I read once, somewhere, that the best thing to do after a breakup is to put yourself out there. I think I misunderstood this quite gravely. I did not realize this was with regard to beginning to date again. I just thought it meant I was supposed to do something big and life changing to distract myself from my present woes. Like putting myself out there in the middle of the street to get hit by a car. Wow, they would say, wow. She really put herself out there in the middle of Lexington Avenue. She is really GOING THROUGH IT. I imagined dying my hair bright pink or walking across the country barefoot or getting arrested for some kind of petty crime like stealing a snickers bar from CVS. Nothing like a night in prison to really snap me out of playing Bad Day by Daniel Powter on repeat and sobbing in the back row of SoulCycle, I fantasized. Maybe it would have to be something bigger than a snickers bar to warrant jail time. Maybe like a car. But that seemed kind of hard to pull off. 

And so, on the heels of a heartbreak, I decided to do something dramatic. I decided to do something no man has ever done before. I joined a soccer team. 

I thought it would be good for me: meet new people, dash around under the lights in the brisk autumn air, maybe share some laughs along the way. When I selected my league, I toggled through the options and carefully selected “casual.” What a good way to intermingle with the fine folks of New York City, I thought. What a way to re-enter society at large and make a name for myself. 

As I rounded the bend to the turf fields on a Tuesday night at 9pm, I was feeling excited to meet my fellow casual soccer player. I was wearing a cutesy sky blue workout set, running sneakers, and a bow in my hair. I carried my backpack, which I had preemptively filled with chocolates and goldfish to share with my compatriots. I had packed cute little ziplocs, like a soccer mom at halftime. I even had tangerine slices and mini Gatorades.

We’ll all sit around and do those cool braids in each other’s hair, I thought, I’ll bring all the snicky-snackies for when we sit on the sidelines and giggle. Maybe we’ll even kick the ball around a bit. I had visions of myself cackling as the ball whizzed by me, yet again, while my teammates laughed hysterically and we all tripped over ourselves, uncoordinated, vowing to try and touch the ball better next time. I fantasized about sitting in a circle and playing name games for an hour before remembering we were supposed to play soccer. Frankly, I thought I would be their leader. I’m excellent in groups of strangers. I’m great at initiating games and little competitions like, “If you were a spoon, what kind of spoon would you be?” 

Anyhow. I strolled around the corner on the upper east side on a lovely September Tuesday to meet my team, ready to steal the show, when I stopped dead in my tracks. 

Before me stretched two MASSIVE turf soccer fields, under huge fluorescent lights. The fields were packed with people, and dear god, they were running. They were sprinting suicides. I saw cleats. I saw shin guards. I saw jerseys with names on the back. I saw women repeatedly heading balls and men doing high knees. I saw referees, for god’s sake, and WHISTLES. People were actually blowing whistles, and people were running DRILLS. I began to panic as I approached. One man seemed to be slugging down a raw egg to prepare his body. My delicate zip lock baggies of treats seemed out of place. Two women jumped up and chest bumped each other, looking determined and also terrifying. The sharpies I had brought to decorate tee shirts would have no place on this field. As I drew nearer, my panic grew. 

Wait a second, I realized, growing sweatier by the minute, I don’t even PLAY soccer. 

I have literally never played soccer in my life. Possibly once. When I was 10, I think. I played in middle school maybe? MAYBE??? It’s possible that I’ve kicked a ball once or twice, if by ball you mean the Broadway spectacular Wicked and by kicked you mean seen eight times and counting. 

My feet continued to carry me towards the torrent of fit people kicking things and smacking hands and sweating. Which way does the ball go? I pondered. Which way am I supposed to run? What direction does the field go in? How long is this game? Is soccer divided into halves? Eighths? Thirds? Do they play on the ambiguous quarter semester system like random midwestern schools? 

I approached the mass of folks and began tentatively inquiring as to where I might find the team captain. 

“Excuse me, sire,” I whispered to the nearest fellow, “I’m looking for the…Ballers? The Balling Team? Ball Team Sports Go?” 

The man responded, “Say again mate?”

My heart landed into my toes. This man was BRITISH. These people weren’t here to play soccer. They were here to play FOOTBALL. Folks, I was in deeper water than I anticipated. Perhaps I should collapse to the ground in a fit of agony and exclaim that I had an childhood injury that was acting up and then crawl across the field to the exit and vanish into the night, stuffing my face with goldfish along the way, vowing never to be seen again like the sad, strange little woman I am. 

Somehow, though, I was connected with the team captain, an Aussie boy by the name of Kiwi. Again, folks, this ship was taking a turn for darker waters. These people had cute nicknames based on their country of origin. They had numbers and jerseys and called the goal person man “Keep.” They also did a lot of high fiving. I shook a lot of extremely sweaty hands as I made my way around the sideline. Horrifically, many of the people greeted me in Spanish. This was, on one hand, fantastic. New York, the great melting pot! Look at all these cultures gathering for a night of adult recreation! What amazing diversity! 

But on the other hand: SPAIN??? Spain!!! You’re kidding me. This team is made up of people from England, Australia and Spain? I have never watched a game of soccer in my life. I think there is a man called Messi involved. As I stared out at the field I realized I didn’t even know the rules. Not one single rule. Was this the sport where I wasn’t allowed to use my hands? Feet only? Or was this the sport where I could use my hands and carry a stick and wear a funny little outfit and ride a horse? 

Everyone was wearing knee braces or wrapping their ankles in athletic tape. I made a big show of retying my shoelaces and then untying and retying and untying again to stay busy and occupied and hyper focused. Maybe they would think it was superstition. Maybe they would think I was some super talented athlete with all kinds of patterns I had to maintain to stay at the top of my game. Afterwards they would whisper to each other over the post-game beers: “Did you see Liv? She tied her shoes fifteen times tonight. And then she scored six goals. Should we all tie our shoes 15 times tomorrow?”

The referee then tooted in his whistle and my teammates began running on the field. Kiwi shouted instructions like “Remember to go wide, Chuckie Nuts! Stay in the left wing, Piccadilly Circus! Drive to the goal and keep possession!”

“Bring out the ponies!” I shouted, clapping my hands manically. 

Kiwi slapped me on the back. “You’ll be playing D for Jesús when he comes off. As soon as he calls for a sub, run in.”

I nodded frantically, “Playing D Coach Kiwi! You got it! Give me the D!”

Far too soon, Jesús came dashing off the field shouting at me to hurry up and get in there. I jogged out into my position and immediately shat my pants. What in the flying fuck was I doing on a soccer field? I stared around. Were the fields usually this big? Were the other kids usually this big? I don’t remember hairy men with massive feet and powerful quads playing with me in middle school. Also, what even was my position? In fear for my life, I decided my best bet was to stay absolutely ROOTED to the spot. This is a good plan, I thought, as a ball whizzed by my face chased down by three incredibly fierce looking athletes. Anchor yourself right here and run down the clock. Maybe sometimes do some jumping jacks to stay engaged.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing?” a red-faced man dashed by me, wringing his hands, sweat pouring down his temples, “For the love of god, get between them and the goal!”

I choked a little bit and pooped a little more. I stared at the mess of bodies kicking aggressively. There was a lot of kicking and a lot of legs. Me? Get in the middle of that?

“You want me…to run towards the other people?” My mouth felt dry as the Sahara desert.

“YES!” he shouted, “And then kick the ball in the opposite bloody direction!”

When I tell you that you haven’t truly lived until a British man has roared the rules of soccer at you whilst you are on a soccer pitch, I mean it. 

One of my teammates on the sidelines shouted at me, “Liv! Do you usually play offense?”

I looked up at her.

“USUALLY?” I screamed back. Usually?? USUALLY? Usually I wear pink bathrobes and watch the Bachelor. Usually I knit petite hats and shop online for Calvin and Hobbes themed sweatshirts. Usually I cook Eggo Frozen waffles and cover them in Nutella and strawberries and put on a beret and pretend I am having a delicate breakfast in the south of France. Usually I do not PLAY SOCCER. I don’t have a USUAL POSITION. My position is to stand on the field and admire the different colored lines they’ve painted everywhere! Such variety! Yellow and green and orange and red! I wonder what it all means!

At random and with no possible way of knowing if this was even allowed, I shouted, “SUB!” and I dashed off the field. I am ashamed to here admit that I kept running. I grabbed my backpack of snacks and I hightailed it outta there. I have no idea if anyone rushed on to replace me. I have no idea if the game carried on without interruption (I am quite sure it did). I ran all the way home, without looking back, took the stairs to my sixth floor walk-up two at a time, collapsed onto my bed, and I literally never attended another game. I also refused to walk down that block any evening for the next three months, just in case the gang was on the pitch ready to ridicule me, or, worse, invite me to play. I hoped fervently that they all believed me an apparition. A collective and joint vision born out of heat exhaustion and dehydration. Hey guys, they would chuckle, remember when we were so physically tapped out, we all dreamt that a small blonde elf joined our team, skipped onto the field for five minutes, peed herself and then scurried off? How very strange.

There are two lessons I learned here that I would like to impart. Number one: if you find yourself going through a breakup, it is simply not the moment to decide to do something you have never done before in the hopes it will magically heal you. It will not. And you may sustain concussions or a boob bruise from thumping chests with a sweaty stranger. I suggest hanging out with your fabulous friends who you already know and who will not, under any circumstances, ask you to don shinguards. And number two: the casual league is a lie.