Joga Bonito (Beautiful Game)

Soccer is the ballet of the masses.~Unknown



For most of my life I have been obsessed with Joga Bonita, the beautiful game which is known around the world as football or, in the US, as soccer. My obsession started in HS. On a whim, I decided to play soccer. I wanted to play an organized sport, a sport other than pointy football with which I had a very bad experience as a 5/6th grade boy so, during HS orientation, I decided to join the soccer team. Because I hated long distance running, I went out for the position of goalkeeper. After about a year of getting pummeled with the ball and losing a game because I let a ball slip through my fingers and into the goal, I began playing on the field where I quickly found that my strength was in playing defense.

I think I was attracted to defense because success comes when you don't make mistakes and I really dislike making mistakes. I'm not a perfectionist more an excellentist. I was quick, could read the game, and was ruthless in the tackle. One can measure excellence on defense by not allowing goals, by destroying the creations of, the will of the attacking team, by being practically perfect, by being very excellent. Offense, on the other hand, requires a mentality that can endure despite the infrequent success, a success that when it does occur, when the ball crosses the goal line and ripples the back of the net, erupts in an almost orgasmic release of joy, an ecstasy that is instantly experienced by the scorer, the team, and all the fans of the team that worked the dance resulting in the goal being scored

I played the beautiful game until my knees begged for mercy. I played until they revolted, until the pain was so bad that I had a difficult time walking the day following a game. However, I was not forever banished from the pitch. Early in my career, I became a referee, became the person to arbitrate the game such that it could be played for without a referee the game would quickly descend into chaos. It was a way to be close to the action, to hear the players huffing and puffing, to feel the raw emotion of gladiators fighting unto the final whistle and, sometimes, after the game was over. At times, I see myself amongst the players, a teammate making the important tackle, threading the perfect pass into the path of an attacker just pass the foot of a opponent lunging to intercept the ball. I see these in my mind's eye and, at times, believe I can play again, believe my body has the stamina, the pliant nature required to again grace the pitch. I have that belief until I actually try and find that those skills I had honed over many hours of training are a shadow of their peak and the speed that once allowed me to catch the quickest of defenders is but a cherished memory.

I have a favorite team but watch for so much more than my team winning another trophy. I watch for the elegance of the athletes, for the ballet played out on the green stage, for the tackled time so well the opponent does not even know he lost the ball, for the perfectly weighted pass that releases a player making a diagonal run from the wing on the blind side of the defender that puts him on goal without opponent to beat, for the goalkeeper defying gravity as his long body flies effortlessly through the air and his outstretched arm reaches the ball for a fingertip touch that guide the ball just over the white goal post. I live for the deft moves of a striker that weaves his way through a throng of defenders as he goads them into a tackle only to pull the ball just out of their reach and they flail as he dances his way toward the goal then slots the ball into the agonizingly wide of the goalkeeper's hand. I live for those moments of sheer brilliance that make soccer more a ballet than sporting event. Eu vivo para o jogo bonito! I live for the beautiful game!