Balls to the Wall...

One summer, I was home from University and my brother and I decided to play Soccer in a summer men’s league. Technically, it was called the International Men’s League, which makes it sound like we played Slovakia every third week, but all it meant was that we played one team from the State of Maine. Now, I’ve seen a lot of soccer in my day, but I have never seen a rougher, rowdier, or more violent league than this one. Basically, you’ve got a lot of guys who used to play, but are now pushing into their thirties and don’t have the wind that they used to. What they still have however, is their pride and competetive natures. So, when they get frustrated, they tend to lash out and try to compensate for their slower footwork by, you know, body-checking a guy. But I guess I shouldn't talk, since I got the nickname "Tank" for (accidentally) knocking a guy unconscious. What can I say, there's not much I can do about momentum... it's physics... I'm a big guy... I have to admit though, it was kind of satisfying that he was out cold and in the fetal position before he hit the ground.

Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother where he was kneeling on his chest about to pummel him (although I bet my brother still would have got the better of him). So, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the game.

We were warming up, taking shots on goal, when one of our balls sailed over the fence and into the yard opposite. Charles, a childhood friend of mine, started over to retrieve it because it happened to be his own ball. But just as he was crossing the street, in a streak of grey and pink, an old lady ran out, grabbed the soccer ball and then ran back into the house. Charles stopped in the middle of the road and turned back to us with a look that would have perfectly accompanied the phrase, "What the fuck?"

You see, St. Andrews is a resort town. It is a tourist destination. It is the site of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel and an international golf-course (where my canoe and I once pitched a tent). It is a beautiful location, there’s no doubt about it, but for me the place always rings a little false. The town swells in the summertime when all the Americans come north to their summer homes. My town, on the other hand, is just as beautiful, but more like a country cousin. My little town is quaint; St. Andrews is faux-quaint. The way to make this distinction is by counting the gift shops. Who needs 24 gift shops selling the same thing on one street? Anyway, the town has a reputation locally as being snobby and elitist, and like most reputations, some of that is completely undeserved, but then, some of it isn’t. There are some great people who live in St. Andrews, but as we were about to find out, the lady who had just athletically whisked away Charles’ ball was not one of them.

Charles continued across the street and knocked on the door. Eventually, the lady opened the door, releasing a small white poodle that immediately started barking and relentlessly jumping on Charles’ legs. Ever the gentleman, Charles began, "I’m sorry Ma’am, but it seems our ball landed in your yard, and I was wondering if you might have found it?"
"Yes I did," stated the woman, "but you little bastards can forget about getting your ball back."
This took Charles aback, not being used to hearing the elderly refer to him as a little bastard. But still, he maintained his composure. "We are very sorry Ma’am. But you see, that’s actually my own personal ball, and I’d like to get it back."
"Young man, there is no way in hell you will ever see your ball again."
"Look, I understand you’re upset, but maybe you should talk to the town about raising the fence around the field or stringing a net or something…"
"The town?" she sneered, "Those bastards are the worst bastards of them all."
Charles took this in stride, but the dog jumping up his leg was starting to annoy him. "Listen," he began.
"Don’t you "listen" me!" she shouted in a shrill voice. "I’m not putting up with this anymore, you can all go fuck yourselves!"

At this point, I heard escalating voices and started over there. I arrived just in time to hear Charles shout, "Listen you crotchety old whore! You go into your musty, old-lady house right now and get my god-damn soccer ball!"
The woman gasped… so did I. "Chuck!" I said, completely at a loss for what to say.
The woman recovered first. "Have respect for your elders, young man!" she squeaked.
"Fuck You." said Charles.
"That ball was on my property," said the woman, "It’s mine now!"
"Fine" said Charles as he bent down and scooped up the annoying, little dog, "You keep the ball, I’m taking your dog."
"You can’t do that!" she screamed.
"Watch me! Your dog is jumping all over me, so he’s my property now… See ya." Charles turned and started down the walkway. I stood rooted to the spot.
"I’ll call the police you little bastard-shit-head!" she screamed at his retreating form.
"You go right ahead, you old bag!" Shouted Charles.

The police arrived shortly. The officer in charge went inside and retrieved our ball, begging us to try our damnedest not to let it land in this yard again. "That woman," he confided in us, "is a God-Damn crazy lady."

We thanked the officer, and headed back to our already delayed game, heady with the victory that a bunch of guys in their twenties and thirties had just achieved in getting our game ball back from a mean old lady.