Mehr Pech Gibt Es Nicht

 A week ago Thursday, I was watching an Arsenal match and exchanging comments about the game with a couple of friends via text message.  Because of the pandemic, the games take place in empty stadiums, which can be a little disheartening, probably for both players and the fans.  However, one of the perks of the empty stadium is the opportunity to hear more noises coming from the pitch, particularly from the players. 

During the particular match, I commented about how the players sounded when they were fouled.  A couple of players, knocked over from the opponent's sliding tackles,  were going down to the ground in apparent agony, but it was their wails of pain that were so ridiculously extravagant.  The game has long been known for such theatrics, but with the quiet stadium, the viewer sitting quietly in their living room is treated to sound bites that might just as well be in a horror film where someone is getting their leg sawed off with a chain saw.  Because there were quite a few fouls during the match, I was starting to get irritated by the number of "Agggghhh!" and "oooooohhhhhhh's" I was hearing as I watched a player get tripped in some minor incident.  Normally, within 2 seconds, the players were back on their feet and racing after the ball again, the "injury" from seconds before a distant memory. 

Two nights ago, I was watching the return leg between the same two teams, and about five minutes into the game, the Arsenal player wound up to take a shot.  He has a real boot on him, and his strike was powerful.  The shot was blocked by the defender (ironically a former Arsenal player), who took the ball right in the gut, as he was only a meter away from the striker.  The ball rebounded with even more force directly into the face of the striker, who's momentum carried him into the defender.  The collision was impressive, and both players collapsed in a heap on the ground.  Seeing it was certainly worth my monthly subscription fee to the television sender. 

Both players were knocked loopy; they had their bells rung.  

The incident happened very quickly: bam bam bam, but neither player uttered any kind of sound. 

I was obviously watching the match at home alone, so have really no idea how many people were all sitting in front of their televisions, watching as the players got treated by the medical staff for a minute or so.  

It was one of those things where you really have to laugh, because the circumstances were so unusual.  In the fact, the German commentator expressed it particularly well by saying with a slight chuckle, "Well, mehr Pech gibt es nicht," (loosely translated as "bad luck all around")

Fortunately, neither player was seriously injured, and the game resumed pretty quickly.  

For the rest of the game, I was thinking of all the times I played sports and experienced a similar situation, sometimes even getting my own bell rung, or at least got knocked loopy. 

My own soccer career started pretty early, but as 5 year olds, we tended to run around in a herd (both teams) and it looked more like a rugby scrum than anything else.  As our skills developed, however, players demonstrated more talent and strength.  That is not to say that we had complete control of our games, wayward passing was the norm.  I was regularly involved in both kicking a ball in the face and receiving a kicked ball in the face.  Once, when I was 8, I fully intended to cross the ball into the box.  I was on the right side of the field near the touchline, and instead of a beautifully lofted pass over the heads of the other players, I kicked a line drive directly into the face of my opponent.  As the ball bounced away off his face, he looked at me in surprise, then staggered off the field into the arms of his father, who happened to be standing with the other parents watching their kids play a sport they did not really understand on a Saturday morning. 

Although I felt slightly sorry that I had accidentally kicked the ball into the guy's face, I knew it wasn't intentional.  And, several minutes later in the same game, the same thing happened to me.  However, I was wearing glasses (as I did for my whole childhood, up until age 15) and the result was broken glasses and a really pissed off Bryan.  They had to stop the game, my mom had to come onto the field to pick up the pieces of my glasses, and then I continued on playing.  I wish I could report something like, "I went on to score 3 goals," but nothing like that happened.  Instead, my frustrations and humility of taking one in the face hindered my ability to stay concentrated on the game.  That being said, I did not cry or scream in pain during the incident, which was not the case for my opponent who was bawling in the arms of his dad.  

Although I am quite emotional, and in most cases not afraid to show my emotions, I also consider myself remarkably tough, especially when it comes to sports.  I think this toughness came from my experiences with my own father.  True, he did not know much about soccer, but he certainly would stand in the front yard and kick the ball back and forth with me.  My father, of course, was holding out for the father-son experiences involving sports he was more familiar with, like american football, softball, and basketball.  

I probably learned to catch a softball around the time I was starting soccer.  My dad was playing on a softball team and seemed to prefer it to baseball.  No problem from my side, though it meant that I never really grew into liking the sport of baseball, simply because he never was that big of a fan. Softball, however, was semi-kid friendly.  The ball was bigger, usually pitched underhand (which helped tremendously when learning to bat), and for me, it was really all about playing with my dad. Playing catch developed into learning to use the bat, and from there we moved onto catching pop flies. 

In one of my favorite all time comics, Calvin and Hobbes, there is a story line where Calvin learns to play baseball with his own father.  No sooner had they started practicing when a ground ball bounced up into Calvin's face, giving him a bloody nose, and resulting in them going back inside the house, where the mother was shocked by all the blood running down C's face.  "Dad tried to kill me," said Calvin in comical fashion that only a 6 year old (at heart) will understand.  

It wasn't a ground ball that got me, but rather a pop fly that my dad hit to me.  It got me right on the temple, breaking the frames of my glasses, which unfortunately resulted in the hinge of the frame cutting into my head.  This resulted in an alarming amount of blood, which did not go over so well with my mother, who quickly became hysterical when we went back inside the house to attend the wound. 

"He will be ok," my father said quietly, in effort to soothe my mother.  He was already quite comforting with me, and I imagine that he was sorry that I had gotten injured, but at the same wondering why the hell I had not put my glove up to catch the ball or at the very least, protect my face. 

As for myself, I was remarkably calm, likely because both parents were present, and the whole thing was simply an accident.  Das war Pech.  It was just unlucky. 

Soon, I was right back outside playing catch with my father, and I learned the valuable lesson that sometimes accidents happen.  As my catching and batting skills improved, I was turning into a right little champion that could really whack the pitch.  I never broke another pair of glasses during softball, but I did hit quite a few line drives into the gas lamp that stood in our front yard, ever more crooked because of the number of balls hit against it.  Eventually, after the 4th or 5th time that my line drive broke the glass panels of the light, my father suggested we go to the schoolyard or park to continue playing. 

Actually, though, we really found our stride playing american football.  My father gave me a full size leather football one year for Christmas, and that provided years of enjoyment for both of us.  The ball had a fake autograph of Terry Bradshaw, which was kind of a taboo, considering he was the quarterback of the biggest rivals of the team from Dallas.  It did not bother me, though.  What did bother me initially, was that I (or rather, my hands) were a little too small to hold a full size football.  I was probably 8 or 9, and gripping a full size football was challenging.  With practice and encouragement, though, I was soon throwing some decent spirals with some pace.  My father taught me some patterns to run, and I was rivaling many wide-receivers as I caught passes from my father via a post pattern, slant, or button-hook.  The button-hook involved running a few paces, then turning around sharply and catching the ball.  My father threw hard and accurately, he was a pretty good quarterback, at least in the father-son world I was playing in.  And, when catching a full size football in the chest on a crisp autumn day, you tend to utter an "ooof" once or twice; the ball really comes int o you that hard.  

Not once did I ever ask him to throw more gently; I simply understood that this was the way that you played the game.  

I never really played that much pickup football in the neighborhood, but from time to time I did get together with some guys in my sixth grade class.  I was a little surprised that they insisted upon playing with a nerf football, and furthermore, very few had much experience with full size leather footballs.  To be fair, the full size ball was still a little too big, and none of us were quite ready to be able to sing "Big hands you're the one..." (sorry, someone bet me that I could not find a way to put a lyric from the Flaming Lips into a post...)

I had always been a little unsure about playing tackle football, but the trick was: play with kids your own age and size.  The truth was, all the other kids did not want to get tackled any more than I did, and the key to this was to just outrun everyone.  I was pretty good at that, and since most of our games involved passing (as opposed to running), I already had experience running various patterns.  Most of the other kids were not malicious, so no one was really trying to clobber anyone.  From time to time, someone got the wind knocked out of them, but that was never a big deal.  

What was a big deal, though, was what the nerf ball brought to the game.  A nerf was a soft squeezy alternative to a hard (usually leather) ball:  the american football was particularly popular, but there was a complete assortment of other balls, too.  The thing about a nerf is that with time, the ball will become grubby and starts to get a little crusty, especially if it has been exposed to moisture.  Sometimes little chunks would come out of the ball, but we tended to play with a ball until it finally disintegrated.  

Sometimes, the ball would become really crusty, especially when the "coating" started to come off the ball.  

Enter the phenomenon of nerf eye.  From time to time, someone would catch the ball in the eye.  I am not saying this happened all that much, but when it did, it got very dramatic.  The unfortunate victim would yelp in surprise and pain, and the rest of us would all stand back and allow the person plenty of room to recover.  During this time, it was perfectly allowed for the guy to writhe around in pain and utter sounds of anguish. 

Most of us had first hand experience with nerf eye, not so much with a nerf football (since this tended to be an isolated incident) but rather with a miniature nerf basketball.  Almost every kid I went to school with in 6th grade already had a little tiny basketball goal that would hang on the door of the bedroom.  This provided hours of enjoyment and distraction for those of us not so inclined to stay focused on homework.  Again, the ball had a tendency to get grubby and crusty, and because an individual could shoot baskets by themselves, there is an element of creativity that one does in the privacy of their bedroom.  This (at least in my case, but confirmed by the reactions of others) led to semi-frequent contact with the ball to the eye.  Hence nerf eye.

Roughly speaking, nerf texture on the eye is probably the equivalent of using an abrasive bathroom cleaner or sandpaper to wash and dry your hands.  One would never put Comet in the eye, but I imagine that it would be a similar sensation to having a nerf ball touch your eyeball.  We are all sensitive to our eyes, and we do not like any foreign objects getting in our eyes, especially something that is so abrasive.  The consequences could be tremendous. 

This is precisely why we, as pre-teens playing an afternoon pickup game of football would abruptly stop and wildly exclaim to one another, "Give him room, he has nerf eye! Nerf eye! Oh my gosh!" all secretly grateful that it happened to someone else.  

I think there were two secret fears that every boy had with sports, nerf eye and getting racked.  Both are rites of passage, but the latter tends to last a lifetime.  This is why, we as males, laugh and wince EVERY time we see it happen to someone, whether in a sporting event, a film, or in real life.  I am not saying that we WISH it upon someone, but we can always relate, since we have had the experience personally. 

As a goalkeeper who played on teams with somewhat weak defending, I spent a lot of matches getting shelled, shots coming fast and furious from opponents eager to add another goal to their account.  While I certainly could not stop all the shots, I made more than my share of saves.  One evening at my local indoor facility, we played against our top rival in the league.  That season, we were playing particularly well and were actually tied for first place.  They were a superior team, but we were playing with a lot of heart, and literally (in my case) with balls. 

On that evening, the game was tight.  We were tied, and then someone on my team conceded a penalty. 

Neat. 

Up steps their top goal scorer, and I stood on my line. 

The guy took his shot, and I moved the right way and stopped the shot. 

With my nuts. 

I was on an adrenaline rush, and was able to stand up, release the ball to a teammate, who dribbled down the field and scored the game winning goal. 

Meanwhile, I blacked out for a second, then managed to crawl off the pitch and collapse on the bench.  The visual in my head was someone taking two raw eggs and throwing them as hard as they could against a wall.  I was not able to speak at that moment, but I did not even want to open my mouth for fear that any internal body parts would come out. 

But I toughed it out, and despite my inability to speak, never made any sounds or noises of anguish and pain.  

An hour later, I was quietly sipping a beer in the pub, and remarked to my friends and teammates, "Well that hurt, but I am glad that we won the game because I saved the penalty."

Was it Pech or was it a fluke?  Who cares. 

Somebody taking a ball to the nether regions regularly happened during my footballing career, but for the most part it was never deliberate. 

The same cannot be said in the game of tennis.  Though it was never an instruction from my father or any coach, we had a tendency to aim for the body in tennis, particularly when our opponent was at the net.  It was a particularly effective strategy, since the opponent has to decide which head to protect with their racket.  

Over the years, I never had such an incident on the court when playing tennis with my father.  However, we both had plenty of stories from other matches that we had played where someone got zinged, allowing us to wince and laugh at their misfortune. 

Ironically, the "play tough" mentality that I learned from playing sports with my father backfired a couple of times.  Like learning to throw hard and catch hard, my father encouraged me to play with power.  Thus, I hit the tennis ball with plenty of pace and strength.  Spending a lot of time in the weight room added some particular zing to my serve.  

This was highly effective in my game.  I regularly aced my opponents, frequently on my second serve.  With power and pace, sometimes one sacrifices control.  Thus, I regularly double-faulted.  In singles, the consequence is that you lose the game, set, and possibly match.  In doubles, you have the additional risk of possibly serving a wayward ball into your partner, who, in the service part of the game, stands halfway between the baseline and the net. 

The first time I served an 80mph serve into the shoulder blades of my father, I thought it was funny.  

He didn't. 

I was certainly never aiming at him or any of my doubles partners, but it happened multiple times more to my father (usually in the back but sometimes on the butt) before he finally started standing next to me on the baseline while I served.  

My serve got even stronger once I started playing on the college team.  I also got to experience first hand how a powerful serve feels between your shoulder blades when my own doubles partner smacked a few serves into me.  

My dad was right, it was not funny at all. 

But, I stayed tough, and other than a "DAMN, that HURT!" I really did not say much. 

One Saturday, my doubles partner and I played against some opponents who quickly showed that their serves were pretty powerful, also.  I had already been aced several times, and was getting more and more frustrated.  I envisioned using a little spin to return the serve, with the intent to send the ball screaming back over the net and down the line to win the point.  

The serve came flashing over the net, and I took a mighty swing.  I was concentrating on putting a bit of spin on the return, so was completely shocked when the racket (my racket) smacked me in the forehead, with full force. 

As the ball did not go back over the net, my partner turned towards me to ask me what the hell I was doing (or why I had not returned the ball).  His eyes widened as he asked, "Dude, what the fuck happened to you? You are BLEEDING!" 

I had split my forehead open, and had blood streaming down my face. 

The pain started when I saw the blood, as did my anger and frustration.  Indeed, it hurt like hell. 

And, I really rang my own bell.  I knocked myself completely loopy. 

Somehow, I was able to continue the match, but my heart and head were no longer really in it.  Thus, we lost pretty quickly and convincingly.  That was disappointing enough; I also had a wound on my forehead.  

It was the perfect time to say something like, "Mehr Pech gibt's nicht," but I did not yet know that phrase. 

Instead, I considered myself fortunate that I avoided racking myself with a nerf ball. 

With that, I will close this post so that I can go out and do some injury free sport.  

see you out there

bryan