Virginia

There are certain things I will always associate with my childhood.  Steamers, dipped in water and melted butter, sucked down (leftover grainy sand and all) on a splinter-ridden deck.  Jumping off the diving board after whoever dared to cross from one side of the pool to the other while I was "it".  And driving to Alexandria, Virginia, to spend Memorial Day Weekend competing in a soccer tournament with the rest of the Torpedoes Soccer Club.

"Virginia" (the shorthand known by every Torpedo) was an all-weekend tournament that encompassed every team, both genders, and all ages, of the Torpedoes Soccer Club.  I joined Torpedoes in 1989, and my first Virginia was in 1990.  For the next eight years, I would complete the roughly 500 mile round trip journey with my parents and sister.  We would make our escape from school just before noon, piling into whatever vehicle had the most cargo room(my favorite was a conversion van with built in television and reclining plush seats, which they bought around the time I turned 16), and setting off down the Parkway to 95 South, weaving our way through Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and finally, over the Potomac to Alexandria, Virginia.

The ride was part of the fun.  This was pre-cell phone, so we kept entertained by observing license plates, telling stories, and scanning the cars around us for familiar faces.  When you have roughly 20 teams, of about 20 kids each, you've got 400 potential Torpedo families (at least) sharing the road.  Discovering a "TORPEDOES" bumper sticker, with its red block lettering and white background, was cause for giddy shrieking, and stealthy craning of necks to see if we could recognize any of the occupants.  On occasion, we were rewarded with a familiar face, a honk, and a wave across back seats  loaded up with jerseys, shorts, shin guards, cleats, and enough snack food to feed an emerging nation.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by the open center of the triangularly-shaped building.  Little sisters and brothers  were racing through, climbing through ferns and other greenery that created an artificial oasis in the sunlight drenched space.  You could look up and see all eight floors, the white railings like perfect little fences on each level.  Elevator tag was popular in our younger years, as was prank calling our coach.  Maturing into our teens, we took to hollering down from the upper floors at each other, at boys, making plans for our evenings off.   

I remember in 1994, the Rangers played the Devils in the Eastern Conference Finals.  I wasn't much of a hockey nut, but the energy was palpable, and I swear, the entire place shook with each goal, and roars erupted as people flooded out of their rooms to cheer and trash talk between periods.  

There was the year our coach’s buddy, a Men’s National Team player who happened to live in DC, met all the parents out for a drink- while my teammates and I headed on a rare “unchaperoned” trip  through the old town center to our destination, a dark theatre to huddle together in, and watch "While You Were Sleeping" (we were rebels, to be sure).  

There was soccer, too.  Oh, there was soccer.  Virginia was the measuring stick, the hallowed end-of-season, post-State Cup tournament.  In later years, after we won the State Cup, we started attending the Columbia, MD tournament, a more prestigious, much more pretentious "State Champion or Finalist Only" tourney that involved commuting further from our beloved Embassy Suites (but after much discussion, we decided we'd rather stay with our Torpedoes Family than move to another hotel).

Most years, it was blisteringly hot.  We would sit and sing silly songs, like “Boom Chica Boom” and work out extensive hand-slapping games, coupled with cheers only pre-teen girls could create.  Temperatures were mostly in the upper 80-90 region, causing profuse sweating, lobster inspired burns, and shinguard tans that were like war wounds to be lauded and admired.  I scooped ice cubes out of my mini cooler, where they had been cooling my water bottle and Gatorade, and smuggled them into my shin guards, socks, knee braces, and even bra (in older years) to try to lower my body temperature- a futile task in the incessant sun.  Extra water was carried in giant jugs by our fathers, and we would dip cups in it, not to drink, but to pour over our heads.  One year, gel filled "cooling snakes" were popular, and slithered around our necks at half time, becoming instantly warm against our skin despite their promised "chilling" properties.  

The games came in quick succession- inevitably something in the early morning that preempted enjoying the extensive complimentary buffet set out by the hotel staff.  The consolation, if you didn't make it to Monday's championship match, was the ability to indulge in the overflow of bacon, french toast, and pancakes that poured out of the silver serving trays.

Over the course of the weekend, a jersey or socks became "lucky", and without in-room washer/dryers, we were reduced to completing covert washings at some point on Saturday evening, rubbing the tiny, sweet-smelling hotel soap into our uniforms to lessen the stench of grass, dirt, and sweat.  That same soap was then further defiled as it got personal with our shin guards, which were hung over the shower rod by their velcro strips to dry to an acceptable level of damp in time for the morning game.  

Games were played at places named "Fort Something-Or-Other", and cannons were fired in honor of fallen soldiers in the middle of championship matches.  There was a year that our game was delayed by thunder, lightning, and finally, cannons, before we completed an epic comeback, and won, 5-4.  There was another where we dismantled a team so completely, goals 5, 6, and so on, weren't even celebrated.  The last game I ever played- completely healthy- in a Torpedoes uniform ended with a 1-1 tie with our perennial foes the Braddock Road Lightning.  

While Virginia represents a lot to me- bonding, family, competition- it is that final game I played in that sums up how much the game meant to me- and how cruel being an athlete is.

The year before, I was presented with the "Torpedoes Lifetime Achievement Award", one I was monumentally proud of.  Two years before, we were the little team that could, the "no names from North Jersey" (according to one opponent) who managed to win the State Cup by the skin of our teeth.  

But this year- this year, we were the favorites.  Coming back from our freshman years of college, we had a stacked roster of the best Norther Jersey had to offer, and were expected to win.  In a battle of sheer will, we took on Braddock Road.  I don't remember much about the game, but I can recall that play that ended my career with extreme clarity.  I had a breakaway, after a long ball in, and I could see the keeper coming at me.  I had breakaways a lot- my speed was my biggest strength- but I loved to create assists, and nothing made me happier than that, while extending each stride, I could also see, out of the left corner of my eye, a streaking outside midfielder who had been my teammate for years.  I knew, if I could just reach the ball first, she would have a clear shot on an empty net.  I stretched, sprinted, and strained- and in that climactic moment, I got the outside of my foot on just enough of the ball to put the plan in motion. She reached it, uncontested, calmly slid the black and white blur into the net, and set off a celebration.

The problem with my plan, though, was I never accounted for a keeper who would go for my leg, not the ball.  She essentially hit the lower portion of my body with enough force to send me down- with my foot caught under her.  I could feel my knee twisting awkwardly, but the momentum of her body and mine, two opposing forces, would not be denied.  As I watched the ball hit the back of the net, and my teammates swarmed together, I collapsed to the ground in a heap, knowing that I was done, and knowing I’d done all I could.

My ACL, while not torn, had been visibly sprained (thanks, MRI), and I was not allowed to move my leg for twelve weeks.  I was told soccer, even just running, was out of the question for at least six months while I rehabbed.  Crutches were given, an giant soft-cast immobilizer was wrapped around my leg like a horrible, ironic hug-eventually, a hard black brace that limited my movement severely was molded around my knee, and essentially, the end of a career built on speed and strength was inevitable.  No force of will was going to get me through this.  

That night, my high school boyfriend broke up with me in a totally unrelated episode. My team disbanded after Regionals the next month. Finally, my father, who had been the captain of those car trips to Virginia, manager of my teams that played there, and President of the Torpedoes, would pass away six months later. Virginia, for all the wonderful memories I’d previously associated with it, was the beginning of the finale of the mainstays left over from my childhood and adolescence.

The day after my injury, I spent the ride back to New Jersey cramped between two old friends in the back of someone else's station wagon, as I just needed to get home.  My family stayed in Virginia, I missed the final game (my team did take home the trophy), and I remember trying to sleep, trying to make some sense of what I was going to do now.  It was the end of Virginia- the end of the racing around, the childhood games, the open lobby frolicking and socializing that had served so well.  The possibility of surviving without soccer wasn’t one I had ever had to contemplate before, but watching the road ahead, keeping my eyes on the horizon, I had some excited butterflies at the idea of the unknown that laid ahead of me.  With the sun setting out the driver side window, I settled in, and closed my eyes.

Familial Inspiration

Inspiration can happen at the oddest of times.

It's no secret that I come from a family of writers.  Coursing through the paternal side of my DNA is some long woven thread that insists on connecting brain to words to page.

I was teaching my English 12 class recently, going through the book The Help, and trying to guide my seniors towards understanding a 1960's era that I admittedly 1. didn't live through and 2. never studied in school. All I can offer are anecdotal stories told to me by folks older than myself, most of whom have fuzzy-at-best memories, and the research I've done myself using second and third-hand sources.

So I turned to The New York Times, and introduced the teens to the wonderful world of online-archived  articles.  As they were tumbling through the vast offerings, their black flatscreen computer tops glowing, I decided to go on a search of my own.  I knew several family members had written for the paper, as critics, guest authors, etc., and I typed in the Caldwell name on my laptop.  What popped up first was an article, written for The Vineyard Gazette, and reprinted with their permission, by my great uncle, William A. Caldwell.

Now, we all have family members we hear stories about- legends of great athletes, outstanding brains, drunkards, and debutantes. Mine was of a Pulitzer Prize winning newspaperman, one with a Wikipedia page devoted to him, who wrote commentary columns, and managed to make a living out of it.

What I remember of him (he died when I was seven) are moments from my time at his house on Martha's Vineyard.  It was a clapboard ranch right on the bay, with it's own dock, small beach, and thick, punishing rose bushes that smelled sweet and sharp at the same time.  I can picture his large hands, almost as big as my small head, gracefully drawing out notes from a grand piano that sat on thick, gold, wall-to-wall shag carpet in his living room.  There's also an image of him on the splintering, grey deck out back, stoking the grill while his pipe, which was perpetually in the corner of his mouth, puffed out tiny plumes of smoke.  He had white, thinning hair on top of his weather beaten head (often covered by a floppy white hat), and a hearty laugh.

I know him through the stories I've been told- his late wife regaling us with his efforts in a hurricane back in the early 80's (or maybe the 70's- I was young when I heard it).  "He boarded up every damn window of that house, the wind whipping the nails right out of his hands, and just as the last board went up, the storm died away, and he had to take all the wood down again."

I know him by reputation, absorbing information from On and Off The Record, a history of The Bergen Record (the paper Bill worked for when he won his Pulitzer), and reading mentions of him in various papers and books I've located throughout the years.

But most of all, I know him from his writing- I have his book, In The Record, which is a collection of his columns- and it is his writing that inspires me.  As I examined the piece I found, I was struck by how much I strive to emulate my late uncle's style.  This isn't to say I can come close- but someday, I hope to at least be at a level that demonstrates our shared DNA.

I note his sarcasm, his sense of humor.  I recognize the family traits in these, that biting wit that was rampant on my dad's side of the family (and rears its head any time my sister and I are in the same room).  I sense the need to find the good, no matter what the circumstance, and try to impart a bit of honesty and enthusiasm about the world we live in.  He had a grace with words, sorting through their syllables to find the perfect means of description (like F. Scott Fitzgerald, but without the pompous-assery that occasionally bled into F's work).

Most of all, I'm aware of how many of his stories center on my family- aunts and uncles, cousins, parents, grandparents.  My dad's family- his whole generation, and the ones that came before- were all wiped out by the time I reached true adulthood.  And so, I'm left wanting more.

Bill's columns help me to know the people they were long before I came along, and the folks they grew into when I was a child.  I was too young to really understand what was being said late night on the Vineyard, as the elders gathered around the glass table for cards, but I was conscious of a camaraderie of spirit as kings, jacks, queens, and a decent amount of whisky, shuffled their way from hand to hand.

Now, flipping through Bill's writing, I have the opportunity to embrace the people that are now just ghosts in my head, spirits whispering off the pages, and echoes that I hear in the laughter of my generation.  I see his notes on the world he lived in, and I want to raise them with the world I'm surrounded by now.  He inspires me to want to record the moments I don't even realize are changing me until after they've happened, the people that have touched my life (whether they realize how important the've been to me or not), the decisions (mine and others') that have altered the course of my reality.

Reflection is a funny thing.  It's impossible to diagnose until after it happens, and then, the examination is the interesting part.  I'm reminded to choose the path that leads to the better story, take the risk that will inspire me later, and recognize when the mundane is actually the glimmering diamond in the rough.    I need to remember this, and write accordingly.