Nicholas Gerard-Larson, a senior on the 2009 Milwaukee men's soccer team, blogged all season long on the UWM website. Today is his 14th and final blog entry for the year.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A bleak and overcast sky greeted our arrival in Valparaiso, a foreboding omen for the upcoming contest. We stayed Monday night and awoke early for the noon kickoff. Following breakfast and our pregame discussion, we piled into the bus and solemnly rode the few miles to the field. Valparaiso recently moved their soccer pitch to their football stadium, exchanging grass for all too familiar turf, similar to what we were used to at Bradley Tech. The stadium sits in the middle of campus, nestled into a hillside, and the stands, made out of concrete, suggest a nearby Orwellian authority watching over the scenes below.
Despite a strong push at kickoff we gave up an unfortunate goal about ten minutes in when a botched clearance was converted by a Valparaiso player at the top of the box. This galvanized us for the rest of the first half and we maintained an impenetrable defensive front, not allowing a single shot after the goal. We achieved some great scoring chances, yet the pattern of poor finishing continued and we ended the half 1-0 down.
The second half would prove to be one of the most ill-fated and incendiary periods of soccer I’ve been a part of. We gave up a penalty kick in the first 10 minutes and despite (John) Shakon’s initial block of the spot kick, the attacker finished his own rebound and we were down 2-0 before we even had a chance to develop some coherent movement. A few minutes later passions and aggression boiled over and a scuffle ensued at the edge of our box, resulting in a red card for each team. The game certainly opened up for the rest of the half. With both teams playing down a man open space and quick transitions characterized much of the remaining play. We pushed hard to try and gain a foothold on the scoreboard, however, the back of the net remained an elusive figment of fantasy in our last match of the season. Our bolstered attacking formation pushed more players into the final third, yet it also left us vulnerable to counter-attacks in the back. We ended up succumbing to two more goals in these circumstances, shamefully finishing the game four goals down. The only glimmer of hope in this mess of a second half remained Nkuti’s (Ndely) redirected header that sailed past the Valparaiso goalie and into the net. Mockingly, the referee halted my potential celebration (at this point I would’ve given anything for some semblance of positive action to revel in) by calling the play back for offside, consigning us to another goalless, unsatisfying defeat.
Following a shower and the traditional postgame meeting, we returned to the bus for our long ride home. Silence often reigns for much of these trips, particularly after losses. The noises of traffic and the passing outside world remain the only incursions into one’s music, homework, or mental meditation. More than often we travel home in darkness, so the ambience of outside light remains muted, almost surreal. Washed out glows of orange, flashing construction signs, the flickering of cars changing lanes and the omnipresent, stark glare of red brake lights hauntingly operate in a world that simultaneously feels so close, yet also far removed. The illuminated green highway signs offer the only representation of pastel shades in the enclosed, subdued hues of nightlife. Sporadic reds and blues of cop cars and ambulances splash light off of the various objects within the bus, penetrating the internal world of darkness, sleep and silent ruminations.
Strange reflections on this lonesome Tuesday night. Has it really been four years? X number of games, Y number of practices, Z number of hours on a bus. X times Y times Z equals the end product, the summary of my experience. I can’t comprehend the countless hours of my life, all irretrievable, that have been devoted to the pursuit of athletic glory. Was this some entrenched, selfish desire, an egotistical attempt at furthering one’s own interests above all else? Or was there some broader, more universal justification behind those lost hours? Perhaps I’m meaninglessly digressing, yet it seems both fitting and natural to revisit the last four years and attempt to place them in the proper perspective.
It’s interesting how youthful optimism, the conviction that anything is possible, slowly fades or matures with age. I can recall numerous points during high school where I felt completely convinced that I would inevitably pursue a professional career in soccer, no matter the circumstances. To admit defeat, to acknowledge that the dream might not happen never entered my mind, not until the maturity and reality of the real world sobered my unfettered optimism. This is of course, completely natural. In youth we often find ourselves invincible, and only through experience, trials, and antagonism do we come to the realization that there are distinct limits in this world, that progress is not infinite. The universe does not operate on a linear scale; it never has and never will. There’s no economic graph with a steadily rising profit arrow, no cure-all fountain of youth that magically grants immortality. Eventually we all come to terms with these things, but that confrontation often takes time and is neither pleasant nor avoidable.
In many ways, my generation is having difficulty grasping these conclusions and can you blame them? Our current society is apathetic towards politics, skeptical towards religion and indifferent to suffering, violence and injustice. Were we raised to question everything? If so, shouldn’t there be demonstrations in the streets, volatile activism and organization, campaigning and leafleting? We lack a cause to rally around, despite the multitude of problems, issues, and inequities worthy of struggle, publicity and aid.
In this is the monumental failure of our generation, a lack of resolve, an absence of a standard or rallying point. What is there to fight for we ask? Why should we care? If progress and optimism eventually run their course why should we be concerned with reality? Politically, we’re forced to make a decision between taking either the red or the blue pill, both of which carry the litany of negative side effects generally found on the back of any over-the-counter medication. It’s a lesser of two evils choice and if neither option in this realm of true or false represents your views, it’s no wonder disillusionment and alienation run rampant in young people.
Perhaps it’s overwork that undermines the hope of youth. From an early age we’re inundated with images, expectations and ideals. Imagination is stifled, fantasy is destroyed and discovery is rendered superfluous. Some school districts now have children watch a virtual tour of a museum or nature center on a large screen in the classroom rather than take them to the actual site, simply because it saves money. This is the beginning of the death rattle for childhood exploration and individualistic learning from the world around you. Experiencing something, the actual “doing,” is far more important than pedantic studying. We should all learn through action, rather than receive things second hand, whether it be religion, music, literature, politics, or otherwise. Thoreau found out that he could live comfortably on his own physical labor working six weeks per year. He stated, “I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely.” The rest of his time could be spent experiencing his surroundings and thinking about that interaction. He was unchained from the pressures of industrial life, absconded from the hectic pace of modernity and I greatly admire him for that. Perhaps Voltaire has the greatest advice for finding contentment and happiness in this world: “We must all cultivate our garden.”
The familiar Milwaukee skyline greets us as we travel up from the south. The illuminated windows of the skyscrapers, in their formulaic rows, gives an impression of austere regularity, yet the shimmering reflections from the panes themselves constantly change as the bus nears and finally passes under, evoking a sense of wonder at man’s engineering and architectural feats. The lake’s cold, dark mass provides a fitting contrast to the glare of downtown, completing the image of Milwaukee I’ve come to expect at the end of numerous journeys elsewhere. After four years it almost feels like home.
I appreciate everyone that’s read and enjoyed my creative output over the last few months. I’d love to hear any comments, concerns, or other responses you may have. Just send me an email at GERARDL2@uwm.edu. Thanks for taking the time to experience the random outbursts, digressions and thoughts I’ve put in this blog. It’s been a pleasure.
-GL
