Well, I hope that this is the start of a great new series for Belly Up. With most sports being suspended, I thought that it would be a good idea to have some fun with our writing, so I figured that writing about when the writing was on the wall that we weren’t going to make it as professional athletes would be good entertainment. Consider it ‘The Players Tribune’ for those of us that didn’t go pro.
It was always the dream to play professional soccer. As a kid, I would imagine myself lining up alongside Clint Dempsey and Landon Donovan in the World Cup. I think that’s every player’s dream growing up, representing their country and their favorite clubs on the global stage, there mustn’t be any feeling like it.
My unfinished basement became the pitch of Old Trafford, the Camp Nou, Wembley Stadium, pretty much any famous ground around. I wanted it more than anything.
There was just one problem: I wasn’t very good.
Maybe that’s a bit harsh on myself, but my dad and my coaches have always made it a point of telling me that I’m my own biggest critic. That, in and of itself, isn’t a bad thing. I always would motivate myself to do better and be the best player that I could be. But I would also get in my own head and get myself down, which was probably my biggest stumbling block. As I look back at my career that is now just the Mizzou Intramural Fraternity League and the occasional indoor season, I have little doubt about that.
In reality, I think that there are two points in my life where I realized that I would never achieve the dream. The first would probably be in middle school.
My club team had just folded and I was looking around at a few different teams, and I was offered a tryout for a team that was pretty good. I was always someone that would tell myself that I was going to work harder than anyone else on the pitch, and that’s something that I hold as one of my proudest attributes as a player and really the reason that I made it as far as I did.
I knew that it was going to be a hard tryout. There was one remaining spot on the team and I was up against a kid that was bigger and stronger than I was. So, I was a little up against it. But, in soccer, that isn’t all there is to it. I was confident in my knowledge of the game and the ability to do a job.
That day, I was astoundingly average. I wasn’t necessarily bad, but I wasn’t good either. If I recall correctly, he performed to about the same level as I did that day. In that case, you’d probably be foolish to go with the smaller guy.
My dad and I were sitting at a table by the field, waiting to hear from the coach. At the adjacent table was the other guy and his mom. The coach sat at their table first, which doesn’t necessarily mean a good or bad thing. Though, I began eavesdropping on their conversation. He was talking to them about the team’s plans and what they were doing for the season.
That’s when I knew what was coming.
The coach sat by my dad and I and explained that there wasn’t going to be a spot on the team. He put us in contact with some other teams that were looking for players, and my dad and I thanked him and walked back to the car.
I started crying the moment I sat in the passenger seat. That’s when I kinda realized that the dream wasn’t going to happen, at least not to the extent that I envisioned when I was kicking the ball against the cement wall in our unfinished basement when I was a kid.
I kept at least part of the dream alive throughout high school.
“I bet that I could go and find a team in Finland or Estonia that I could play for. It wouldn’t be enough for a real living, but at least I could say that I made it.”
I played soccer for my high school for three out of four years, but I disagreed with the way that the coach was operating things. I decided that I wasn’t going to play during my senior year to focus on the school newspaper.
That remains the biggest regret of my life.
Obviously, journalism is my livelihood, or at least I hope it will be after I graduate college. But I began to get depressed watching some of my best friends play on senior night and make a deep run in the playoffs. I don’t think that I’ll ever forgive myself for not playing that season, but you just gotta move on.
After the high school season finished, it was time for club ball. At this point, I think that I’ve got it all figured out. I was going to go to Mizzou and get my degree in journalism. That was until I saw the price of going to Mizzou straight off the bat. This is where I realized that I was going to go to the place that I made fun of for years: community college.
The very thought of it made me wince in emotional torment, but I knew that I really had no other option. I was going to suffer.
Since I was going to have to suffer two more years at home while most of my friends got to get a full college experience, I had to find out what I was going to do. There’s no social life in community college unless you play a sport. I had to play in college.
That fall season, I had offers from two community colleges, one that was 15 minutes from me and one that was in Illinois that I’d need to pay for a dorm. The choice was clear.
Fall came around and I played for the team. I grew frustrated with myself, as the season hadn’t gone anywhere close to what I planned, though I made some of the best friends I’ll ever have. One day, I was scrolling through Twitter in class, you know, as you do, and I came across an ad for a semi-professional team that was holding tryouts for only $25. It was a no brainer for me to go to the website and register.
The first round of tryouts came around, and they pulled everyone to a team talk and talked about the club taking part in the US Open Cup, the American equivalent of the FA Cup. That’s when I got a little nervous. That competition could literally make a career for someone. I had always dreamed of playing in it.
I took a little bit to get into my stride. Specifically, I remember a simple pass rolling right under my foot. In a normal circumstance, I would’ve cussed myself to no end, but I was able to keep my cool. I ended up playing pretty well, and I knew that no matter what happened, I had put my best foot forward.
I think it was about a week after I had initially had the tryout until I heard something. It was a night shift working as a laser tag referee, neglecting the only real rule we had at the place, as I checked my phone after it buzzed. I sprinted and jumped (both also rule violations) in celebration in the arena when I had read the message that I had been invited back for the second trial.
“If I can make this team, surely I can still make it somewhere like Finland or Estonia,” I repeated that to myself quite a bit.
The day of the second trial came, and to be honest, I don’t remember it much. All I remember is that it was terribly cold, and to show that I had the mental fortitude to play at that level, I showed up in shorts and a t-shirt. Come to think about it, it very well could have been frostbite that made me forget large swaths of the day.
A couple of weeks passed, and every day, I checked my email like a dog waiting for its owner to get home from work. To say I was obsessed may very well be an understatement.
I got the email one night while laying in bed. My phone buzzed, and I leaped out of bed with jubilation. I made the team. I sprinted upstairs to tell my family. This is the happiest I have ever felt in my playing career. I specifically recall an exchange with my dad.
“I’m going to play in the Open Cup.”
Chills.
Now was time for the hard work. I was still playing for my college, though it was spring, which was more relaxed than fall, we still practiced for an hour-and-a-half to two hours, and the practice nights for both teams coincided. Luckily, the practices for the semi-pro team were later in the evening. So most nights of the week, I was practicing for up to four hours a day on top of school and work. I don’t really know how I kept up, to be honest, but somehow I managed.
Eventually, it came time for the first preseason game. My debut day. Driving to the field in my horrible-yet-glorious 2002 Corolla (RIP), I just had the feeling that it was my day.
And, it was.
It was the best game I had ever played. You always have that game where everything you try comes off, and this was it. Late on in the game, I scored a goal from the top of the box after making a run from the rightwing. Even though it was just a preseason game, this is my favorite goal that I have ever scored. I’ll never forget the pure joy I felt watching the ball hit the back of the net. Never.
I also registered an assist and hit the post later on. It was just one of those days that everything went right. I was overjoyed.
“There’s no reason I can’t make a name for myself and go play in Finland or Estonia.”
The next week, I came to practice, once again after practicing with my college, and I was more sore than usual. It was a Thursday. I’ll never forget that Thursday. We were practicing and I pulled up with what I knew was a pulled hamstring. We then were going to scrimmage, and the coach was watching from a higher up location.
“He’s making cuts tonight.”
When I heard that, I knew that I was going to have to play through the pain. If I told them that I was hurt, I would’ve certainly been the first one on the chopping block. Well, at least that was my thought process.
So, through excruciating pain, I played on. Looking back, I can’t say for sure if this is what did it or not. Hell, maybe I was already on the hot seat. Maybe I was the first name to go. There’s really no way of knowing. I hobbled back to my car, feeling confident that I was still a member of the team.
Well, that was misplaced.
The next morning, I was sitting in my algebra class next to one of my teammates and best friends, when I felt my phone buzz. Since I’m not exactly what you’d call mathematically gifted, I decided to wait until class finished to check it.
As soon as we were dismissed, I saw the email.
“Anthony, I’m sorry to say that you have been released.”
Instead of walking out with my friend as I had done so many times before, I hobbled out as quickly as I could. I just had to go as soon as possible.
This is the lowest point of my playing career.
The dream was dead, and this time, it was fully deceased.
I hobbled back to the car, drove home and laid in bed for the rest of the day.
While that was the end of the dream, I still had some soccer to play. Road trips to go on. Games to win.
I had a lot more success in my sophomore year and even was committed to continuing playing at an NAIA, though I decommitted to go to Mizzou and study journalism. While difficult, I know that I made the correct decision.
Looking back, I had a far more successful career than someone of my skill level should have. I suppose that shows that hard work really does pay off, though not always to the extent you would hope. While it’s not exactly shown in this piece, my career will always be something that I’m proud of, and it has helped me grow as a person and a journalist. And in my view, that’s not a bad second option.
Follow me on Twitter @AMFKristensen and @BellyUpSports. Find my other work here.
