GAINESVILLE,
GA – We journeyed to Gainesville, Georgia this past weekend to watch a
collegiate soccer match. I know what you’re thinking, “we were just
looking for another excuse to drink merlot in public,” but, au contraire, we
were there to watch our future brother-in-law play an out-of-conference game
against a team we’ve never heard of in a sport we know little, if anything,
about. Besides, we’re out of merlot.
It was a typically hot September afternoon in Georgia; so hot even the wind
refused to move.
On one side of the field was a grandstand that could seat maybe a thousand
people, if they were willing to get cozy. For this game, however, only about
two-dozen fans were huddled near the top of the bleachers beneath a colorful
array of umbrellas – they were slowly baking to a golden brown. Fortunately,
we brought our own shade. I setup our canopy in an area beyond the “end
line” (if that’s the proper term).
The players and officials stood at midfield for the opening ceremonies, which
consisted of player introductions and the playing of the national anthem
(which sounded like a ring tone of a military glee club …a glee club that
was told to hurry up).
The game started and almost immediately the players starting shoving and
yelling at each other. Each shove was accompanied by a half-hearted plea to
the official. I, being unfamiliar with the game, figured that’s how they
greet each other.
To
the untrained eye (i.e. me), it appears as though the teams are giving the
soccer ball a rapid tour of the entire field. I don’t know how these guys
are running around in this heat. If I were out there, I’d just pick a spot
and wait for the ball to come to me, then at halftime I’d be at the
concession stand loading my shorts with bags of ice.
At some point, a player on the visiting team fell to the ground in obvious
pain. Yet, everyone seemed to ignore him. Play continued as the helpless young
man was writhing in agony on the ground. Eventually, the officials stopped the
game long enough to permit someone to tend to the fallen player. By the looks
of it, I think they’re sending in the team’s bus driver.
The bus driver sauntered onto the field like a hobbled old sea captain. He was
carrying what looked like a lunch pail. With some effort, he knelt over the
injured player, who, by this point, must have gone into shock. The salty old
man spoke briefly and, suddenly, the player rose to his feet and trotted off
the field…healthy as could be.
“That…was no bus driver,” I thought, “that…was a miracle worker.”
I was astounded.
He mended that young man simply by the power of his words. We were obviously
in the presence of a greater power.
What kind of man possesses such amazing healing powers? Why isn’t he at a
hospital using his remarkable gift to heal the sick and wounded? Better yet,
why doesn’t he heal himself? And why is he driving a soccer bus?
Strangely enough, this miraculous feat went completely unnoticed by everyone
present. The once-injured player returned to his bench where even his
teammates seemed unimpressed with his amazing recovery.
Perhaps the bus driver’s miracles have grown routine to them?
But as the game progressed, I began to understand the lack of wonder. Because,
on two more occasions, players crashed to the ground in absolute agony and,
after a brief stoppage of play, they too left the field miraculously healed.
As it turns out, I was not witnessing a miracle, but rather, a common soccer
strategy.
Apparently, soccer players perform a maneuver known as the “flop”. It’s
a simple, yet effective tactic used to help control the tempo of the game.
With careful observation, the maneuver’s sequence becomes almost
predictable.
There are a number of ways to begin a “flop”. Chief among those is to
charge into a crowd of opposing players, preferably near their goal, and as
soon as you are challenged, throw yourself into the air as if you’ve just
stepped on a landmine. Another popular method is to hurl yourself to the
ground whenever an opponent steals the ball from you (you might remember
seeing this move performed on the kindergarten playground).
To ensure your maneuver gets noticed, you must grab your leg and scream in
agony, as if someone just peeled a wax strip from your leg. (I’m sure a
little practicing in front of a mirror can really sell your performance.) If
the official fails to stop the action, you must then shift to screaming
expletives and roll about in an eye-catching manner.
Once
play is stopped, the bus driver - who I later discovered is the “team
physician” - will then come out and give you your accumulative score (based
upon technique, execution, and creativity, as determined by your teammates). I
imagine that at the end of the season, the team presents an Oscar-like award
to their top “flopper”.
Perhaps next time we should bring our own scorecards so that, like poolside
judges, we too can rate the performance of the “floppers”.
Rick
Rantamaki is a humor writer from Georgia who works in the field of Information
Technology. You can read more of his writings in his blog, 
