Men of letters – A Wee Blether

Arthritis. Gout. Lumbago.

Cholesterol levels. Prostate exams. Colonoscopies.

You’re thinking, what—things overheard in a gloomy V.A. hospital ward?

Or a retirement home, maybe? A grim shelter for the afflicted?

Try a men’s soccer team.

My team. My over-30, clinging-to-youth-by-our-fingertips team.

The aforementioned maladies and procedures? A few of the lovely topics of conversation overheard during six years of sideline banter.

We splintered from an earlier team, basically a bunch of aging guys young enough to play but old enough to know that, left unchecked, we’d eventually embarrass ourselves in a disturbing display of obscenity and violence.

So, we turned to one of our founding members, attorney and ex-rugby player Matthew Nodier—a man who understands how rules keep society from plunging into the abyss. Plus, his eyes light up every time he finds a new way to import another aspect of his life into an Excel spreadsheet.

He crafted simple but profound bylaws that forbid bitching at the refs, at the opposing players, or—if in actual anger—at each other. Merciless teasing is not only encouraged but revered.

Our team plays under an auspicious name: The Most Interesting Team In The World.

It’s true. Our name is inspired by that gravelly voiced cat with the salt-and-pepper beard in the beer commercials: “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do …” (Full disclosure: we always drink beer.)

For reasons not one of us can explain, we adopt new acronym names almost every season: DWWS, HOP, NTB, NSFW and so on.

Being guys, we held onto to our original jerseys for years, repeatedly crossing out our old letters and adding new ones below. Picture the alphabet soup that was our family tree, stretched tight across our bellies and bouncing around the Burbank soccer fields for all to behold. Oh, it was a scene, man. (Full disclosure: some guys on our team don’t have big bellies. The rest of us view them as weak.)

Our original name, Dances With White Shoes, was, in retrospect, foolish. It happened after our prancing prima donna Jonathan Ieyoub showed up wearing gleaming white cleats. Regrettable, yes, observes Nodier, scratching his chin for scholarly effect. But crucial to the development of our team’s psyche.

“In one way, it defined us as the incomprehensible horde of overgrown children we are,” says Nodier. (Full disclosure: Nodier is one tall drink of water, so from my perspective (which is short), his head seems freakishly large. So, in true team spirit, I refer to it as “the planet.”)

Oh sure, we tried tougher, more menacing team names.

Like “Not Today Baby.” But that year we promptly went out and lost our games. All of them. More like NTSB—Not This Season, Baby.

We even played a season as House of Pain, a name cunningly engineered to intimidate opponents.

But everyone was wise. Team member Curt Eysink’s young son Max impetuously asked, “HOP—House of Pancakes?”

Then, the ultimate indignity: the soccer association’s all-business league rep Erkan Borazanci, a native of Turkey with a glorious accent to prove it, keyed our name incorrectly into the league computer system.

“What mistake!?” he demanded. “I put House In Pain. What is wrong with this?”

Actually, Erkan, that’s just about right.