A broken thermometer near the grandstand reads 78°, but the truth of the matter is that games were always played nearer the century mark, our very own Qatari World Cup matches on a windswept field in Central California. The team, the Bakersfield Brigade, is long gone, victim to a downturn in local fortunes as much as misplaced presumptions about the local fan base. But back then, the hash-marks from football season hadn’t yet stained the grass, and Independence Field was just another barren stop for PDL teams working their way through the Californian interior.
Propelled more by curiosity and downright boredom, rather than any legitimate fandom, I often made my way to the grandstands on Summer nights. Most nights were bland, unremarkable affairs, in which a solitary shot on goal triggered a spell of buyer’s remorse as I climbed down the calcine terrace once the lights dimmed. Maybe it had something to do with the heat, or the sweat that began at my temples and hung around my jawline, or maybe it was the shoulders that seemed perpetually slumped across the ground, but my expectations were always kept to a minimum. As long as someone fell during the U-10 game at halftime, I drove home satisfied.
Games weren’t memorable for their scorelines, but the height the nearby thermometer reached on game night. Those nights when the desert wind whipped through being especially notable. It was during one those dry spells that the Ventura County Fusion stumbled into town. Or maybe it was the Ogden Outlaws, or that team from Fresno. Who remembers?
Self-reported attendance figures for the team claim around 1,000 onlookers for each home match played during their 5-year history, but there couldn’t have been more than 200 people in attendance that night, with that figure inflated by the presence of a number of youth soccer teams gifted tickets by the team’s community outreach office. Jostling for the few seats covered by parcels of shade, they seemed as unsure of their decision as myself once the referee whistled to signal the start of the first half.
The game quickly denigrated into the sort of punchless affair that typifies American soccer at the lower levels. Contested mostly in the midfield, both teams were unwilling or unable to move the ball forward. Sure, long balls were booted forward from each team’s respective back lines, but these “hopeful” passes rarely met their target. Instead, the opposition back line would receive the ball, only to attempt the same tactic, turning the match into a sort of absurdest mockery of real football. Eventually, the ball would slip into midfield, giving birth to a new passage of play, but with midfielders taking their tactical cues from Foosball by working within a five-foot radius of their initial position, and forwards reluctant to move forward unprotected by a lenient referee, very little happened.
Around the 20th minute, a moment of collective hysteria overtook the crowd. The Ventura forward1, seeming frustrated by the scarcity of support from his teammates, tracked back and collected the ball at midfield. Splitting two defenders, he played a forward ball to a suddenly proficient partner streaking down the flank. With a moment’s pause, the same forward who initiated the play ran towards goal, reaching the 6-yard box a second behind a teammate’s cross. Undeterred, an outstretched left foot managed to make contact and direct the ball past a diving Bakersfield keeper. The visitor’s were up 1-0 with a moment of clarity that raised eyebrows across the ground. There no jeers, only whispers of fans conferring to verify that they had witnessed a moment of brilliance in a dim league.
From that point, the slight forward from the visitor’s side was unstoppable, as if our squad was as befuddled as the crowd. He scored twice more, with a header just after halftime that belied his short stature, and a curled shot from the corner of the box around the 70th. It was as if I was watching Vivaldi at a cousin’s first recital. While he dodged defenders and placed perfect balls for teammates in scoring positions, his allies demonstrated their incompetence with scuffed shots and slow minds. The scoreline was only kept respectable by his teammates’ inefficiency. We were watching a talented player in a league far below his stature.
Each time our squad was embarrassed with a step-over or his video-game like acceleration, the home crowd couldn’t help but cheer. We were rarely witness to competitive games of soccer, much less one in which legitimate skills determined the results. Slipping defenders brought laughter, his astoundingly accurate shots were followed with nods of affirmation. He dictated the action on the pitch as well as the atmosphere in the crowd. The Brigade lost 4-02, but we all drove home satisfied, new supporters of the nameless forward from Ventura who wore the number 7 jersey.
After the match, I slowly made my way to the parking lot, content with waiting so long as I didn’t have to force my way through the throng of kids climbing into an infinite number of school buses. I lingered, occupying myself with a team yearbook I found nearby. Eventually, the school buses made their way, and I climbed into my car. But just as I turned on my headlights, I saw him, the anointed forwarded from Ventura. With a gym bag slumped over his shoulder and his head hung low, he climbed into the haggard team bus. The engine back fired once before tires began to roll, picking up dust as just as the lights in the parking faded. A few hours drive through the blistering summer night the only obstacle to the next worthless game.
Or Ogden, or presumably some other forgettable place [↩]
Summer Angst
- Maxi Rodriguez
A broken thermometer near the grandstand reads 78°, but the truth of the matter is that games were always played nearer the century mark, our very own Qatari World Cup matches on a windswept field in Central California. The team, the Bakersfield Brigade, is long gone, victim to a downturn in local fortunes as much as misplaced presumptions about the local fan base. But back then, the hash-marks from football season hadn’t yet stained the grass, and Independence Field was just another barren stop for PDL teams working their way through the Californian interior.
Propelled more by curiosity and downright boredom, rather than any legitimate fandom, I often made my way to the grandstands on Summer nights. Most nights were bland, unremarkable affairs, in which a solitary shot on goal triggered a spell of buyer’s remorse as I climbed down the calcine terrace once the lights dimmed. Maybe it had something to do with the heat, or the sweat that began at my temples and hung around my jawline, or maybe it was the shoulders that seemed perpetually slumped across the ground, but my expectations were always kept to a minimum. As long as someone fell during the U-10 game at halftime, I drove home satisfied.
Games weren’t memorable for their scorelines, but the height the nearby thermometer reached on game night. Those nights when the desert wind whipped through being especially notable. It was during one those dry spells that the Ventura County Fusion stumbled into town. Or maybe it was the Ogden Outlaws, or that team from Fresno. Who remembers?
Self-reported attendance figures for the team claim around 1,000 onlookers for each home match played during their 5-year history, but there couldn’t have been more than 200 people in attendance that night, with that figure inflated by the presence of a number of youth soccer teams gifted tickets by the team’s community outreach office. Jostling for the few seats covered by parcels of shade, they seemed as unsure of their decision as myself once the referee whistled to signal the start of the first half.
The game quickly denigrated into the sort of punchless affair that typifies American soccer at the lower levels. Contested mostly in the midfield, both teams were unwilling or unable to move the ball forward. Sure, long balls were booted forward from each team’s respective back lines, but these “hopeful” passes rarely met their target. Instead, the opposition back line would receive the ball, only to attempt the same tactic, turning the match into a sort of absurdest mockery of real football. Eventually, the ball would slip into midfield, giving birth to a new passage of play, but with midfielders taking their tactical cues from Foosball by working within a five-foot radius of their initial position, and forwards reluctant to move forward unprotected by a lenient referee, very little happened.
Around the 20th minute, a moment of collective hysteria overtook the crowd. The Ventura forward1, seeming frustrated by the scarcity of support from his teammates, tracked back and collected the ball at midfield. Splitting two defenders, he played a forward ball to a suddenly proficient partner streaking down the flank. With a moment’s pause, the same forward who initiated the play ran towards goal, reaching the 6-yard box a second behind a teammate’s cross. Undeterred, an outstretched left foot managed to make contact and direct the ball past a diving Bakersfield keeper. The visitor’s were up 1-0 with a moment of clarity that raised eyebrows across the ground. There no jeers, only whispers of fans conferring to verify that they had witnessed a moment of brilliance in a dim league.
From that point, the slight forward from the visitor’s side was unstoppable, as if our squad was as befuddled as the crowd. He scored twice more, with a header just after halftime that belied his short stature, and a curled shot from the corner of the box around the 70th. It was as if I was watching Vivaldi at a cousin’s first recital. While he dodged defenders and placed perfect balls for teammates in scoring positions, his allies demonstrated their incompetence with scuffed shots and slow minds. The scoreline was only kept respectable by his teammates’ inefficiency. We were watching a talented player in a league far below his stature.
Each time our squad was embarrassed with a step-over or his video-game like acceleration, the home crowd couldn’t help but cheer. We were rarely witness to competitive games of soccer, much less one in which legitimate skills determined the results. Slipping defenders brought laughter, his astoundingly accurate shots were followed with nods of affirmation. He dictated the action on the pitch as well as the atmosphere in the crowd. The Brigade lost 4-02, but we all drove home satisfied, new supporters of the nameless forward from Ventura who wore the number 7 jersey.
After the match, I slowly made my way to the parking lot, content with waiting so long as I didn’t have to force my way through the throng of kids climbing into an infinite number of school buses. I lingered, occupying myself with a team yearbook I found nearby. Eventually, the school buses made their way, and I climbed into my car. But just as I turned on my headlights, I saw him, the anointed forwarded from Ventura. With a gym bag slumped over his shoulder and his head hung low, he climbed into the haggard team bus. The engine back fired once before tires began to roll, picking up dust as just as the lights in the parking faded. A few hours drive through the blistering summer night the only obstacle to the next worthless game.