Kehoe was angry that day, my friends. As the setting sun reflected off Healy in the near distance, a warm evening breeze tingled the skin. Then cries of pain erupted, as did a lot of “F-cks” and a few punches. This was the Georgetown intramural soccer championship, an unheralded but worthy battle between the Kabuki Dancers and Los Fritos.
The Kabuki dancers, led by a soft-spoken Tennessee boy named Brendan O’Farrell, were a rough-and-tumble bunch of Americans, looking to prove to the world that the whole 1998 thing was really a fluke. Yes, Americans can play soccer.
Another young man from Tennessee (via Brasil) sat on the other side of the field, gently touching the ball back and forth with a kid wearing a Real Madrid jersey. He, Marcos Siqueira, surveyed the talent.
“This will be a real test. A conflict between Latin artistry and American athleticism,” the sly midfielder said. This Brendan, though, does not look rigid during warmups. He seems to glide, like Jesus on water, while crossing balls to John and Simon. His green shirt flutters in the breeze, and I can’t help but be reminded of a caped Superman.
The controversy was there even before the game started. Los Fritos were ranked No. 1 going into the tournament, despite the fact that F.C. Kabuki went undefeated in the regular season. However, an Easter Break forfeit damaged their seed, dropping them to a lowly No. 6. But they emerged from the losers bracket and made their way here.
“I guarantee we will win,” Simon said. A brash statement coming from a guy wearing shoes on his hands.
The game started well enough, with Los Fritos playing a series of rapid fire 1-2 passes through the Kabuki defense, anchored by the sweeper, Bill. The Los Fritos boys brought their hot girlfriends to cheer them on, and they screamed support from the metal bench. There was only one girl rooting for Kabuki.
The refs were whistle-happy, calling every odd push-in-the-back. The first goal came quickly. Brendan flicked a short pass from the endline into a streaking player known simply as “Vail.” He scored on a short volley, and there was much rejoicing. Los Fritos equalized soon after when Daniel, wearing a really tight t-shirt, scored off an errant free kick. Soon after, Idi split the Kabuki defense to place a shot under Rob, the keeper.
As Los Fritos took advantage of each opportunity to score, their fans left the bench to storm the field in rapture. They even had a coach of sorts, wearing a slick brown suit. In any case, there would be more bench clearing to come, but of a different sort. Hehe.
Bill tied the game to strike back, coming up from sweeper to finish off a well-placed corner kick. The score was 2-2. Simon had two chances to give Kabuki the lead as the half neared its end but was rejected twice by the opposing keeper. He dejectedly came to the sidelines and mumbled to himself. The match became more intense, and as Kabuki members aggressively heckled Los Fritos, the ref was forced to come over and told the bench to “stop yelling shit.”
And then the goal came. Crandall, or “Sghetto” as he is known in certain circles, received a pass in the open field and faked right against the last defender. He pulled back left, dropping the guy, and slipped a shot into the lower far post. 3-2. Halftime.
One observer, a jolly fellow by the name of Megary, predicted victory for Kabuki: “It looks like the younger kids might pull it out because they have a couple years less drinking. Give them a few years and they’ll be fat, too,” he lamented. He was right. The Kabuki Dancers defense shut down the foreign squad in the next half. The game took a more physical turn, and Alberto went down with a twisted ankle, a harsh setback for Los Fritos.
But what’s this? A collective “Gasp!” went up from the crowd as Fahir and Jimmy exchanged punches on the far sideline. Both teams rushed the field, and even those on the track could hear the dull thud of fist upon flesh. Frustration? Perhaps. Anger? Maybe. Awesome? Hell yes.
“We got our stomp on,” Kabuki’s Matt said after the brawl. Indeed. The tension was still there, the controversy grew, but the game ticked towards its end as the Los Fritos failed to capitalize. When the whistle blew, the yellow pennies went up in the air with joy.
“It was very competitive,” said Ruben Boumtje-Boumtje, a very tall soccer fan who had been observing from the sidelines. “I wasn’t expecting the violence,” he added.
I looked for Brendan, the leader, a god among men. Then I saw him with his team, the sweat soaking through his t-shirt. He was smiling the joy of joys. I was tempted to play Arrested Development: “Tennessee … Tennessee.” But I didn’t have a stereo.
