Tuesday, October 28, 2008

the Language of Football

The ball arcs through the air toward me.

With the rain falling in my face, I time my jump well and snap my neck, intent on bashing it back into the opponent's half with my forehead. But I close my eyes too early, and the ball splats off my face, then hits my hand before weakly spinning towards an opposing player. Another player yells for a handball, but his team is already on the attack, and the ref ignores him.

I've never been very good with my head while playing football. Ironically, my brains have always been my greatest asset on the field.

I play for the RWE/Trans Gas team, basically an after-work collection of the utility company's employees here in Prague. I've taught English at RWE for over two years now and had Tomaš, the team captain, as a student. When I not so subtly mentioned that I was looking for a team to play on, he invited me to join.

"You can...to play...with us," he said.

I'm a great teacher. I've played with them for two spring and two fall seasons now.

When meeting for the first time, I find Czech people to be quiet and shy, almost to the point of rudeness. At first I was put off by this, angered even, but I've come to accept it as a cultural reality. Some of my students, tourist guidebooks and I put most of the blame on Communism, which encouraged people to rat on each other and had informants everywhere, thus discouraging conversation with strangers. I think it's also fair to say that Czechs are naturally a more quiet people, compared with say Greeks or Italians.

I mention this because the RWE team is made up almost exclusively of middle-aged Czech men. Most don't speak much English, and this further limits our interaction. Another negative effect of Communism in this country is the low quality of the English language, compared to Western Europe. It's logical, since most of the older generations studied Russian in school. But now that the kids all study English, the general rule is the younger the Czech, the better the English. So this is a problem with the older guys. We don't talk much, mainly because we can't. At first I thought they were a bunch of jerks, but then realized I wasn't making much of an effort either. I studied the language for a year, and can speak at a very low level, but in the locker room, I usually don't bother.

Though we don't talk much, the team has become comfortable with my presence, and I in theirs. At first I was referred to as "anglický lektor" ("English teacher") but now I have been promoted to "Peter," with the r rolled at the end. On the field with 22 players, communication is a necessity, and since I can't understand a lot of things, especially not instantly, the team resorts to calling my name a lot.

I do try to use my Czech in the field as much as possible, but I sometimes make mistakes conjugating verbs, i.e. instead of asking "mužes?" ("Can you?"), I will say "Mužu?" (Can I?). It's all very confusing.

The players can be broken down into two types. There are those who speak nearly no English, and we greet and bid farewell with a simple "ahoj," but mostly ignore each other quietly. Some of the more notable guys in this group are Gray Jirka, the left back, a big horsey-faced man with combed-back gray hair. He's a policeman, and rides a motorcycle to games in black leather chaps. There is also Pepa, the right back, a solidly-built short man with a round face and a pointy nose. He looks like a hobbit. What these two lack in speed, they make up in toughness.

The second type is made up of those who also speak little of my language, but at the same time sheepishly acknowledge me. Using my limited Czech and whatever English words they can conjure, we'll struggle through a bit of small talk.

"You play...good today," they'll say after a game.

There is Tall Jirka (Czechs have a limited amount of first names), the striker, who stands at a skinny 6'3'' and is surprisingly agile for a man with the body of Walter Mathau. I've seen him lash a few goals, catching the keeper (and myself) off guard with an unexpectedly bendy shot. Long Honza has a similar frame but is stronger and more athletic. He gives us speed out on the left flank and delivers good crosses and corner kicks into the goal box. "Hi Peterrr," they usually say when I first arrive, and I'll usually respond with a "Jak se mas?" ("how are you?"). Rounding out this second group is Gala (first name actually "Honza"), our sweeper, a powerful and big man with straight black hair which he holds back with a bandana. He has small eyes and a big smile. He speaks the most English of anyone on the team, and I receive most of my direction from him.

Somewhere in between is a guy I like to call Martin the Mole. Martin (pronounced "Mar-teen") has a big nose and a large brow which hangs over his small eyes, hence the nickname. I don't think he speaks hardly any English, but he is very bubbly and always chirping at his teammates and opponents. He plays striker, and despite the fact that we all have matching jerseys, shorts and socks, he likes to wear green and purple sweatpants which clash horribly with our orange or blue uniforms. "Superrr Peterrr" he says to me when I make a good pass.

My preferred and most-natural position is central midfielder, and sometimes I am allowed to play there, but I'm low in the pecking order so I'm often moved around. And because this position is very important for organizing the attack, it is fairly important to be able to shout furious commands to your fellow attacking players, which obviously I can't do. Consequently I'm often pushed out to the right flank, but once had a disastrous half game at right back when Gala needed an extra defender. My first pass, foolishly knocked across the the top of the goal box, was intercepted and led directly to the other team taking an early lead. On several other attacks from our opponents, we seemed to be out-numbered, and I advanced on the ball carrier a few times and was burned when he passed ahead to another player I had allowed to pass me.

"Peter!" Gala yelled to me. "You must stay here! This is the biggest mistake!"

I was moved to midfield at halftime. To be fair, I wasn't getting much assistance from anybody, and my lack of experience at defense compounded the problem, along with my refusal to simply boot the ball and give away possession. If I had been playing with Americans, I would have screamed at my teammates to fucking help me, but as the foreigner, I mostly keep my mouth closed.

Our home field is on synthetic turf in a part of Prague called Stěrboholy. There are also lights. The turf is not the old stuff, rough carpet rolled over cement, but rather the hi-tech fake blades of grass covered with small pieces of black rubber. It rained in both games I played in this fall season, so it was nice not to have to run through cold puddles and mud.

RWE pays all the fees, and provides the uniforms. We have ID cards to verify our place on the team. Once I asked Tomaš if a friend of mine could play with us. When he said yes, I pointed out his lack of an ID card. Tomaš replied that we'd just use someone else's card and say it was him.

"On je černoch," I told Tomaš, meaning "he is a black man."

"Oh," he said, chuckling. "He probably can't play then."

In my first game this season, at night under the lights, we had only the minimum eleven players (we've played 8 vs. 11 before; it was a long and shitty game), and so I was allowed to play at central midfield. There are usually two players in this position, and they must divide up the attacking and defending duties, and generally need to stay on the same page. Right before kickoff, my fellow central midfielder, a guy I'd never seen before, spoke a few Czech words to me in what I believe was an attempt to straighten out our assignments. I didn't understand anything, but nodded my head and said "jo."

I got off to a bad start turning the ball over a few times on the fast, wet turf, but got myself together midway through the first half and started sending both Long Jirka and Tall Jirka on a few long runs with some nifty through-balls. Football has always been my game, as I have very good spatial skills. I can almost always see where I need to put the ball in order for my running teammate to gather it while still avoiding the defense.

Down 2-1 late in the game, we were on a promising attack in the opponent's goal box when the ball came up high and hit me in the hand. Embarrassed, I shrugged and made a move to walk back towards our half, but when no one else started in the same direction, I stopped. The ref was explaining the call to everyone, and while there was some dissension, it was generally accepted without fuss. Our team was given a penalty kick, where one player is given a point-blank shot with only the goalkeeper standing in his way. It nearly always results in a score, and when our player converted, we escaped with a draw. I was told later that a hand ball had been called on the other team, and because it was in their box, we were awarded the penalty. Maybe the ball hit an opponent's hand before it hit mine, since there was no real argument from their side. Whatever happened, I'll take it.

While my first was played in a drizzle, my second and last game of the season took place in a downpour, speeding up the ball on the turf even more. Again played under the lights, the game was a shootout, ending with Gala and our defense screwing up and giving away a late lead. Granted, I was sucking air at midfield, and watched it all happen rather than getting back to help. We drew again, this time 4-4.

We fell behind early, but I continually attacked hard from my position on the right flank and was rewarded for my efforts. After a nifty back-heeled pass from Martin the Mole sprung me in the opponent's box, I absorbed a hard shoulder from the defender, pushed the ball to the endline, then put in a nice short cross on the ground, far enough from the goalie but close enough for my sliding teammate to knock it in. The defender got their first, but couldn't hold up his momentum and the ball caromed off him into the goal.

"Krásný gól!" Gala yelled from the midline. The goal was "beautiful."

Unfortunately, we had another 70 minutes of football to play, and a few leads to give away.

No comments: