Asses, and the Thorough Handing Thereof

Like the proverbial rented mule, UrbanHonking AC was beaten soundly last night by a mercy-rule mitigated 12-5 (Portland Futsal house rules dictate that a team cannot lead the game by more than 7 goals). We were, for lack of a better word, dreadful. Physically dominated, unable to close down the midfield, marking with more holes than a cheese grater, and a hesitancy to ask any questions of the opponents' keeper whatsoever (ok, i'm exaggerating on the last point. Curt had several shots saved, and i had a weak shot while falling backward that was an easy save. w00t).

Yours truly gifted our Bayern-Munich-replica clad adversaries their very first goal, after an ill-advised attempt to dribble out of the backfield. Who knows what the hell I was thinking. The first half was pretty well summed up at the buzzer, when a last-ditch cross in front of our net—that probably would have sailed harmlessly past had I not been in front of it—hit my forearm and was redirected into our net. Had I not been there, or had we delayed him 2 seconds longer, the half would have ended poorly enough. A harsh mistress indeed.

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth afterwards at the hospitable Brooklyn Park Pub, our Official Post-Game Public House And Tavern, and hopefully our surgically extracted humbling will see us "digging deep" and "finding strength in adversity" and recognizing we "got to want it." With the thanksgiving break next week, we have a double-edged sword. Having no game will give us more time to work out the defensive kinks, but as far as fitness is concerned, Thanksgiving is the worst holiday to be facing now. I fear for my muscles, for they will be trapped between the fire of physical exertion and the ice of our nationally shared lethargy. As the saying goes, they're going to be like lukewarm water.

But in the meantime, I'll be softly weeping while curled under my desk in a fetal position.