Song Notes

99% of the time I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge I feel happy and curious and present and content and cool and just a little bit giddy.  The other 1% isn’t even negative, it’s just maybe only one of those things instead of all six.  Today was one of those all-sixers made even more better by stumbling into some Van Morrison on the radio just past the south tower as I went north.  Van and I go way back, but we took a break for a couple years after my divorce.  (Then I watched “The Last Waltz” with that phenomenal performance of “Caravan” near the end of the show and Van got back on my playlists. Uh-maze-balls.  Oh AND I read that Nick Hornby wants that song at his wake.  Brilliant.)

Van the Man crooned “Tupelo Honey” to me as I looked west through the gate, sun still blazing over the Pacific showing signs of spring, but not strong enough yet to overcome Mt. Tam.  I actually tried to force myself NOT to sing, so I wouldn’t ruin it, but then I just turned it up loud enough to drown myself out.  Perfect.

The last song on my run tonight was Ben Harper’s Fly One Time which is a great workhorse of an inspirational that frankly I have been skipping in search of something louder, faster, better, stronger.  Yep, lots of Daft Punk in the house.  But tonight, I let it play and just like my drive over the bridge at sunset less than two hours before, I turned it up and let it do the work.  Just fly one time…

is pounding at my door
screaming for more
in a world that owes you nothing
you give everything

now i’m caught in between
what i can’t leave behind
and what i may never find
so fly one time
fly one time

at the edge of your life
at the edge of our lives
don’t hold on
there’s no fighting back the years
it’s so hard to unlearn fears

now you’re caught between
what you can’t leave behind
and all that you may never find
so fly
just fly one time
i see you so clearly
so clearly
up so high

now you’re caught in between
what you can’t leave behind
and what we may never find
so fly
so fly
one time
so clearly
so clearly
so high
fly one time
just fly one time
if you’d fly one time

Soccer Joy: I’m Tired Just Watching

My monitor at work, 1st half Brazil v. North Korea. Poor composition blamed on fatigue.

My enjoyment of reading “Fever Pitch” is tempered only by the moments I kick myself for not having read it sooner.  But then again, I truly believe that art, music and literature arrive in our lives at the exact moment we are meant to have it.  This is true too for the times that we are exposed to art/music/lit and we simply don’t get it.  It lays the foundation for an epiphany to come.  And so, all the soccer joy I have had in my life was actually preparing me for my absolute worship of Nick Hornby’s memoir of his “obsession.”  (Yes, I did just also compare soccer to art, music and literature.  Hope you caught that.)  I think I will just start re-reading it when I finish, I can’t get enough.

I am currently exhausted, mostly from sleep deprivation trying to get up extra early to watch World Cup matches, and not going to bed earlier to compensate, mainly because I am stubborn.  Then there are the wild adrenaline spikes while watching games through the morning, whether stifled in my cube or over at the sports bar across the street.  At least there it is okay to shout and commiserate audibly.  This constant reversal of energies is quite tiresome.  Due to this soccer-zombie existence to which I have succumbed, I have been too stupid to write sooner, and honestly forgot that I also had to devote two nights this week to the Laker-Celtic finals, which mercifully end tonight, Laker domination is expected.  There has not been this much ESPN on my TV since I was married!

Must try to sleep to write more soccer joy…

Soccer Joy: A Whole Month of World Cup!

Ferry Reading: Getting ready for World Cup by immersing in all things soccer, 'scuse me, football related.

I am a terrible soccer player. That did not stop me however, from being on the girls’ team in high school, first JV, then Varsity, but should also be noted that age 15 not 5 is when I first really kicked a soccer ball with the intention of being part of a team. Once on my high school team, I went to all the practices, worked my butt off, ran stadium stairs, and only got limited game playing time. I am a very fast runner and am tall and athletic looking, so I guess the coach maybe thought that I should be a midfielder, going back and forth between offense and defense, but let’s be honest, it’s mostly an offensive position. I think if all had gone according to his plan I would have been arcing perfect crosses to the forwards who would heroically blast goals in the back upper corner of the net to the hollering cheers of our fans. Well, no. That did not happen. Not on passes from me anyhow.

In hindsight, where they should have put me and let me actually build some skills and confidence, is on defense. My sprinting would have been put to good use going after some speedy winger, or running down an errant but dangerous boot from the far side. Not to mention, I am tenaciously annoying and aggressive when someone else has a ball I want. Also, I’m not afraid to put a little body into it. But, no. I was shoved into the midfield where I withered from fear that I’d have to get my passes to the right spots and was tentative and not so effective and uttered the dreaded, meek, “I’m sorry!” across the field a lot. I felt a little better playing co-ed indoor during the winter; it was faster and all around more wild which meant if my pass went awry, it got noticed way less. My freshman year of college, I spent a semester of PE playing soccer with another co-ed group, and we had some good clean fun with a great coach. I loved that class, and might have been the only “A” I earned that semester. In the summers home from college, and actually right after college, I was talked into joining some local adult leagues by a good friend who was an excellent and collegiate player. At least as an official adult I could then honestly articulate my lack of skills to the prospective team, giving them fair warning of my inconsistent passing so that I’d be absolved prior to any game-losing mistakes I might think I had caused. I also learned to stop the on-field apologies and there was beer after.

Where I am not terrible when it comes to soccer, is my complete and total joy with the entire experience of the game. And it is funny to me, because I am not an obsessive about it, in fact, I always consider myself an awestruck rookie, which is maybe part of the reason I am so present in each facet of my soccer experiences both as an adolescent player and as a grown woman. I don’t know the esoteric facts about the English League system and its levels, but it fascinates me and could spend hours asking endless questions to one who does; I didn’t realize until recently that Italians are known to cheat (!) and somehow that is okay and expected; I love that women’s soccer in the US is just, if not at times as bad ass as the men’s; I am guilty of only knowing the most famous of world players and yes, oogling over David Beckham, but am always willing and ready to be educated on the unknowns; I am concerned by old school hooligans and past Colombian soccer-related assassinations; I love that everyone around the world has likely had a kick-about at some point in their lives and that we all are bonded by that; I have been in stadiums and bars and house parties for games and had as much fun watching the fans as the players. All of these things about the experience of the game transports me to a happiness that I could only compare to how I feel when I am out in nature or the few times I have been in love or when laughter is so intense you feel as if you might pass out from glee and lack of oxygen or flying dreams.

So now, the World Cup is back and I am in full-on soccer awe. I am constantly reading articles and blogs, clicking down rabbit holes of websites and wikis all about the tournament and players and team histories, trying to make sure I have figured out the correct start times for games and put into my Outlook, and now, preparing my bracket! What has me the most tickled though is reading Nick Hornby’s “Fever Pitch” for the first time. I am having that joy sharing his experience of the game (although he’d describe as mostly fraught and serious not joyful, because he is an obsessive) as yet another reason to believe for certain that happiness is real.

I have some soccer joy to share. I will post some of the stories during the World Cup.

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