My Body

Moorpark College

It’s back to Moorpark College for field hockey. I’m a little hesitant going after my first experience, but I always look forward to playing hockey. Rebecca tells me when I get there that most of the high school girls are visiting some college today; there’s only one high school girl here. Everyone else is my age or older. There’s a few people here who weren’t here last week. We’re short, but so is the other team, so we play nine aside with no subs. Great, I’m going to die again. That’s OK; no matter how tired I am, I hate coming out.

Before we start, there’s still only seven of us here. We try to figure out a lineup. Erin is here from last week. She played left mid in front of me. She’s good. Find out she went to Lafayette and is from New York. We get along well. Rebecca is saying the other girls’ names but I know I’m not going to remember. She says this one girl is going to play defense because she drank too many margaritas last night, so it’s me and her in the back. Right before we begin, our other two show up, so we’ve got all nine.

As soon as we start, I know we’re playing a different game. I’ve got a real team today. Girls who, without a doubt, played in college. I’m jacked. The two girls who showed up right at the start of the game are dominating the midfield. They’re awesome. I can’t remember my defender’s name so I start calling her Margarita. She doesn’t seem to mind. At close to halftime I hear a guy motivating me from the endline. After I pass I look up. He’s walking over to the player’s side. He continues to yell things to my teammates. Hey, you, you want to coach us? We need one. Rebecca is in goal today and hears me. “My husband is our coach.” Yea, but this guy is actually talking to us. No offense, Rebecca, but you’re husband doesn’t coach. He doesn’t even say anything to us at halftime. I’d say he’s more of a spectator. (I only say the first part out loud.)

I’m feeling good at halftime. I immediately let 66 and 28 know how awesome they are, not that they need to hear it from me. One girl is Amanda, and of course I forget the other name. They’re both very quiet players. I feel like I am just their cheerleader the whole game. Oh, we’re not winning. Don’t be silly. It’s already 3-0. Our forwards are weak and we have no subs. But at least we’re playing real field hockey. The guy who was yelling to us is Nate – the coach of the next team playing. I like him. I wish he was with us every week. He’s helpful and funny, too, telling a girl when she messes up that it was all her fault. I find him quite humorous.

I can’t wait to play the second half, but as soon as I get on the field I can feel that my whole body is tired. My mind is so on point; I know exactly what I want to do with the ball, but my stupid body just won’t let me. The other team scores quickly, but it’s the only goal they score in the second half. We are passing really well. We manage to get the ball up the field and force a penalty corner as time runs out – our first corner of the game. We get to play out the corner. I don’t know what to do. Someone asks me if I want to insert. Um, not really. I will, no, someone else can. No one is stepping up to take the shot. The good player – not Amanda – asks me if I want to take the shot. No, you take it. I’ll stop, you shoot? “Um, alright.” We stand next to each other, both not ready to take a corner. We say things out loud, but we’re not really talking to each other, more to ourselves. “I haven’t done this since college.” Nope, me neither. I set up to stop the ball, afraid it’s going to right by me. She stands to my left. Good insert to me from Erin, and I stop it, thank God, quick tap in the circle. 66 takes the shot but the flyer gets it. Game over. We’re laughing about it. Maybe if we actually get to practice a corner we could eventually be good at it.

We walk off the field agreeing that today was really fun and how much better it is without the high schoolers. Rebecca is there to defend them. “Well, they’re really young.” I hate that. I don’t care if they’re young or not. Young players don’t need to be awesome, they just need to care. I say bye to everyone and rush off the field – have to be in work before 6 tonight because we have a lot of reservations.

Sabrina and Kyle at Lilly's

I’m so dead at work. Field hockey took everything out of me. Kyle texts me. “Hey, I’m in Santa Monica with a friend. Does Lilly’s have happy hour and are you working?” Yes and yes. So Kyle and his friend from college, Sabrina, come in for a couple drinks. I feel bad because we’re actually kind of busy, but it slows down eventually and we get to chat for a while. Sabrina is awesome. Unfortunately, she lives in Pennsylvania and is just visiting. Otherwise, we would be friends. Kyle manages to always make me feel better about my life. We are going through a lot of the same stuff at the same time. We both just moved to California for acting and we both haven’t got anything to really show for it (Kyle at least has taken a class). I tell them how writing is the only thing that keeps me sane. Even though I’m not getting any gigs or even auditions right now, my blog gives me some sense of accomplishment. It’s my creative outlet, to say the least. Sabrina is not interested in acting – she works for Kraft; in the Snacks department. Cool, right? She had to make a decision to work in the snacks department or the grocery department. “Doesn’t ‘grocery’ just sound like an old person?” Yes, it does, Sabrina. I bet a lot of her co-workers had to really think about which department they wanted to work for. Not Sabrina. Snacks or Grocery? Snacks, obviously. She has conference calls about pudding and lunchables. That is awesome.

*Young the Giant

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s