Day 72- May 23, 2020

Day 72- May 23, 2020

Today, Memorial Day weekend began with my signing into unemployment with my husband,  as we were unable to certify for benefits on his normal day.  Luckily, this time things went smoothly, and the funds will be deposited "in one to two business days."  Phew- one less thing to worry about.

When I was a child, unemployment wasn't something I was aware of, and Memorial Day Weekend instead was all about soccer.  Yes, I had learned in school about the heroics of our armed forces.  My grandfather was a two-time purple heart recipient, who had lost a number of men in his 7th Infantry at the Battle of Kwajalein. But I was too young to understand the tremendous sacrifice our armed forces had put in, and I focused instead on the here and now- which meant our Torpedoes Soccer teams playing in The Virginian Soccer Tournament. 

The Virginian was held in and around Alexandria Virginia, and was a hotbed for quality football.  As my parents became more experienced with the trip, this meant leaving around lunchtime on Friday, and jumping in a car stuffed with shin guards, socks, uniforms and more.  My sister and I would share snacks, sing along with the radio, and generally either get along beautifully, or annoy the bejeezus out of each other. 

"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 family, 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 with 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- though in my teens, as my team began winning state titles, we qualified for the more prestigious, invitation only Columbia Maryland Tournament- while continuing to stay at the same Embassy Suites in Alexandria, because tradition.

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. Wanna Buy A Duck was a favorite "Wanna buy a duck?" A simply game, the conversation would go as follows:
Wanna buy a duck?
A what?
A duck.
How much does it cost?
50 cents.
Does it quack?
Of course it quacks.
(Turns to the next girl)
Wanna buy a duck?

This could go on for wayyyy too long until an annoyed coach or adult intervened.

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.

1990-something (I'm the one who just kicked the ball
over the keeper's head- one of my favorite goals.

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.  

When I think back to those weekends, what sticks with me the most are the memories of my teammates. These women now have their own children in a lot of cases, or are favorite aunties of the next generation of little footballers. Crank calling our coach at age 11-or-so, racing up and down the floors in the elevators, squishing into booths with as many of us as we could manage during dinner time- the laughter is what I remember the most. I miss those girls and those days of adrenaline rushes on the field. I'm grateful that my own daughter will start heading to her own tournament for Memorial Day next year. The club no longer travels to Virginia- instead, it's down to central Jersey, so a much shorter commute. It won't be the same without the hours stuffed in a car and the wide open spaces of the Embassy Suites, but the team camaraderie will hopefully be similar, and she'll begin developing her own treasure trove of memories. And someday, shell be asking her own kids "Wanna buy a duck?"