Tonight is no exception.

But these guys are last place!
With the season on the line, things get tenser and tenser as the game progresses. The other team is less skilled than us, but they're clearly more comfortable on their home field. They also prove to be expert time wasters, subbing at every stop in play and taking their sweet time whenever possible. Frustration mounts.

It doesn't help that the referee, who knows our team well, doesn't seem concerned about their obvious ploys to waste time. He keeps telling us to relax and be patient while chatting and joking around with the opposition. More and more, it feel like one of those nights when things are destined to go wrong.

Confirmation comes just before the half when a shot right at our normally reliable goalkeeper slips through his hands and bulges into the net. It cancels out our first goal and we walk off the field at halftime tied 1-1.

We try to stay positive, but clearly things are not going well. If we lose, we can kiss any chance of promotion goodbye.

From bad to worse
Sure enough, disaster strikes at the onset of the second half. A questionable foul is called at the edge of our area. As soon as their player strikes the ball, Hugh, who is standing beside me in the wall, mutters, "Oh no". We both knew it was in from the moment he hit it. Our backs are now against the wall as we need two goals at the very least.

Though panic starts to set in, to our credit, we don't lose heart and keep pressing. We're almost rewarded for our efforts when Hugh hits the left post, and then just moments later, a second shot is deflected onto the right post. Later, I have a great chance myself, hitting the ball sweetly. It's aimed right for the bottom corner of the net and looks to be a goal, but their octogenarian keeper somehow manages to get his fingertips on the ball and deflects it just wide.

Ok, it's really starting to feel like one of those nights.

Finally a bit of luck
At last, the tide finally turns our way. First, we're awarded a penalty shot, which we score, and then a foul around the edge of their box gives us another dangerous chance. Under pressure, Donny steps up and delivers the perfect shot right off the post and in to give us the lead with about 10 minutes to go. We celebrate wildly, and then get ready to defend for our lives.

Not so fast
But how quickly one can go from hero to zero. When a throw in lands inside our box, Donny, trying to intercept the ball, misreads the bounces and it goes right off his arm for a blatant hand ball. The ref has no choice but to point to the penalty spot. They score. With just a precious few minutes left in the game and the game tied at three, our dreams of playing up a division are evaporating quickly.

During the final few moments, we push with urgency, but without results. There are just a few seconds left and it's looking grim until an innocuous looking tackle with their player near our own 18 yard line results in the miracle: The ball ricochets off a leg and spins perfectly between their two center backs and right into Hugh's path for a breakaway. I couldn't have passed a better through ball with all the time in the world. Their goalie comes out to challenge but Hugh gets there first and makes no mistake slotting home. Our season is saved! We go bananas!

And... breathe
The ref blows the final whistle moments later and we collectively breathe a sigh of relief. We did it. Barely.

Hey guys, I have a confession to make
After the game, the ref comes over to talk to us. "I didn't want to tell you guys until after the game, but they had at least three illegal players.", he says chuckling to himself. What!? You mean, we would have won the game regardless of the result? "Oh come on guys, a little suffering is good for you", he adds.

Of course there was lots of talk about the ref's morals during the post-game beer. "How could he not tell us? No wonder he kept telling us to relax".

In the end, I think he was right not to tell us. If we had known beforehand, we surely would have taken it easy and the game would have been awful. Plus, we wouldn't have experienced all of the drama, or suffering, as the ref called it. Though I wouldn't characterize it as enjoyable, it was far from dull! Why not add a little excitement to your life whenever you can?

It was an odd end to a great season for the Burnaby Wolves. Arooooooooooooo!

Gooooal farang!

In 1999, I signed a 10 month teaching contract at St-Francis Xavier School, located Muang Thong Thani, a suburb of Bangkok. Muang Thong, as it was referred to by locals, was the offspring community of rows and rows of high rise buildings which were built to house the athletes for the Asian Games. A few years later, it would have surprised me if the occupancy rate of these buildings reached even 30%.

As part of the agreement with the school, I was allotted a small bachelor apartment on the 13th floor in the imaginatively named T1 block. During my first week living there, I met an outgoing neighbour by the name of Tong. Tong's English was pretty bad, but he made up for his lack of vocabulary with enthusiasm and we managed to communicate fairly well. When Tong found out I loved to play football, he invited me out to play with his team the following Sunday afternoon.

I wasn't really sure of what to expect as we drove along a canal - whose stench was penetrating the car, making feel a little queasy - before turning into a little community. As we emerged from the car, I was initially struck by the sizeable crowd (maybe a hundred spectators) gathered around the tiny 7 Vs 7 pitch to watch the game that was in progress.

As we walked through the crowd to join our teammates, I could feel all eyes mulling over my relatively tall, pale frame. Clearly, few foreigners - if any - had ever set foot around here. I pretended not to be affected by all the attention, but the truth is, I felt ultra uncomfortable. Normally a shy individual, whose preference is to keep a low profile, I suddenly had to deal with minor celebrity status.

I distracted myself by trying to decipher where the awfully loud and muffled voice echoing annoyingly throughout the area was coming from. Then I noticed that each time a player on the field shot the ball, towards goal, the voice would get excited and louder. I realized that the game was receiving live commentary by someone on the sidelines with a microphone whose volume dial must have been turned up to 11.

After the final whistle had blown, we took to the field. I introduced myself to my teammates before the game by patting my chest and saying "Chris. Chris. You?" Most of the responses came in the form of monosyllabic names such as Nit or Pram. I was thinking to myself that these simple three letter names would be a cinch to remember. That is, until I tried to remember one. Shit, was that guy's name Nit? Or was it Noy? Of course, Tong was the keeper so that didn't help the situation much.

I started in the centre of midfield with a guy named Teung. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. To begin with the T at the beginning of Teung's name was not pronounced like it is in Tony for example. No, this consonant was more of an equal part mix between a T and a D in the English alphabet. Furthermore, Teung was in the fourth tone. And as in other tonal languages, there is always the danger that by pronouncing something in the wrong tone, the word you meant to say can actually a whole new meaning...

Fortunately, I did not end up calling Teung an elephant's testicular sack by mistake. In fact, I wish I had called him an elephant's testicular sack because then I would have at least had his attention. One would think the fact that we were sharing the centre mid duties might have inclined Teung to be mindful of hearing his name slightly mispronounced by the foreigner. Well ok, butchered. Yet each time I was open - or if I needed to make an outlet pass and saw that he was free - I would yell "Teung! Teung!", and not once did the guy look in my direction. The worst of it is, I don't think he did it on purpose either.

Instead of the traditional coin toss, the opposing captain's participated in a much more interesting battle of Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who started with possession. I held back the desire to yell out "Throw Rock, throw Rock!". As the referee checked his watch and prepared to blow the whistle, I could feel all eyes peeled on the foreigner - waiting to judge. I was nervous as hell. Oh, did I mention that the temperature was hovering somewhere around the mid-thirties as well?

The combination of the heat, the nervousness and the running commentary put me off."Blah, blah, blah... farang! blah, blah, blah farang! Ha ha ha". The laughter, of course, meant that I had screwed up.

About 10 minutes into the game, I learned of a particular rule at the pitch the hard way. In a moment of inspiration, I created some space for myself in opponent's half, about 20 or so metres from goal, and decided to let a shot rip. Rather than admire the ball sail gracefully into the top corner as I had hoped, the ball just kind of kept rising and rising, much to my dismay, until it finally rose above the protective netting and out of the park completely.

I sensed by the way the commentator was freaking out (I detected alot of "farangs" amidst his excited speech) and the crowd's eruption into laughter that I had done something "special". The referee walked up to me and motioned towards the sidelines. I looked back helplessly at Tong for support and he yelled, "2 minute. You off 2 minute!" With my face beet red (what, it was roasting!), I walked off the pitch with my tail between my legs to serve my penalty.

I was embarrassed, sure, but none of my teammates made me feel bad. At least I could claim to have made a hundred or so folks happy and given them a funny story to tell that night at the dinner table. It was a great atmosphere. When I given the signal to go back on, I resolved to go out there and atone for my error. In the dying seconds of the game, after a prolonged scramble in front of the other team's net, the ball sprung loose and I managed to get a toe on it first and direct it over the line for the game winner.

That night, I fell asleep with a huge grin on my face as my dreams were filled with the sound of the commentator screaming, "Gooooooaaal! Farang (blah blah blah) Gooooooaaal Farang!"

Muang Thong Thani FC

Nonthaburi, Thailand

It's Sunday morning and my head is pounding. Or, is that someone knocking on the door? Actually, it's both. "Klis, Klis, we go, we go!!!", shouts a shrill voice from outside my apartment. Groan. Funny how the Thais like to repeat everything twice, though. I manage a vaguely audible "Ok, ok, 5 minutes, 5 minutes" before struggling up to a sitting position in my bed, drenched in sweat, holding my throbbing head in my hands.

I can only blame myself for my predicament as my headache is a direct result of last night's adventure in Bangkok. I don't fool myself into claiming that I will never drink again (yet), but I do question whether or not it was worth it - as I do every weekend. Eyes half open, I shuffle to the fridge like a zombie, grab the large bottle of water (as if there were anything else to grab) and guzzle its contents without pause. Glug, glug, glug, glug, ahhhhh. Next, I stuff a pile of soccer equipment into my bag, grimacing because I've forgotten to wash my uniform again. If I didn't want to throw up before...

I hop into the shower for a quick rinse off - likely the first of four for the day. The water is disappointingly tepid, not the cold blast I crave. I perform a token towel off, even though the only way to really dry off is to sit still in front of the fan on full blast for a minimum of five minutes. Already soaked as I ride the elevator down to the lobby, I wonder how I am going to survive an hour and half of running around an arid pitch in this heat, in this state.

Gae, my manager and friend, is beaming as usual as he waits for me in the lobby. His lanky frame sports the Muang Thong Thani FC jersey - whose MFC logo is the only noticeable differentiation from the Real Madrid uniforms. "You ready?", he asks enthusiastically. It takes all my energy to form a weak smile and respond with an unconvincing "Ready". As we step out of the building to meet the rest of the team, I make sure to stop at the stall selling fruit to purchase several 10 cent plastic bags filled with refreshing watermelon and juicy pineapple. I stab several pieces onto the toothpick and shove it all in my mouth. Ahhhh, that's better.

When we arrive at the meeting spot, I feel bad because the entire team is waiting on me. But like the good-natured lads they are, not one of them shoots off any bad vibes. We all pile into several minivans and head to another district of Bangkok.

Our driver, who I suspect has been paid off by the other team, is apparently not overly concerned that we make it to the pitch alive. He zig zags and weaves in and out of traffic - even purposely driving on the wrong side of the road at one point to gain no more than a few metres. Until this moment, I had never imagined that I would die in a car accident in the suburbs of Bangkok.

We arrive at the pitch with about ten minutes to spare before kick off. We barely have time to lace up our boots before the referee summons the captains to the circle for the customary rock, paper, scissors (I'm not making this up either). The sun is beating down so hard - at 9.52 am - that I can barely perform a perfunctory stretch of the calf. I'm so screwed. In a last minute effort to be game ready, I dump some ice cold water over my head and pray that I don't throw up.

I feel like I'm in a giant oven. Before coming here, it had never occurred to me that April would be a country's "hot season". I'm looking forward to winter. The sun glares down oppressingly as everything is ultra hazy; mixed with my hungover state, it's all very surreal in a nightmarish sort of way. A quick scan of the pitch reveals an unhealthy, brown surface largely deprived of hydration. A pat of the ground with my foot offers no yield and I begin to dream of the lush and empty grass fields back home in Canada. A referee's whistle snaps me out of reverie and suddenly the ball is at my feet and my reflexes take over.



The halftime whistle's tweet ne'er did sound so sweet. Spotting a cooler filled with ice water, I decide to submerge my entire head, resulting in a shock throughout my system. It helps, but I'm still within a sliver of throwing up.

The heat only intensifies during the second half. It's beyond any degree of hot that I've ever experienced. At this point, I'm not so much playing to win as trying to survive out there on the pitch. Like an old car I am overheated, and I start to feel woozy, with visions of my body giving way and me just passing out. At last, the final whistle blows. We exchange handshakes with the other team and quickly head for the shade.

As with all recreational footy team around the globe, the best part of the game is post=game. During my stint with MTT FC, it meant going back to a little restaurant owned by Gae's friend in Muang Thong for our post-game feast. The restaurant consists of some fold-out tables and plastic stools on the sidewalk, a few plants and some multi-coloured lights (it's Christmas all year-round I used to joke) for the night time crowd. But in Thailand, don't let the decor fool you. Delicious dish after delectable dish would be brought every once in a while. Food is shared by all. It's the art of pecking.

Gae and his wife Goi are the only English speakers among this group of twenty or more locals. They graciously act as translators for me, but there are times when they are busy talking to others. I am happy to just sit and watch these jovial people interact with one another. And even though they are unable to communicate with words, they make sure I know that I am appreciated with their genuine smiles and a friendly pat on the back.

Another way they expressed their friendship was with beer. In Thailand, you learn to drink beer out of a small dixie cup filled with ice cubes. It's a bit weird at first, but it's proof that you can really adapt to anything. Those guys, bless them, made sure that my glass was never less than half empty every Sunday. I mean, I'd turn around for a second, and when I'd pick up my glass again, I'd swear it was more empty. You know what they say, the best way to cure a hangover...

My experience as a member of MTT FC will long reign as one of my fondest memories. The level of football wasn't the highest, but the comraderie and the hospitality shown by my gracious teammates will remain close to my heart.