Welcome to Durango, Dominguez Smells

It’s time that I finally get a new cell phone; or maybe a new- old cell phone. I want one of the indestructable old steel Motorola’s, the kind that an assistant coach for Cal State Dominguez Hills could run over with a fully loaded team van without crushing it.  No camera on it, no internet access- no keyboard for texting.  Screw Blackberries… screw twitters…screw Facebook…I just want something with clear sound and something that won’t splinter when I drop it.  And maybe something with a more pleasant alarm because when mine woke me Sunday morning, the sound caused me to clench my jaw and grit my teeth.  I was already bitter because I was probably going to miss the Quarterfinal of the NCAA Division II Tournament and the ring almost gave me incentive to find a new job.

 Perhaps I could pose as an Undercover Alumni Soccer Reporter for www.flcsoccer.com since the Durango Herald isn’t interested in having an inside man.  And maybe we could accept some donations to get me to Florida and capture the “behind the scenes” action, describing the true essence of the sporting event and all of those involved.  Calum thought it was a good idea and I’m -only half jokingly- open to thoughts or suggestions about how to make this wild idea work.

Anyway, I sat up in bed at 5:30, flipped open my cheap plastic LG and noticed a new photo message from an unknown source that arrived that same morning at 1:53 a.m.  The picture was difficult to see, but it appeared that it might be displaying the aftermath of some sort of assault on a parked white vehicle and the first thought that went through my early morning mind was that it was my truck that the bastards had tagged and I was going to have to spend all of first light removing strips of porn or Duct Tape from my windshield before I could drive out to work.  But I soon remembered the smeared human feces incident that kindly welcomed a visiting team bus to Durango a few years ago and recognized what was going on here.  It was a simple case of home field advantage. I couldn’t be sure of the type of refuse, but it didn’t look as bad as some I had seen before; it appeared to be just a friendly greeting, a simple “good morning coach, now take fifteen minutes to scrape these Boner Cards off of your windows before you take the team to Denny’s - oh and good luck today!” 

I chuckled and mumbled quietly, “I wonder if they shoved a banana up the tailpipe.”

Cina sighed next to me and spoke heavily through sleep, “No…no banana.”  I kissed her cheek and gathered my food and equipment for the day and began the drive toward Bloomfield, New Mexico. 

The evening before Benj called me at the grocery store and informed me of the alumni pick-up soccer game about to occur on the FLC Football Field.  I felt pretty good mocking around with almost twenty of the old boys and I made a private attempt to put my finger on what it is about this town- this school- this program that without fail, year after year brings such special, and uniquely talented individuals together to share an experience- that unless you’ve been a part of it somehow- is almost completely incomprehensible.  It’s an unspoken understanding, an agreement amongst all who are involved; it’s a four or five year sacrifice and an expected devotion to something larger than the self. The result is a feeling of family and community, an understanding of one’s current purpose- no matter how temporary- and it’s often so difficult to let go of, that when it’s finally gone, we all struggle to find something else that seems to be even a fraction as significant.  That’s why Damian and Todd Padget are coaching the girl’s side, that’s why Benj Fredrick developed a fan’s website to keep everyone involved, and that’s why Brian Fredrick is assisting the Men’s side- not to mention the Brother’s scholarship- and it’s that same reason that Chris Aaland and John Mahoney and everyone in the booster club still put so much into FLC Soccer and that’s why Mr. Dirk is so generous to the program and why the helmuts and other Alumni come from all over the country to participate in Alumni Games and be present at high stakes Skyhawk tournament matches.  Maybe its cliché, but I think we’re all grasping for that first fix, trying to approach the feeling of that original high that we had while we were playing for the team or refereeing or announcing the games.  The desire to be part of something great again keeps us coming back.

I think that because of this sentiment and because of all of those who have poured themselves into this program to build it up to what it is today, I’d be safe to declare that FLC Soccer, both the men and women’s sides, now have extremely rich traditions.   

Amidst the action, I was noticing that there weren’t many Alumni out there on the pitch that were older than me and while I was trying to find someone to pass the ball to, one of the younger Alumni, Cliff Wilmes, who Coach Jeremy Gunn once called “the poster boy for Fort Lewis Soccer”, all too gracefully plucked the ball from my foot and slotted an easy finish into the mini goal. 

“Damn young whippersnappers!”

Cunni was playing and Nate-Dog was there and Sanchez and Thor and Dio all made appearances with Casey and Obie slashing around, and for about an hour it was a lot like the good old days.  I felt sad to leave knowing that I’d be working in the morning and would have to neglect the evening festivities and probably miss the game the next day but with the current state of it all, it is great to have a job and a house in D-Town.  So out in the desert, I tried to get the game online through the B2tv network but my air-card was too slow with poor service out there and after missing Euan’s game-winner I had to fight with roughnecks to keep the radio tuned to the soccer game instead of the NFL circus. 

Thankfully, I was persistent in my efforts so Mahoney and Loren were able to bring it all to my ears through the airwaves and from what it sounded like, the golden boys prevailed in an ugly but exhilarating match.  It appears that Zane was heroic and truly exhibited the confident authority that –at times last season- I thought he might be lacking. 

It has been said that great teams can play poorly and still win, and it sounded like the beloved Hawks as a team were able to snatch a “W” out of a brutal dog-fight in spite of not playing quite as well as we all know that they can.  No one seemed to know quite how they did it, and I think the question arises: What might have been the deciding factor in a close game like that where skilled play has been squashed by sheer effort or maybe just nerves and both teams are clawing and scratching with everything they’ve got but no one can really get anything going.  Were the Skyhawks more prepared or better organized?  Was lady luck on the side of the home team?  Could it have been some sort of karmic intervention; after all those Dominguez players did look the part of vagrant street-thugs with their bleached Mohawks and bad attitudes?  Did the altitude play a factor or possibly the 1600 screaming fans?  Or maybe the Nut of it all could have been the quiet, seemingly harmless molestation of a team van at one thirty in the morning.  Maybe that introduced just enough doubt into the malleable young minds of the CSUDH players to affect their deepest consciousness in the most critical moments of this most critical match.

Go on Hawks!

Go get em in Tampa!