LoakaChunk
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The Former Soccer Player
🕑 Added 2018-09-05 20:42:33 +0000 UTC“Has anybody seen Kevin? We’re just one short before we can start the game.”
Someone was shouting in the distance while the rest of us waited on the field. It was our 10-year high school reunion, and as we’d promised back when we were kids on the soccer team, we’d all brought our gear to play a casual game on the school’s soccer field.
Most of us had kept in decent shape. Some of us had even kept up with soccer in college and played in local leagues. One of us had even tried to go pro, although I hadn’t kept up with him to see how successful he was.
Personally, I stayed in decent shape, but the life of a professional soccer player just wasn’t for me. I did my cardio at the gym, maybe played the occasional game of squash with some of my office mates, but that was it. Some of the guys on this field could probably run rings around me now.
“Hey, sorry I’m late, traffic was murder getting off work,” I heard coming from behind me, turning around to see Kevin had finally arrived. All 500 pounds of him.
Kevin and I used to be close when we were in high school, but then we went to different colleges and sort of lost touch. Back when I’d known him he was a big guy, but strong, fit, barely an ounce of fat on him. He was one of the few guys on the team to always go to the gym straight after soccer practice to work out. He had the body of a pubescent Greek god.
Now it looks like he’d eaten that Greek god and several others on top of that. He was a huge, jiggling iceberg stuffed into soccer shorts a size too small and a t-shirt that couldn’t cover up the furthest edge of his jutting and sagging gut. Thighs like telephone poles shook with each thundering footfall with ankles that seemed to burst from his cleats as though from an overfilled cupcake tray.
I was obviously staring, and he caught my eye with his own sunken peepers on his wide, pig-like face. He lumbered up to me in a sort of half jog that shook and shifted his body in time with his gait. It was at once horrific and hypnotic, and before I knew it he was right in front of me.
“Hey Stu, long time no talk!”
I think I made a few gasping sounds, but before I could reply I was interrupted by the whistle of the game starting.
Kevin had always played defensive midfield, so he immediately took some ungainly steps backward, a few members of our own team dashing out of the way as though he were a backing-up truck. I used to be the team striker, but now I found myself in a more forward position, still mostly ignoring the ball as I watched Kevin plant himself firmly in his position, his torso still a shifting and heaving mass from the movement.
Then I noticed the ball sail past me for the first time. Had I been paying attention I could have caught the ball on my chest for possession. Instead, the opposing team picked it up and started bringing it toward our goal. I followed quickly, keeping an eye on my opponents to the left and right of me, but also keeping an eye on Kevin as he charged forward.
He moved much faster than someone of his size and obvious excess should have. It still wasn’t fast, mind you, and at times it almost seemed like he needed to use his arms to counter-balance his wobbling love handles, but he still managed to intercept the opponent--to a degree.
A tackle would have been the old go-to play for Kevin. At his size, dropping to one knee would likely stop him immediately rather than slide forward to poke the ball with his cleat. Instead, he simply charged forward and stopped, then let his opponent slam straight into his sweat-covered torso.
From where I was standing, it looked like he’d run into some sort of crazy rubber cartoon character. He slammed into Kevin’s torso, sunk in for a moment, and then was immediately on the ground. The ball traveled a few feet before getting picked up by the goalie and kicked down the field.
The ref couldn’t call a card on Kevin: all he’d done was stand there. Instead, he and everyone that saw the exchange just laughed. And then I did too--it was pretty funny, after all.
At some point I stopped paying more attention to Kevin and started paying more attention to the game. I had the ball briefly, passed it to our striker, and then stalked forward in case he needed to pass it back. Instead, it went to the far midfielder while I stayed at the top of the goal.
Our midfielder lost the ball to a well-placed poke, and then their goalie booted it downfield. I started to run after it with gaze up and over my shoulder, watching it sail through the air--and then I ran into something warm, wet, and soft, yet incredibly dense, before winding up on the ground.
“Oh wow, are you okay man?”
Somehow, by only paying attention to the ball, I’d run straight into the back of Kevin. Just like the first time, I had been flung back by his unique consistency like I’d run into a rubber band. I was more than a little dazed.
I tried to get up, but stumbled. Kevin came forward, although I could only make him out as this fuzzy mass that clouded half my vision. Then I took another stumbling step and collapsed into something soft and warm. Then I blacked out.
