As crazy as Americans are about sports, nothing stacks up to the British obsession with football. Of course, I’m referring to real football, aka soccer, not the lite version practiced in North America. Being an expat myself, I was born with the football gene tightly stitched in my genetic makeup. Call demented if you will, but for me football is as natural as breathing and organic granola.
Before I moved to Portland, Oregon, I attended college in sunny Seattle, where I spent much of my time playing the «beautiful game» on soggy fields as part of an all-girl team. We were known as the Pinkberries, and were a force to be reckoned with. Feminine wiles aside, when we put on those pink uniforms, we were the scourge of Seattle, feared by humans of all genders.
I love my life in wonderful Portland, but I do spend the entire year looking forward to the Pinkberries reunion held every April during the annual Seattle Soccer Challenge. It’s a chance to get together with old friends and do battle with old enemies for the championship title and bragging rights.
It was a glorious gray morning as I pulled out of my driveway in my brand-new Pontiac Solstice, ever hopeful that I might find an opportunity to take the top down. A girl can dream, can’t she? After a few tunes courtesy of my newest friend, XM radio, I exited Oregon and was cruising with purpose through magnificent Washington State.
A couple of hours later, I was flushed with excitement running myself ragged in the rain as the Pinkberries put me through my paces on the practice field. I was delighted to discover that I was still fit enough to keep up with the ladies. When practice was done, everyone was clamoring to hear the ongoing saga of my life in Portland, so naturally I insisted that we walk over to Pagliachi and play catch up over the finest pizza and Caesar salad in the known universe. One thing’s for sure, I’ll never get that place out of my system.
After a few slices too many, my friend Pauline and I hopped in the Solstice, and drove to the ferry for the ride over to Vashon Island, where we would spend the night at her beautiful home. Nothing quite compares to the sight of the Seattle skyline with the impressive Space Needle receding on Puget Sound as you inch away from the dock on the ferry.
The next morning, we were back in the Pontiac Solstice when the impossible occurred. Yes folks, the sun came out and before you could say April showers, the top was down and we were barreling along, singing raucously with our elbows extended at dangerous angles, to that old Liverpool anthem, «You’ll Never Walk Alone.» We arrived in Seattle full of the joys of spring and ready to do battle. We were a little early, so we paid homage to the coffee gods at Vivace. Seeing that leaf etched out in the foam of my cappuccino seemed to me a sign that by the end of the weekend the Pinkberries would reign supreme and wave the victory leaf over the fallen hopes of our vanquished competitors.
Not so much! The Pinkberries were not quite up to snuff on that fateful weekend, and all we could manage was a fifth place finish. At the post championship «celebration,» I took solace the only way I knew how – a couple of pints of ale and a never ending barrage of «Am I bovered?» in my finest East London accent. And indeed, I was far from bothered. I’d just spent a weekend with fabulous team mates playing the greatest game ever conceived in one of the most spectacular cities on the planet. And of course, there’s always next year!