A portrait of the wannabe American jock at play. It was an indoor soccer game in a seven-a-side league on Long Island, New York. I was on a team of well-intentioned 40-somethings trying to stave off the mission creep of man boobs and middle-age spread.
On this evening, we were struggling. The opposition were younger, fitter and possessed a galling knack for moving the ball on just before we arrived in its vicinity. Anyway, the scoreline turned ugly, double figures or thereabouts, when their best player attempted to nutmeg one of our defenders.
My team-mate closed his legs in the nick of time and deflected the ball to safety. Embarrassment averted. Then he got right up in the opponent’s face, veins bulging in his neck, roaring: “Not in my house, baby. Not on my watch.
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