The Rollercoaster of Soccer: Perspective of a Twelve-Year-Old

U13 was our last year playing on half-sized pitches. At U14 we would start playing eleven-a-side like the professionals. Naturally, it was also a big cut-off year. The first leap was made from playing U9 non-league soccer to U10 league football, cutting out the kids who truly had no clue, but still making room on the team, and even some playing time, for kids who were still trying to figure it out. That was the Hapoel Raanana (my first club) standard. More politically correct, more accepting, more inclusive. The Maccabi Tel Aviv (the best club) standard was the highest conceivable. If there was room for thirty squad players, they would all be competing for a spot. They would all be good players, and would all compete for a spot anywhere in any team in the country. Beitar Tubruk (my new club) was a bit less systematic than Maccabi, but the standard was high, a lot higher than Raanana’s, higher than most clubs in the country. The squad’s level however, was still being pulled down by the extra weight of a few players who were not up to standard. Those players would not remain for long. U12 was their last year in the big leagues. I was one of those players. 

Starting my second year at Tubruk, I felt more settled. I wasn’t one of the new boys any more. My dad was accepted by the other dads. I would like to think my consistent performances aided, but it was mostly the whiskey he poured in their coffee thermoses on 9am Saturday kick-offs. I had a good feeling about the upcoming season and about our new coach. Alon Shryer, head coach at the time of the Israeli women’s national team was poached from our fiercest rivals, Maccabi Netanya, where he was the acting youth technical director of the club. He was at the derby game the previous season where I battled to the death with Netanya’s powerful captain, Yarin Hassan. He was getting frustrated at Yarin. He expected him to do better against me. I remember making eye contact with Shryer. He liked something about me. Or maybe it was just the look in my eye that he liked. But when we were told that he was going to be our new coach, we knew that the standard of training was going to go up. He was coming to prepare us for eleven-a-side soccer. He was coming to push us to beat Netanya in both derby games in the upcoming season. He would expect nothing less. And he expected us to compete with the best of the best, Maccabi Tel Aviv and Maccabi Haifa. He was taking over our team to win a Gavia (national cup, the highest conceivable honor in youth soccer). 

We had two significant additions to the team. The first was Raul. The name suggested a Spanish striker from Madrid, but we got a skinny, short, Kazakhstani magician. Raul was a street cat from Netanya that had recently moved with his family from Eastern Europe. No one knew who this kid was, he could barely afford shoes, but he could run for ages, and was blessed with a Brazilian touch on the ball. He had no schooling but his football intelligence was of the best kind. 

The second addition was Ilya (eel-ya). A massive Russian-Israeli boy. He was by far the biggest, tallest, and strongest boy on the team. Ilya was a center-back, but dynamic and flexible enough to play on the right, the left, and in midfield. He had everything, including the confidence that I always wanted. I watched him closely and learnt a lot from him. 

Raul and Ilya quickly broke into the A-team, the Gavia team rotation. Because of their addition, for the first time at Tubruk, some B-team players saw a potential of breaking into the A-team. It gave us hope. It gave me hope. I recognized movement and I recognized our coach looking at B-team players a lot more than our previous coach ever did. I felt as if I had a chance to push myself forward. As terrified as it was, I knew I had to try. If Amit (my best friend) could play in the A-team so could I. If my father thinks that I could play in the A-team, I had to believe in it myself. And with this new coach, there seemed to be less separation between the A and B teams. We were more of a cohesive team and I was determined to crack the code. And although I wasn’t one, I was determined to prove myself good enough to play with the street cats. 

In the former season, I had the chance to play against my former club, Hapoel Raanana. I didn’t play well. I faced a tricky and unpredictable little winger. He kept getting the best of me. I disappointed myself. I was too focused on non-soccer issues. I was focused on what the Raanana players thought about me and my status at Tubruk. Did they understand the A and B team dynamics? Did they know I was a B team player? My bad performance was camouflaged by an easy victory against a weak side, but my mind was fixated on my former teammates. Some of them whom I was in school with, or boys I would see around my city. They all knew that we (Amit, Nadav, and I) were Raanana boys, and I felt the need to impress them and a need to maintain their approval

The next time I faced my former club was the following season, U13, with my new coach. We played a league game versus Raanana, but were set to play them a few weeks later, at home, in the Gavia competition. To tactically confuse our opponents and kill any chance they had of preparing tactically for the game, our coach blurred the lines completely between the A and B team. For the first time ever, Gavia players were playing with non-Gavia players. The segregation was eliminated for once. There was no A and B team. Moreover, he played all players (besides goalies) out of position. For the first time in my journey, I played as an attacking central midfielder. By our coach disguising the A team, he freed my mind from what my former teammates thought of my status at Tubruk. I started the game, so as far as they were concerned, I thought, I was a starter and an integral part of Tubruk’s team.

My mind was free of judgement. The pressure of playing well and meeting all my defensive responsibilities, as right back, were lifted off my shoulders. I was playing out of position. No one expected anything of me. I somehow decided that day to just play. And playing is what I did. My game was full of mistakes. Teammates were yelling at me, but I was free. I was asking for the ball. I was moving the ball. I was shooting on goal and taking free kicks. By putting a mask on our team and on our players, Alon Shryer, inadvertently, brought the best out of me. I was anonymous, on a pitch where I was probably the most recognized player. The anonymity and freedom on the pitch was a feeling I would chase, pray, and yearn for for the rest of my soccer journey. It was never given to me again, and I never grasped it the way I should have. It is the secret sauce of some of the most special players in soccer history, and I can humbly say I tasted it that day and on some other occasions. But that day was was something special. It beat all my wildest expectations. 

If it wasn’t objectively ridiculous, Shryer’s deceptive style of preparation and tactical chivalry was almost admirable. However, it did not last long. Once the first Gavia game came up on the schedule, the segregation was back and it was ruthless. The only players who broke into the Gavia Eight were: Ilya and Raul. The ten of them knocked Raanana out of the tournament while I was watching from the bench. 

As painful as the segregation was, I kept going. Some forces seemed to be in my favor. I got just enough compliments and words of encouragement from players and parents to keep my head in the game. I must have, I thought, been doing something right on the pitch. I must be able to make the jump. At least to make the rotation. I had to. I reached a point where B-team minutes counted as no minutes. The A-team got all the praise and all the glory. The parents were watching the A-team. The coach was watching the A-team. Even the B-team, whenever there was a break on the pitch, would watch the A-team. I had to make the A-team. I had to penetrate the Gavia Eight. 

On a Friday night, before a Saturday game-day, I was fully immersed in my pre-game day ritual of playing Football Manager, when my mum asked me to go get a bottle of water for my four-year-old sister. Huffing and puffing, I left my game, I sprinted down the stairs towards the kitchen to complete the task as quickly as possible. On my way up I slipped and smashed my knee cap onto the edge of a step. There was no structural damage, but the skin split in an awkward position at the tip of the knee cap. The bone was visible and blood was pouring out. I was taken to the emergency room and had to get stitches. Because of the awkward position, any bending of the knee would cause the stitches to open up. In order for it to heal, I was ordered to rest for two full weeks. I couldn’t train at all for two full training weeks, I missed two games and was on my way to miss a third. 

Fourteen days later, on a Friday morning, my stitches were taken out. My knee was healed and I was cleared by the doctor to play soccer. I informed the coach and I was back in the squad for one of our biggest games of the season the following morning. I had no expectation of playing. I missed two full weeks and I wasn’t allowed to bend my knee. I was stiff and rusty. I was just excited to be back in the swing of things, forget the setback, and get back to my quest. 

Maccabi Haifa was arguably the best club in the country. The big four of Israeli soccer are: Maccabi Haifa, Maccabi Tel Aviv, Hapoel Tel Aviv, and Beitar Jerusalem. At the youth level at the time, Tubruk would have probably been admitted into the top four instead of Beitar Jerusalem. The absolute top two academies in the country were Maccabi Tel Aviv and Maccabi Haifa. That season Haifa were in the best form in the country. They were our main obstacle to going the whole way and winning a Gavia. 

When I showed up that Saturday morning, I was told that I was starting as a center midfielder. For a moment it felt like a sick joke. It felt like the powers at-be wanted me to fail. I had just come back from the longest break I had ever taken from football, to play against the best team in the country, and Shryer was going to play me out of position. It did not make sense. I was outside of my comfort zone. I did not like it at first, but then I was able to tap into the special source of freedom. I tried to use the lack of expectation in my favor. Was it tactical chivalry? Was Shryer trying to get the best out of me? 

I started the game on the B-team and played so well as a central midfielder that Shryer subbed me into the A-team pitch. I did it. I barely had time to process it and it happened when I least expected it, but it happened. Everything I wanted and everything I was fighting for. I penetrated the A-Team. I broke the glass ceiling that very few were able to. I was put into the game to rescue the A-team. The B-team side was winning, and the A-team side was losing. They needed a boost to balance out the game, and Shryer put me in. Any sense of freedom evaporated. I did not feel free. I immediately felt the weight of the occasion. It was the moment of truth for me, and I knew that I had to perform. It was the biggest step I ever made in soccer. I couldn’t let the opportunity slip. 

I held my ground. I kept up with the overall form of the A-team. I wasn’t a weak link.  We scored a goal or two and the game balanced out. My few minutes of glory came to an end in a positive way and I was substituted back home, across the white line, to the B-team. I ended up playing the full game. 

With a few moments left in the game, the aggregate score was an unusually tight 7-7. Games at that age were usually in the double figures. Not this one. Both teams were fighting like animals. All players on the pitch were good. All were competing. I was competing. I felt like I belonged. For the first time on a game day at Tubruk, my imposter syndrome was lifted. I could see my path being paved by my impressive performance. I was already picturing my next opportunity with the A-team. I was already picturing U14 I was already picturing eleven-a-side. 

While all of that was going on in my head, Maccabi Haifa’s attacking midfielder received the ball. With my excitement and adrenaline, I leaped forward hastily. I did exactly what he wanted me to do. He used my momentum against me to turn around me, pass the ball through to his striker who scored with a clean finish. 8-7. The referee blew the whistle. The game was over. From feeling like the hero of the day, I turned into the tragic zero. 

Thoughts of excuse and guilt were rushing through my head. I didn’t even expect to play. I shouldn’t have played. Why did Shryer play me? Why did I play out of position? Was it my fault? 

Generally speaking, most games were easy victories. The main focus was on tweaking the A-team. Making sure that they were performing, getting better, and staying up with the standard of the top four clubs in Israel. Maccabi Haifa was a challenge. Losing that game could destabilize the coach’s position and status at the club. Shryer gathered all the players by the team’s bench. All skinny boys squished into each other. Some, including me, were sitting on the floor. Shryer started talking. First he looked at the ground but then he turned to me, pointed at me and blamed me. He blamed me in front of the entire team. He praised the team’s performance yet he blamed me. The team lost because of my misjudged and mistimed leap forward during the last few seconds of the game. 

My morning started without any expectation but to see my team from the bench. Momentum quickly shifted and thirty minutes later I was playing well, out of position, versus the best team in the country. Thirty minutes after that, I made my biggest jump in soccer. I broke into the A-team. For the first time I was one of the good players. For the first time, I became a real Tubruk player. And for the first time, I truly felt like a soccer player amongst soccer players. Thirty minutes after that, I was at the lowest point I knew in soccer. That day taught me the lesson of the rollercoaster of soccer. It’s comical. It’s tragic. It’s ruthless. It does not discriminate. You are either on the rollercoaster or you are not. If you are on it, there are no good or bad moments. There is just  riding the rollercoaster.  

When my father greeted me off the pitch, I touched his arm and hugged him with my sweaty uniform. I broke into tears as soon as my face made contact with his skin. He let me cry. He told me it was okay to cry. Some players saw me crying as they were walking by. Some dads saw, too. As if they all needed another bit of proof to remind them that I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t a street cat. My dad let me cry.