It was the beginning of the end - we had been together since U13 at Classic V and now we were looking at going to U19 Classic II and the team was fading away even as we enjoyed the heady success of winning yet another championship. We just didn't know it yet.
Spring Season is referred to in soccer as "Short Season". Because so many boys play for their high schools in the winter and spring, the club season is truncated and involves independently set up games that don't count against your record - sort of like Pakistani arranged marriages. And often times the other team can't field a full squad on that day for one reason or another and more games are cancelled than are played.
Spencer was graduating high school and he would go on to play college at Southern Virginia; Decook switched loyalties so that he could play on a team that included his high school friends. Cason - another original! - followed him because this was a Big Club, with access to college scouts and a higher fewer ethnic minorities. He in turn was joined by Justin who spent the last season pouting because noone else on the team held him in the esteem he held for himself.
Jesus, our keeper, left because he was a goal keeper and we couldn't seem to hang on to them. He just kind of faded away at the end of the season, claiming he didn't have a phone, a ride, a clue . . .
Patrick had been our number one goal-scorer for years - I had recruited him back in the U12 days when I was shameless about stealing your most talented player from your team with promises of glory. In the ensuing six years I had picked him up and taken him home twice a week - he lived miles away, in Braselton; I had fed him on away games and visited him in the hospital when he ruptured his spleen playing for us. He had never paid a penny towards any fees, never paid for any of the camps we held. Patrick's head was turned by a Big Club that saw his numbers and made him any number of promises, and so he left . . . only to try to return weeks later when the rosters were set and his position had been filled. No dice, Patrick. Despite everything we had done for you, you chose to leave and so no door was left unlocked with a candle in the window for your eventual return.
And so it goes - by summer recruiting time we had refilled our roster but it was like something from a Civil War novel: the proud boys who had joined the regiment in the glory days of Hope and Courage were gone, their spots filled by raw recruits who didn't know the culture and the history. Game enough to try to live up to the Iron Horse name but there were too many of them and we didn't have enough time to shape them: this was the last season for the team. We broke them in and threw them out there. Buncha FNG's .
Brian's son was graduating this year and he was opening his own business and so that would be that. Over the years I began to rely on Brian more and more. Iron Horse was so successful I could afford to turn my attention and worries over to my younger son's team, which always struggled. In time Iron Horse became, by default, Brian's team, and it was a good fit. My relevance began to fade as my attentions were called elsewhere. If Brian and I had a difference of opinion regarding formations or tactics, I began to defer to him. Gone was my old bluster and cockiness. I had found myself out and realized now, after years of experience, how little I actually knew. I'm glad I didn't know that in the beginning - I would have failed miserably.
Brian had coached his last game last Saturday, handed the equipment bag over, and now I was the last man standing, me and the Four Originals, and the Second Generation players, the ones who flocked to us when we were unstoppable - like Victor, and Junior our other captain. Brian had told me, "We managed to bottle lightning there for a while." We had both wanted to create a winning team around those who could play the game but were too poor to afford Big Club membership fees and in that we were more successful than we might have hoped for. Or maybe not, we were both full of hubris in those first days.
If only . . . if only we had kept the original crew, we would have dealt handily with this team in the gloaming of late Georgia Autumn. Our esprit and elan and speed would have kept these boys on their back-heels and Patrick or Manuel would have scored the final goal. But this group - there was not enough chemistry. Pieces were missing, we were patched up with tape and wire. The sounds across the street from the other complex were silent now and the cars driving past had their lights on. This field had no lights however and it was getting dark.
With five minutes to play, the refs called the game. It was too dark to see, they said. It was dangerous to play. The other coach looked at me and I shrugged. "I want to finish the game," I said. So did he, so did all the boys on the field - but we were vetoed by the referees. Game over. As ignominous an ending to years of success as you could possibly imagine.
I called the boys over and gave them a halting, disconnected speech regarding pride and joy. It was really dark now and people were fleeing for their cars the game was over, the season was over and the team was over. We had managed to bottle lightning there for awhile, but nothing lasts forever . . .
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