I was recently vacationing in Guatemala with my daughter and adult grandson. We had just checked in to a gorgeous Spanish colonial hotel in Antigua, Guatemala. I had a beautiful room with a garden view and a king-sized bed all to myself. That morning, I had received an email from a former workmate named Al. He was one of half dozen or so retirees who have remained in contact with me over the years. He said he and his family had been selected to be contestants on a popular TV show called “Family Feud,” and told us the date it would be aired. That triggered a flurry of happy responses from our group members assuring him we’d all be rooting for him.
Probably as a result of seeing all their emails, I had a dream that night involving my former workmates. We were all at a picnic, and my gang was trying to form a team to play soccer against another company’s retirees. But my gang was short one player. They begged me to join them. I kept putting them off explaining that I had never played the game. Shashi, my team’s captain, had grown up in India and had played all his life. Marty had been a referee for his kids’ soccer matches and knew the rules from top to bottom. Al had grown up in a Hispanic community and had plenty of experience. They assured me I could easily pick it up. Besides, all my women coworkers had already formed the cheerleading squad. Surely, I wouldn’t let the ladies down.
I finally relented, but I definitely stipulated that I would not use my head to bounce the ball. My mother had never allowed my brother or me to play either tackle football or soccer. And that was long before all the recent studies of how repeated head trauma can cause permanent brain damage. There is even a medical term for the condition. It is called Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE). It is quite common among football and soccer players. Early symptoms include slurred speech and memory loss. It gets worse over time and can result in full-blown dementia. To get me to play, the gang all agreed I would not be expected to bounce the ball with my head.
The game proceeded with me essentially being a placeholder, running back and forth, but never expecting to receive or pass the ball. Eventually, our opponents realized I wasn’t much of a threat, and didn’t even bother covering me. As the final minutes of the game approached, the score was tied one to one. Between Al, Marty and Shashi, our team managed to move the ball well downfield and within scoring range. But the opponents had managed to block any attempt for a goal. In desperation, seeing that I was in the clear, Shashi kicked the ball to me. I clumsily managed to stop the ball and kick it toward the goal, but not quite hard enough. So, with one mighty lunge, I kicked the ball as hard as I could.
Next thing I knew, I woke up on the floor next to my bed. My feet were tangled in my blankets, and I had banged my head so hard on the tile floor that it drew blood. Talk about a rude awakening. I probably did more brain damage with that one bump than from a lifetime of playing soccer. For the next few nights, I strategically placed a spare pillow on the floor in case my Dream Team talked me into a rematch.
I eventually emailed the gang a recap of my experience, complete with a “selfie” of my bleeding forehead. I told them not to be surprised if the next time we met, my speech would be slurred, and I wouldn’t remember their names. Speaking of memory loss, there was one thing I forgot to ask them. Shashi, if you’re reading this story, could you at least let me know if I’d managed to score the game-winning goal?
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