The game that happens every Sunday morning at the Fairfield rec center, just off I-80 in northwest Essex County, is a portal to another era in New Jersey soccer. Most of the guys grew up in the Garden State, playing high school ball during the golden age of the 1980s, with names like Reyna, DiCuollo, and Harkes. They spent weekends at Farcher’s Grove, trained under “Manny,” and went to college at Seton Hall or Kean or Montclair State.

“We’re coming to terms, but we’re still legends in our own minds,” says Chris Condron, a 45-year-old Rahway native who played for his high school Indians, then Elizabethtown College, over the border in Pennsylvania.

Another regular is Ed Haag of Westfield, my hometown and high school alma mater. When I was a kid, my friends and I were the ball boys at Ed’s varsity games in Tamaques Park. We worshipped those teams and swore we’d be just like them someday, taking home the states for coach Leonow and the rest of Blue Devil nation. My ’91 senior season, we made good on the promise, beating East Brunswick 1-0 under the lights at Trenton State.

Ed’s teams fell short of the state title match each year (thanks, Kearny…), but his Seton Hall Pirates would win three Big East championships from ‘86 to ’88. At the height of his career, he was regarded as one of the best marking backs in the country.

Hanging with one of my childhood heroes, Eddie Haag. The post-match beers happen at Chris Habermas' parent's home, with his father and uncle regularly taking part in the Sunday tradition.  

Some Jersey transplants come out to Fairfield, too, including a cadre of European imports. Thomas Kloss, the game’s de factor organizer, known for his stern emails, hails from Germany. Andy Dickson and Mark McGuick both came to the U.S. from Ireland in 1992 on soccer scholarships, Bloomfield and Caldwell respectively. The first time they played each other they came to fisticuffs when Andy tackled Mark so hard he broke his shin guard. “After the game, we shook hands and it’s basically been that way ever since,” Andy says.

With the bulk of the squad in their forties and fifties, the runs aren’t as fast or frequent, but for most of these guys, the touch is still there, the passes just as crisp. Their minds, meanwhile, are sharper than ever, honed by the game’s 3-touch limit, a rule practically from the beginning. “There was a game or two early on where it was unlimited, but you had guys trying to dribble through six players, so we capped it,” says Ed.
  
I can remember playing limited-touch during practices growing up, but never for a full match. I was skeptical at first, but I quickly saw the light. There’s a rhythm and fluidity to the game, plus it forces every player to stay engaged. When everything is clicking, even the second touch is superfluous, as the ball zigzags up the field along invisible triangles, bouncing from foot to foot until a final strike sends it crashing into the yellow plastic cones of the other team’s goal. 

Later that morning, over post-game beers, a goal that good might be toasted. And if it’s truly special, it will come up again and again, taking its place in the firmament of magical scores, and the memories that go along. 

“Our generation had an incredible experience growing up through the game of soccer,” says Chris. “We’re lucky this crew exists to keep it going.”

You’ve heard the expression “the game within the game,” referring to some aspect of a sport that a player looks to master. I like to think of the 30-Day Challenge as the "workout within the workout" for the Second Half, the holistic health and wellness program that's I've been on for the past four months.  

Here’s the jam: from now until the end of the month, I’ll start each day with a 5-minute, pilates-based workout that I put together with my yoga instructor and strength trainer, Kahlila Kramer. It’s a quick-and-dirty routine (“over and done in the time it takes to brew a pot of coffee” was my requirement), consisting of push-ups, planks, the pilates 100, and some crunches. The mini workout will be in addition to my usual training regiment, which includes a whole lotta soccer, jogging, full-length yoga classes, meditation and, this month, some extra visits to the acupuncturist to deal with this nagging neck pain.     
 
Building core and upper body strength is the goal of my 30-Day Challenge. Though I’ve dropped about thirty pounds since starting the Second Half, I’m still flabby in the middle and I continue to get knocked off the ball by younger, stronger players. A month of sit-ups and push-ups won’t to turn me into Rinaldo, but it will be a step in the right direction. “Thirty days can be an effective model for shaking up your routine,” says Kahlila. “You should start to see and feel results, but it’s not such a long, daunting timeframe. And you can always make small changes to the program so that it’s impacting your life in a beneficial way.”
 
My focus is on physical strength, but a 30-Day Challenge can take any form. Feeling more stressed out of late? You might try quieting the mind with a month of midday meditations. Want to drop ten pounds? Thirty days without booze should get you there. Need to take in more fruits and vegetables? Maybe start each day with a morning smoothie.      
 
“Whatever challenge you choose, just remember to be kind to yourself and not use it as a form of punishment or something else to feel bad about,” says Kahlila. Indeed, life is tough enough without the wrong kind of challenges adding to the struggle.
 
If you decide to take the 30-Day Challenge, I want hear about it! Find me on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter, where we can check in regularly over the course of the thirty days.   

When I started The Second Half back in July, with the goal of getting into the best shape of my life through the game of soccer, the Friday after Thanksgiving was always top of mind. That’s when my high school's alumni soccer game is played each year in Westfield, New Jersey.

Over time, the game has evolved into a highly anticipated, hotly contested event, with bragging rights on the line, plus the occasional popped achilles or torn ACL. This year’s contest was no exception, as some of the best Blue Devil ballers from the past four decades showed up at Gary Kehler Stadium on a bright, beautiful November morning.

There was John Ganas, elder statesman and member of the '80s dynasty that took home six consecutive Union County titles; and Alex Schmidt, captain of the '95 state champs; and Loukas Carayonopolous, class of '17 alum who was just named conference Rookie of the Year in his first season at MIT.

And, of course, Joe Greenspan, the pride of Westfield soccer, as our sole representative at the major-league level. After graduating from WHS in 2011, Joe had a storied career at Navy, earning All-American honors as a junior and senior and leading the Mids to the school’s first NCAA tournament win in more than forty years. Military service delayed Joe’s professional career until 2015, when he joined Major League Soccer’s Colorado Rapids. He spent two years there before being traded to the Minnesota United for the 2017 season.

It’s a special feeling stepping onto the field with the likes of Joe and other WHS greats. But over the years, with the steady influx of fresh-faced alums, it's also become a marker of my age and declining ability. Think of it as the inversion of that Matthew McConaughey line from Dazed and Confused: “I get older, they stay the same age.” 

Talking ball with WHS alum and MLSer Joe Greenspan during a break in the action.

I remember a couple years back, my fitness at an all-time low, feeling depressed and demoralized after getting shellacked by the youngsters. Later that night, I showed a picture of Joe to my wife, an action shot from the Rapids website, his 6-foot 6-inch frame all power and muscle.  

“You’re comparing yourself to that guy?” she said.

She was right, of course. It’s tough to compete with players who are ten and twenty years younger, let alone those training at the highest level. Nevertheless, as I embarked on the Second Half, this became my mantra: wherever you play, be good enough to belong. It’s what motivated me to lose thirty pounds and train three times a week and take up yoga and cut out the booze and everything else that went into my holistic wellness program. 

Would it be enough?   

As the game got underway, the field felt twice as large as I remembered and the ball seemed to be jumping from foot to foot. My first instinct was to hang back, maybe on outside defense, where I’d do minimum damage. But as the minutes passed, I found myself pushing into the striker role that I’d owned as a kid, back when the stadium was still known as the Field House and the pitch was covered in patchy crabgrass instead of today's artificial turf.

I made more penetrating runs. I got a feel for the ball and confidence in my first touch. About twenty minutes in, Henry Smith, class of 2013 and Gettysburg College standout, slotted a nifty pass behind the defense. I ran onto the ball and took a touch towards the goal, then another. As I crossed into the penalty area, the keeper came out to shut down the angle. I took my shot. The ball skipped past his diving body and landed in the left hand corner of the goal.
                                        
“Good finish,” Joe said, as I made my way back to our side of the pitch.

After the match, which we took 4-2 (for the record!), I asked Joe what alumni day meant to him. He talked about the grind of professional play and how today’s game was different. “This is about having fun and reliving the glory days,” he said.

It struck me that, despite Joe's many feats at the college and professional level, high school soccer still meant something glorious to him. It’s not the same for me, only because I never reached my full potential as a player—even with the '91 state championship title from our magical senior-year season. Being a starter on that squad is still one of the great experiences of my life, but on an individual level, I know that I left too much on the field back then. 

That used to be a source of regret. But through the Second Half, I’ve been able to turn the lost youth into personal discovery. This year's alumni match was a chance to see what I’d come up with. Sure, the stakes were different; no all-state accolades or college rides on the line, and the only person shouting my name was my five-year-old son sitting up in the bleachers.

And yet, I was playing for much more—the conviction that I'd brought my best and it was enough for me to belong, and even break a scoreless tie with a clean-hit ball. It made me realize that glory is just a state of mind. On the Friday after Thanksgiving of my 44th year, a small sliver shot my way, with more to follow, if I'm able to handle it. 

With that, it’s time to get back to training. Only 362 days until the 2018 alumni game.   

Photo Credit: Julieta Cervantes

You don’t have to have grown up sucking on orange wedges during halftime of your youth soccer games to appreciate “The Wolves,” Sarah DeLappe’s riveting debut play, which opens this week at Lincoln Center Theater in New York. But it helps.

DeLappe, 27, played a lot of ball as a kid in Reno, Nev., at a time when soccer in America, at least the women’s game, was just hitting its stride; a seminal moment, DeLappe told The New York Times, was watching Brandi Chastain tear off her jersey after scoring the winning goal in penalty kicks against China in the 1999 World Cup. 

“The Wolves” is not a play about soccer, per se, but DeLappe’s fluency with the game comes through in wonderfully subtle ways as she sets her characters in motion, a high school girls soccer team going through warm-ups (and much, much more) over a series of Saturday matches.

Beyond the oranges, there are the stretching routines, hyper-focused on the ACL, every baller’s bugaboo. There’s the politics of starting lineups and what it means to be striker one match and on the bench the next. And there’s the unique rhythm and movement of the game’s training drills, deftly choreographed by director Lila Neugebauer, another avid player growing up. As I sat watching, I recalled my own high school playing days, and how the flow of practice allowed just enough banter and camaraderie between teammates, without the worry of real conversation. 

We were teenage boys, so anything to avoid intimacy. The Wolves are girls, and the play’s only other character is called Soccer Mom. Men exist solely as off-stage caricatures—the drunkard coach, the horn-dog boyfriend, the overbearing father. They’re narrowly drawn, but that’s the point, since this is the world according to adolescent girls struggling to find their place.

In one of the play’s most powerful scenes, the team’s goalkeeper, literally silent through the first hour or so of drama, finally gives voice to her emotions. “Wait a minute, are you speaking?” one of her teammates asks. The keeper explains that she doesn’t feel the same anxiety any longer. “I’m not afraid of the ball slipping through my fingers,” she says.  

The event that leads to this moment of self-reckoning is the narrative pivot point in “The Wolves,” and its unfolding is as suspenseful as stoppage time in a scoreless tie (it’s no accident that the play runs 90 minutes, same as a regulation soccer match). In both cases, viewers know that some resolution awaits, but any attempt at prediction is futile.  

That’s what I love about soccer. The action might meander along, tortuous for viewers unattuned to its subtleties and subtexts. Then, in an instant, something happens—a brilliant run, an unexpected pass, a lucky bounce of the ball—and the outcome changes, possibly forever. 

DeLappe understands this, and the fact that her debut work is showing to sellout crowds on a major New York stage is proof of soccer's larger cultural relevance—even if not everyone in the theater was raised on orange wedges.               

Could “The Wolves” just as easily be set around a high school basketball or lacrosse team? Sure, why not. But the portrait of adolescent angst, trauma, and, in the end, deliverance, would not be so beautifully complicated or complete.

The Second Half has brought plenty of positive change on the outside—the emergence of my cheekbones, the fit of my clothes, how much better I'm moving on the soccer field. But the changes taking place inside my body are arguably more important, given their impact on my long-term health.

I might not have been a heart attack waiting to happen before embarking on this journey. But after seeing the lab results from my July 12th annual physical, three days before the kickoff of The Second Half, my doctor ordered me to come back in a few months, rather than wait a full year for my next physical. I’d told her about my health and wellness plan, which of course she supported. “Hopefully it will help turn some of these numbers around.”

The follow-up happened on November 8th, roughly four months into The Second Half. Naturally, a small part of me worried that the labs would reveal more bad news, signaling an advanced health condition—cardiovascular disease, perhaps, or some kind of cancer. But when the doctor called the next day with my results, she quickly put those fears to rest. “I’ve got all sorts of good news,” she said. “There’s no question you’ve improved your overall heath.”

My nutritionist, Liz Fassberg, was equally pleased. “These numbers are amazing, especially in such a short amount of time,” she said. The fear of early demise behind me, I started to get greedy, pushing both my doctor and Liz to tell me exactly how many years I’d put back onto my life with my healthy living. (I'd already written the headline in my head: "How I Gained Back Ten Years of My Life in Four Months"). 

"Um, isn't that's kind of a jinx?" Liz deadpanned. “Yeah, it doesn’t work that way,” my doctor agreed. “But you should feel good about yourself. People don’t make these types of changes in middle age very easily.”

I guess I can live with that. 

Here’s a closer look at the changes from July to November: 

Body Weight
I went from 204 in July down to 174 in November. My initial target weight was 180, but I’m revising that downward to 175, give or take a few pounds. Losing more than 10 percent of my body weight has reduced my risk of many health problems, including heart disease, stroke, type 2 diabetes, and certain types of cancer. “They now put depression on the list of conditions caused by obesity as well,” said Liz. The last four months haven't been all roses, but on the whole I'd say I’m lighter in mood, as well as body, since starting the program.              

Cholesterol
High cholesterol runs in my family, and my numbers have been elevated for as long as I can remember. The total cholesterol of 263 in July wasn’t enough for my doctor to consider statins, but she did want to see some improvement, especially in the ratio of good HDL cholesterol to bad LDL cholesterol, which was at 51/151. By July, total cholesterol was at 202, with a good-to-bad ratio of 74/136. That’s still a tick too high, but the danger of clogged arteries is much reduced. Cutting back on red meat in favor of lean sources of protein, like fish, skinless chicken, and legumes, has done the most to bring the numbers down.   

Triglycerides
These are the most common types of fat in the body. “Doctors never used to look at them, but they’re starting to more,” Liz explained. That’s because triglycerides store a lot of the excess calories in our diets and, like cholesterol, they can lead to clogged arteries. At 282, my levels were decidedly high, probably from too much alcohol and processed foods. By July, they were down to 74. “That’s a huge drop in four months,” said Liz. “And it’s proof that a shift in diet can lower the risk of heart disease.”          

Liver Tests  
These were the labs that my doctor was most concerned about. Though not off the charts, my ALT and AST numbers were outside of the normal range, at 64 and 45 respectively. “I can’t say if it’s diet or alcohol, but I’d really like to see those numbers come down.” With my November labs, they’d done just that, with an ALT of 23 and AST of 19. Again, my doctor couldn’t say with certainty what caused the drop. “The only way we could know for sure would be if you kept up the healthy diet and exercise and started drinking heavily,” she said. “But I don’t advise that.”

Oh well. Looks like if I want to live to 100, I’ll have to follow the path of moderation. Doctor’s orders. 

In the book of sports clichés, the coach’s son is the best player on the field. If he’s not the best, he’s at least the most enthusiastic, eagerly setting up cones, chasing down balls, and generally spreading good will with his love of the game and gratitude for his old man’s guidance.

Then there’s Alexander.

It’s not that my five-year-old lacks ability. He’s always been one of the fastest, most agile kids on the playground, with a low, soccer-suited center of gravity that had him scooting up and down the block from the time he could walk. And for years I’ve watched him kick the ball gleefully with other kids at the park, birthday parties, and the like. 

In the dynamic of organized play, however, with me as coach, something gives. Even his physical coordination seems off. Mostly, though, it’s his attitude.            

On the rare occasions when Alexander takes the field willingly, he’s a basket case of emotions, careening between fits of rage and hostile indifference—foot stomping, fighting over free kicks, and this kind of vaudeville routine where his body goes boneless right in the middle of 3-v-3 play. One time, he hit a perfect strike into his own goal and then glowered at me from across the pitch before bursting into tears.

“It’s like watching the Oedipal struggle play out against a backdrop of astro turf and neon green uniforms,” my wife Rebecca said after a recent game. I’d been in a rage of my own since leaving the playing fields, though the silent, stewing kind I knew as a kid. 

She went on: “He’s taking the thing that matters most to you and saying ‘Hey, Dad, watch me crush this.’” Point taken. And I had to admit to its effectiveness, especially in the context of The Second Half, my journey of self-discovery through the game of soccer. Back to the sports cliché, the storybook ending would see the recovery of my lost potential through Alexander’s accomplishments, the shortcomings of the father made whole with each new goal. 

That’s a dangerous game of expectation, I know. Remember the Philip Larkin poem?

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

It’s the “not meaning to” that’s always interested me in that verse. I guess there are parents who deliberately ruin their kids, but I don’t know any of them. And I’m certainly not one myself. So, what’s the right move here, if I’m to defy Larkin and not fuck up Alexander? The logical answer, one Rebecca floated, is to stop coaching him, at least in the short term. “He just can’t share you with other kids right now,” she said. 

That makes sense, especially given Alexander’s recent diagnosis of type 1 diabetes. The little dude has been through a lot these last few months. Still, if I were to stop coaching Alexander, I’d probably need to stop coaching his older sister, too. I’m the only coach she’s ever known, so that might not be such a bad thing. Thinking back on my own childhood, by the time I came around, the youngest of four, my father had hung up his coach’s whistle. And of all the siblings, only my passion for team sports has endured. It might not be a direct line between those two facts, but some cause and effect could be at play. After all, the parent/child relationship is already complicated enough.  

The problem with not coaching is, well, somebody has to do it, at least at the volunteer youth-league level. More than that, though, I really love coaching, the time it gives with my own kids as well as others. And not for nothing, I’m good at it too. Just last week, I received an email from the father of a player I coached two seasons ago. He was writing to say that his daughter “is playing and is doing great thank you for your guidance!” I’m not saying I’m the next Alex Ferguson. But to give up coaching would be a disappointment on many levels, and it might even spark some feelings of resentment in me towards Alexander.

Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t, as Larkin might say. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not only inevitable for parents to screw up their kids—it’s necessary too, since conflict paves the way for self-creation. In a child’s search for identity, who better to knock heads with then his mom and dad, the two people whose primary duty is his protection and well-being? 

I don’t know if I really believe that. At this point, I’m not sure what I believe. All I know is that there’s another game on Saturday. It will probably be rough. Tears will be shed, tempers lost, bodies will go limp. And there’s a good chance Alexander will score another own goal. But if it’s like the others, it will be a clean hit ball, buried low and hard into the side netting, just like his father taught him.  

I first met Aderyn, or Adz, through the Sunday pickup she organizes in Brooklyn’s Parade Ground. It’s a chill, but competitive game. Speaking with Adz after a recent match, it's obvious why.

"I like the psychology of soccer—I’m a psychoanalyst in training and I’m going for my PhD in International Psychology. You can learn so much about yourself and other players on the pitch. Having played my whole life, I can tell right away if a player has the chops, but more importantly, if they have the confidence in their ability to play the game effectively. If someone is angry or selfish or doesn’t know how to communicate, there’s no hiding the fact. When I’m out there, I always just try to stay in tune with my mental and physical state. It’s all about being present. The older I get, the more creative soccer becomes, especially at the pickup level. Temperament is just as important as skill. That’s what makes the game so interesting to me and why I’ll keep playing for as long as I can."
—Park Slope, Brooklyn     

In soccer, as in life, it takes all kinds. 

Since moving to New York in 2000, I’ve played in thousands of pickup soccer matches, with many hundreds of players. While every baller is unique, in his or her skill level and style of play, I've noticed certain patterns over the years, which I've distilled into the nine player types below. 

Most ballers are a combination of two or three types, and the balance can shift from game to game, or even within a single match. I always aspire to being a captain (probably because I never reached the status as a younger man) but I know I can get a little chippy, and even cancerous, on occasion (no doubt because of other shortcomings in my game and nature). It's a fine line. 

With that, here are my nine player types. While they're plucked from the soccer pitch, they should be familiar to other sports, and even teams within the workplace and other walks of like. The list is open to debate, so if you have other thoughts, reach out to me on Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter. I'll make this a running list, adding new types and tweaking existing ones, based on the feedback.            

The Captain. Rarely the best player on the field, the CAPTAIN still gives his team an edge with decision-making, direction, work ethic, and attitude. The best of the bunch are vocal while also leading by example. Think Keane, Gerrard, Deschamps, and other legendary captains of the game. 

The Hack. Makes up for a lack of skill and tactical understanding with aggressive, bordering on belligerent, play. The HACK is probably the worst opponent to have, which should mean he’s a great teammate, but in my mind the bad juju cancels out any upside, and by a wide margin.    

The Player. Possessed of superior skills, game sense, and conditioning, the PLAYER is on another level. There’s great value in that, sure, but it can also make it hard for his side to find its rhythm, especially if he’s paired with a COACH, since the two types tend to have awful chemistry.             

The Winner. The WINNER is not quite as talented as the PLAYER, but he has that elusive champion’s quality that always seems to translate into victory for his side. Given the choice between the two, I'll take the WINNER every time.

The Coach. This is the guy who can’t stop barking orders and handing out advice, even as his teammates plead with him to shut the hell up and just play the game already. The COACH is definitely not my favorite type of baller, as you might have guessed.

The Pest. Think of the PEST as the HACK'S virtuous twin brother. Both are up in your grill all game long, but the PEST manages to do so cleanly, and usually gets at least one junk goal in the process. I can't stand playing against PESTS, but I sure love seeing them on my side.                 

The Veteran. Also known as a geezer, the VETERAN is that fifty-ish player who can no longer make runs or take players on, but he remains a threat out there behind his guile and tactical acumen. As a soon-to-be VETERAN, I got nothing but love and respect for these guys.    

The Cancer. A rare breed, the CANCER is the player who kills his team’s chances, and the vibe of the entire game, with awful attitude and poor sportsmanship. I’ve only encountered a handful of true CANCERS in my years, and unlike the real-life variety, they’ve always disappeared on their own.

The Rookie. The ROOKIE came to soccer later in life, but has no interest in a beginner’s game. You respect the chutzpah, while quietly hoping he ends up on another team—unless you’re a CAPTAIN, in which case you find ways to involve the ROOKIE without hurting your team's chances.       

I play a lot of ball in Fort Greene. Last night, the neighborhood was home to a transcendent vision of soccer, with the performance of Marc Bamuthi Joseph’s /peh-LO-tah/ at BAM's Harvey Theatre. The mashup of song, dance, and poetry is part love letter to the beautiful game, part Coates-ian diatribe against our culture of inequality in its many isms, leading with race and sex.

My 9-year-old daughter was my date for the night, which made for one or two squirmy moments (ahem, Ronaldo…). But over a post-performance quesadilla at Habana Outpost, we got into some new territory, like who Marta is and why she, like every female footballer on the planet, earns less than their male counterparts.

Joseph, who grew up in Queens and lives in San Francisco, also deftly tackles the question of why American (men, at least) stink at soccer—all the more prescient following the U.S. Men’s Team horrifying collapse this month in World Cup qualifiers. Delivered by performer Traci Tolmaire, the answer is that Americans “lack the intuition to aim for egalitarianism,” demanded of the game. “We suck at soccer where everybody shares or we all lose,” she says. As Joseph himself puts it elsewhere in the show, “if you want to win, you’ve got to pass the ball.” 

/peh-LO-tah/ is teeming with life lessons from the field. Joseph and I come from different places, but so much of it resonated. The fortysomething father of two even reflects on the challenges of middle age. Ultimately, though, it’s his singular passion for pelota that universalizes this lyrically mesmerizing production. “I am a lone man on a wide field playing the world’s game,” he tells us. 

Amen to that.

(Correction: This post originally painted all American soccer players with the same sucky brush. It should have acknowledged that the USWNT are badass world champs three times over!!!)

I’m not much of a pack rat, nor the sentimental type, but for more than thirty years, through countless moves and downsizings, this photograph has stayed with me. I came close to tossing it a year ago, when we were packing up the house ahead of a major renovation. Instead, I threw it in a box marked “Dan’s Memorabilia,” which landed in the basement next to a similarly marked, yet decidedly larger box belonging to my wife. 

The graininess of the photo gives away its age, as do the polyester uniforms and scruffy grass field in the background. But the composition is timeless: two boys standing shoulder-to-shoulder, medals hanging from their necks, the thrill of victory captured for posterity.   

“You were the best player on the field that day,” Jay said to me recently, over lunch at a midtown restaurant a few blocks from Grand Central Station. In the photo, he’s the mop-topped kid with his back to the camera, number 9. We’ve been friends since age 7, when our New Jersey town’s travel soccer team, the Westfield Hotspurs, brought us together.

It was a talented group, one that would ultimately win the 1991 Group IV state championship for Westfield High School. Jay went on to play for Brown and had a stint with Major League Soccer. Chris, another Hotspur, earned All-American honors, captained Harvard’s soccer team, and played professionally in Europe. Then there was Jeff, the blond-haired boy in the photo, whose blazing speed and thunderous left foot made him one of the school’s all-time leading goal scorers.

                                 Lunch with Jay at a midtown vegan joint.  

As Jay and I talked more, the faded memory of that day started to come back into focus. It was the finals of the 1986 Westfield Memorial Cup tournament, the host Hotspurs against the team from Hamilton Township. We’d given up two goals in the first half. Jay’s dad, who coached the team and was known for his raging halftime speeches, lit into us good.

We took the field and I scored a quick goal. A few minutes later we equalized on a penalty quick. In the final quarter, I netted the game winner. Over lunch, Jay dwelled on the penalty kick. “None of us wanted to take it,” he said. “You stepped up and buried it, and that was all we needed. Me, Chris, Jeff—you were better than all of us that day.”

I felt a swell of pride, but also an undercurrent of regret. Because as far as I can tell, that hat trick in the finals of the ‘86 Memorial Cup, a few months shy of my twelfth birthday, represented the high point in my career. Though I made the high school varsity squad a few years later as a freshman, alongside Jay, Chris, and Jeff, and we had our glorious championship run as seniors, I was never the best player on the field again. 

We finished lunch and I made my way back to Brooklyn. I went down to the basement, opened the memorabilia box, and pulled out the photo. I thought about Jeff, whose supreme athleticism was matched by his good looks and boundless charisma. At the time the picture was taken, I’d been his best friend for maybe a year. It had been an unexpected anointment. Before another year was up, we’d be drifting apart, though only one of us was really moving.

Looking closely at the photo, I notice the yellow scratch mark across my face, delivered with a fingernail in a moment of adolescent self-loathing. I wish I could airbrush it away, along with the feelings of fear and insecurity from that time. But they’re all indelible now, so the best I can manage is acceptance, and a shift in perspective.       

I turn the frame around and see a long-forgotten inscription from Jeff. “Danny, you only get this for scoring three goals,” it says. Then in big block letters: “CONGRATULTIONS!”

I decide to take the photo upstairs where it can be seen, an image of two boys and their medals, one of whom was the best player on the field that day.