Tournament of Glorious Champions

The power had gone, and with it the tourists, the veritable life-blood of the little island, but my story had remained.
And what was my story? You may well ask.
THE TOURNAMENT OF GLORIOUS CHAMPEENS!
A four-team, knock-down-drag-out, double-elim, all-day bonanza of that noblest of American pastimes, Futbol.
You see, I had decided to give sports writing one more shot (after the mixed reception that my Womens' Arm Wrestling article had gotten) before giving up the ghost entirely and merely writing feel-good pieces about folks retiring or getting new jobs.
By the gods, I was going to show those yokels at ESPN what sports were all about.

I knew I had to get close to the action to capture the true human drama that lies at the heart of any good sports movie. If anything I had been too cold, too removed from my subject before, now I would be right up in the sweaty seething mess of it all.

I infiltrated a team.

We called ourselves the Melonballerz—some obscure reference to the restaurant that most of my teammates worked at—and we were a rag-tag band of heroes. Our team captain had played soccer in college, a factoid which did nothing to mitigate her complete ineptitude. We had a few others with some experience, including Christian, who could kick goals like a mule, Jared, who would kick the other players, and Emily who actually seemed to know the rules of the game. There were others, all masters of their craft—sadly, their crafts were not soccer.

I knew from the outset we were destined to kick ass. Every single movie I had ever seen told me so. We trained by montage. We were under-dogs. We had spunk. We believed in the American Dream.

We. Were. Going. To. Win.

Our team was scheduled first in the day, a grueling 8:30 a.m. kickoff. Or tee-off, or jump-ball, or whatever it’s called, I certainly didn’t have time to read the rulebook on Association Football. Unfortunately, neither did the referee.

We were facing off against a team called Arsenal, a pompous bunch of goons, who thought we were gonna be an easy early-morning win. They were ready to drink us like coffee. And like their coffee we were tall, bitter, and too hot for them.

I found myself on the field with no actual idea of how the game was played. Kick the ball—I knew that much, but beyond that my mind was a gorgeous blank. We ran, we kicked, we even scored some goals! Not me personally of course—but some of us did! Then came a time that was not so good.

It felt as though we were getting the trouncing that Arsenal so richly thought that we deserved, but it was utterly unclear, either to the 22 players on the field or the four spectators what the score was, because, in classic style, the scoreboard was too much for the organizers to handle. On occasion I would look up, panting, from the field of play, to see fractions, roman numerals, and esoteric symbols flit across the board—but never anything resembling a concrete score.

The merciful half-time whistle blew. We were down—but by how much? “I think we can still win this thing!” a Melonballer cried.

Inexplicably heartened, we retook the field.

As soon as the second half started things became ugly, a certain player on the opposing team was tackling our righteous warriors. The ref decided to have a word of gentle prayer with him.
“Son, it’s just not that kind of football.”
That definitely solved the problem.

Arsenal became more and more enraged as they realized they weren’t wiping the field with us quite as brutally as they’d hoped. At the same time an absurd and raucous joy filled the Melonballerz hearts—we weren’t embarrassing ourselves!

The final score was 7-6 Arsenal. But who cares about scores when you have conquered the enemy within your own heart? Self-doubt had melted away in the warm July sun, like ice cream in a thawing freezer.

We were gassed from our first near-victory, but remember this is a double-elimination, we still had a shot at the gold. Fame, glory, scantily-clad UnderArmor models, could all be ours at the end of the day if we just reached a little deeper, and gave 110%.

Next there was a game between a team called Mexico and one called merely Darvin’s Team (or Kyle’s Team, or The Blue Team). Mexico skonked them 5-2 but I didn’t see it. I was at home drinking water like a camel, and applying Icy-Hot to every inch of my body.

Then it was time for the Melonballerz to take the field again in what was charmingly called “The Losers' Bracket.” We were playing the team that had just been stomped. They had approximately ten minutes to catch their breath. We were flushed with our victory even as the first foot made contact with the ball.

But we had forgotten an important factor, Kyle/Darvin/The Blue Team was comprised almost entirely of athletic high-schoolers who play basketball, volleyball, baseball, and run cross-country, while the Melonballerz are predominantly pack-a-day career waiters.

Kyle head-butted a goal. We butter-footed the ball. Darvin ran a lazy victory lap. We lay gasping on the field. Half time. Thank God.

"We're gonna come back strong and win this thing,” I heard myself say, “We've still got a shot at the tournament.”

“If we win this game we have to play another one. If we lose, we can go home,” said another, more pragmatic, player.

The end of half-time hit us like a ton of bricks, and we limped back onto the field. This was it. The moment where we should exhibit some heretofore unseen talent and steal the game. All two sports movies I’ve ever started, fallen asleep in, and then woken back up for the credits, had me convinced that if we just wanted it more, here and now on these proving grounds of the righteous we could become the glorious champions of the day.

3-1 Darvin’s Team.

I went home, utterly beaten, for we had lost not only the game, but our faith in all things true and just and right in this world. The underdogs had suffered an ignominious defeat, due to a complete lack of training, skill, and trite cliche. It was an outrage.

Some more games were played.
Mexico beat Arsenal 8 to not much—no one I talked to could remember, and I sure didn’t hang around to see it. Then Darvin and Kyle served them an equally just dessert of 9-1. During this reprieve I read Titus Andronicus (violent, convoluted, tragic) and Comedy of Errors (violent, convoluted, comic). Not unlike the two games we had played.

Then it was time for THE BIG GAME. The championship round. The BFD.

Mexico v. Darvin’s Team. This one I actually saw some of. What can I say? Soccer is a game best savored by the player, as the meager crowds could attest. While watching, it is rarely clear where the ball is, and downright miraculous if you can tell who’s doing what. Especially when all the players on the field are wearing shirts that are either bluish-green (Mexico) or greenish-blue (Darvin’s Team). This matter is of course further obfuscated by the satanic riddles parading across the scoreboard. Sheesh.

I decided to ask around to see if anyone else knew what was going on, only to realize the crowd had dwindled to a hardy few, made up mostly of Jawas, Tusken Raiders, and Fremen, the dust and grit whipping our sun-baked faces.

“He looks pissed now,” growled one spectator, “sourer ’n’ bitterer ’n a gall.”

Reese thought it was pretty beast. Lauren and Jordan were cheering for Mexico. Nobody seemed to know the first thing about the game itself; they merely fell along lines of familial loyalty.

The Fuller trio had these words of wisdom to impart when asked what they thought of the tourney.

Landon—“Alright stuff” Taylor—“Community bonding” Mason—“Come on dude, I don’t know.”

My thoughts exactly.

By the way, Mexico won. 

The first ever soccer tournament on Ocracoke raised money for the Community Park. Thanks to Jeramy Guillory for organizing it, to all the teams for participating, and the families who came out to cheer them on. Shout-out to Bob Toth for running the concession booth all day. Congrats to Mexico for the big win!