Soccer Practice

It was a gorgeous October afternoon in 1989, windy but sun shining bright.  Coach Lofgren began practice by announcing we were going to have an intra team scrimmage rather than doing the normal routine.  Immediately dread came over me because that meant shirts and skins, and I knew I would inevitably be relegated to the skins team.

And sure enough I was.  So wanting to throw up the pizza and salad I’d had for lunch that day in the cafeteria at Biddeford High School, I took off my shirt and skulked to my position on the field as fullback and waited for the ribbing to begin.

Now I should preface this by saying I really enjoyed my teammates and many of us remained close friends during high school.  As such, the teasing was never meant to be mean, and I could occasionally find the humor in it. 

“Hey Chandlah,” yelled one of my teammates from mid field in a classic Maine accent.  “Where did you get your moon tan?  Working at Wellby Super Drug all summer?”  I let out a sigh of relief because at least it wasn’t a fat joke and truth be told, there was in fact not a speck of summer bronze in my skin.  Thinking back, soccer season was the only time of year I even approached being in shape. 

I loved the sport as it was really the only one I ever played.  I’m pretty sure I can thank my dad, who played three sports during high school and college, for instilling in me a love for the game.  Much to his dismay, I never really could dribble a basketball, let alone get it in the hoop.  Maybe that’s why when substitute teaching physical education (yes, it’s true – don’t laugh) at a local junior high school after college, I called “off sides” in a basketball game with eighth grade boys.  Let’s just the say that the male members of the faculty, who heard about my error within minutes of class ending, had a good time at my expense.  In any event, I know my Dad was proud I did play one sport and that I played it pretty well.  I guess that is what being well rounded is all about.

Unfortunately, I took being well rounded to a new level and somehow made eating a part of my curriculum vitae.  Fatty, chub, man boobs, pudgy, - you name it, I’ve heard it all.  And if I didn’t hear it, I had certainly thought it.  Every time I looked in the mirror, I would remember those trips to Sears to the Boys Department in the late 1970s where you had three choices in size – slim, regular and husky.  I was never greedy; I never felt a need for slim, but just once I would have liked to buy a pair of regulars.  But my body didn’t agree, and the pair of huskies and I would go home together, a match made in heaven.

My problem with weight would only grow worse after high school as the dreaded college pounds crept on one by one and I began a lifelong rollercoaster of ups and downs with a new diet around every bend.  Sometimes, I wish I had a do over, that I could go back and  become the athletic, muscular guy I always secretly admired.  But as the song from Rent, one of my favorite musicals of all time, goes, “forget regret or life is yours to miss.”

So in late 2009, after a dreadful annual physical that revealed everything from high blood pressure to dangerously high cholesterol, I decided to do something about it.  I changed my diet, started exercising and even hired a personal trainer.  It felt good going back to my high school reunion last summer having lost almost 50 pounds.  I considered taking off my shirt for the event, but alas, still no tan.

I still have a ways to go to my goal of 155 pounds  – the recommended high end weight for my age and height.  I don’t know if I will get there, but I am actually having fun trying, and I both feel and look healthier.  Maybe the 5K will help me to get there.

One thing I do know though, you can’t stop living just to lose weight.   Maybe that’s why I ordered the lasagna last night at Floriana’s, my favoite local Italian restaurant in DC.  You can’t change the past, only the future.  I am thinking chicken cutlets are in order for dinner tonight and a viewing of Johnny McGovern’s Soccer Practice.