from russia with love

It amazes me how fanatical the world outside of the US is about the sport of soccer. It has never really caught on here in the states, but go anywhere else in the world and it is one of the only sports that really matter. I realized this when I was on my mission in Thailand during the World Cup. When soccer is on, life stops. My own personal soccer experience consists of AYSO when I was five and two seasons playing for Green Street Advisors’ team. When I was little, soccer consisted of a huddle of kids buzzing around the ball like bees. When the ball escaped the huddle, the bees all looked around confused until the ball was spotted and the frantic buzzing migrated to the ball and continued. Now that I am older, the game is a lot different, but my skill has not improved much. At least I can say that I scored a goal during my last season and had about a dozen assists to one of my high school water polo teammates, Carter Grant. Despite my love for the game, I just really am not that good at it, so you can imagine my surprise when I was contacted by the Russian National soccer team and recruited to play for their team. I did not even have enough time for any practices with them, but they wanted me to come out and play for their first game that week. I flew out, got all my sweet soccer gear, and ran out to warm up with the team. After kicking the ball around a little bit the game was ready to begin.

They assigned me to play mid-center and I was pumped. All the screaming fans and athletes at the top of their game from all around the world; here with me. It was a rush to say the least. The pace of the game was faster than anything I had previously experienced and the ball flew past me multiple times making me a little dizzy. I was glad that I was in the middle so I had backup on every side. All I really remember was kicking at the ball and missing multiple times and just to practice, I decided to do a bicycle kick when the ball was not even near me. That half ended and the coach pulled me aside. He said that after my performance that half, he did not think that they had any more need for me. He had made a mistake and I was free to go, but could keep the swag. I walked out of the stadium thinking that I had a pretty good professional soccer career even though it was so short lived. The coach obviously didn’t see my bicycle kick.

I thought that was where my adventures in Russia would end, but that was not to be so. I checked into my hotel and passed out. Upon awaking, I found myself in the apartment of what was obviously the residence of the missionaries. I rubbed my eyes and my rather large, overweight companion tells me that it is time to get ready. I was a little confused, so he explained that his other companion needed a vacation and was in Jakarta for the next couple weeks. I was there to help him teach in the meantime and we had a full day planned, so we had better get going. I went into the bathroom to wash my face and turned on the faucet as I enjoyed the view of the city out of my window. It was hazy and grey, but they gorgeous cityscape stretched before me with the rays of the rising sun cutting through the morning mists. As I was pondering how I got there, I realized that the water in Russia was very, very thick. It gooped out of the faucet and onto my hands. It smelled and tasted just like regular water, but it was just extremely thick. It had the consistency of liquid soap, but did not stick to my hands. It just ran off almost like regular water would. How very interesting, indeed.

Well, I got ready and out the door we headed. I had my Mini with me, so we drove instead of riding our bikes. The back taillight was out, but we didn’t have any time to spare to fix it. So, I had my companion drive my car while I sat in the trunk with the tailgate slightly ajar, to fix it as we drove. Just my luck, as we were motoring down the highway a motorcycle cop pulls up right behind me as I am hanging out of the trunk. We pull off the road and into a Starbucks parking lot where he begins to scold me. As he is writing me a ticket, I start to pretend to cry and tell him about my perfect, flawless driving record. “Could you please just let me off this one time? I have a clean record and I promise never to do it again.” I think the Russian cop liked Americans or at least Hawaiians because he contemplated it and let me off. He slapped my okole and said, “Good Game!”