In the tranquil world of a Sunday morning, while the family is still abed and the dog is stretching by the back door, 49-year-old Patrick Sanders is sitting in the kitchen, his heel on the edge of a chair, his chin beside his knee, methodically winding tape around his ankle and under the arch of his foot. He rips the tape and pats the finished job with both hands. He stands and leans forward on the ankle. Solid and tight. He is wearing the red uniform of the Pepperell Over 40 soccer team. Pulling on his shin pads, strapping them around his calves and stretching the long white socks over them, he always feels as if he is performing the ancient ritual of the warrior girding for battle.
When everything is right – when last week’s mud is knocked from the cleats, the tape tight, the soccer bag set to go with three bottles of water, a PowerBar, extra tape, a clean T-shirt and the wallet in the side pocket – he heads to his car. The gear is ready; he has only to get his mind ready, and he does that riding out of Lowell through the stone-walled countryside of Groton and Dunstable, past rambling farms where cows are already grazing, past the leaning headstones in a colonial cemetery, the sun behind him all along the winding, tree-lined ribbon of Route 113, to an 8 a.m. game.
On this Sunday morning, and on every Sunday morning in the fall and spring, the 3,400 men of 192 teams – from Derry and Hollis in the north, Leominster and Shrewsbury in the west, Salem and Ipswich on the sea, and down to Marion on the border of Rhode Island – are on their way to games in the 33 divisions of the New England Over-the-Hill Soccer League.
Those divisions are in turn organized into age groups of Over 30, Over 40, Over 50 and the fledgling Over 60. Some in the league are well known: John Smith, the Englishman who once kicked field goals for the Patriots; Francis Okarah, a former pillar of the New England Revolution defense; and, playing for the Natick Over 40 team, an athletic quarterback who once awed the nation with a Hail Mary pass to Phelan.
At the Varnum Brook Field in Pepperell, Patrick greets his teammates, “Buenos dias, Arnulfo. Mornin’, Eugene, Jim. Guten tag, Johann!”
The Pepperell team is a veritable United Nations. There’s the Colombian contingent: Arnulfo from Cali; Jose, the two Elkins, Ramiro, Desmond and Javier from Medellin. Wilson from Brazil. Eugene from Nigeria. Johann from Austria. Boa George from Sierra Leone. Lucho from Peru. Pitou and Brian from Cambodia. The Americans: Craig, Grady, Jim, Patrick and the two Daves.
They sit on folding chairs donning shin pads and cleats, while at the other end of the field a group of Saugus Ironworkers take shots at their goalie.
Players from both teams are trotting around the field, passing the ball, stretching and running into the woods to take a leak. When Eugene, the Nigerian, goes into the woods, the players hear a piercing ululation – a cross between a yodel and a war cry. “Why the hell does he do that?” Jim asks. Boa George explains. “In certain parts of Africa, like where Eugene is from, if you step into the woods, you might surprise a leopard or some wild animal, so they do that to frighten them away.” “He’s gonna frighten me away,” says one of the Daves, and as Eugene ambles out of the woods, he yells, “For Chrissakes, Eugene, cut down on the Viagra, will you?”
It’s five minutes to nine. “Bring it in, guys!” Jim yells. He’s the manager of the team, a towering figure with a faded Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm. The ref, who has been standing alone, smoking a cigarette and looking at a clipboard, comes over to check the roster against each I.D. A few guys joke amiably with him in an attempt to get on his good side at the outset, but this ref, a lean, mustached Hispanic, is all business.
At 9:05 a.m., the ref blows his whistle. It’s a tough game for Pepperell – they all seem to be tough this season. Though they play hard, they know a victory is unlikely, and when Saugus scores its first goal on a beautiful header five minutes into the match, there is no shouting or recrimination. “OK, let’s go guys. Pretty hard to stop that one,” Jim says.
Saugus is too much. Too much speed, too much skill, too much team. Pepperell runs hard and puts together some nice passing – sparks of the old glory – but the driving wheel is gone, and as the second half draws near a close, Saugus is firmly in control. The men in red are exhausted.
No one complains when the ref blows the whistle a couple of minutes early, and after shaking hands with the opponents, the Pepperell Over 40 team straggles toward the single rusty bleacher on the sideline. Lucho, who had come off the field early clutching his leg, is limping. “What muscle did you pull, Lucho?” “All of them,” he says. Patrick sits on the bleacher, draws a jackknife out of his bag and begins to slice off the tape around his ankle. “Ever think it’s time for golf, Jim?” “Nah, Sanders, you wouldn’t be happy hitting a ball if there weren’t three guys charging at you.”
The players hang around the field for a half hour or so, swapping jokes and making fun of each other’s mistakes and blown opportunities. “Eugene! How can you kick it over the cross bar when you’re five feet in front of the goal? How is that possible?” Jim asks. “Oh man!” Eugene laughs. “I dunno. Too much chaca chaca last night.”
There is no state of relaxation quite as serene and good-humored as the post-game wind down. Especially for players who most would say should have hung up the cleats years ago. And their numbers are growing. The New England Over-the-Hill League initiated its Over 30 league in 1981 with one division. In 1988, the first two Master’s (Over 40) divisions were formed, and five years later the Senior (Over 50) was created. The senior group is the smallest. Bad knees, torn cartilage, arthritis or injuries have caught up with most players by that age, and the golf course beckons, but the league is there for those who, as Jim says, don’t enjoy hitting a ball if there are not three guys running at them. And as he walks back to the parking lot, Patrick Sanders inhales the rich smell of the grass, and hopes he will be one of those.
Over The Hill But Not Quite Dead
Photo by Bob Ross
In the tranquil world of a Sunday morning, while the family is still abed and the dog is stretching by the back door, 49-year-old Patrick Sanders is sitting in the kitchen, his heel on the edge of a chair, his chin beside his knee, methodically winding tape around his ankle and under the arch of his foot. He rips the tape and pats the finished job with both hands. He stands and leans forward on the ankle. Solid and tight. He is wearing the red uniform of the Pepperell Over 40 soccer team. Pulling on his shin pads, strapping them around his calves and stretching the long white socks over them, he always feels as if he is performing the ancient ritual of the warrior girding for battle.
When everything is right – when last week’s mud is knocked from the cleats, the tape tight, the soccer bag set to go with three bottles of water, a PowerBar, extra tape, a clean T-shirt and the wallet in the side pocket – he heads to his car. The gear is ready; he has only to get his mind ready, and he does that riding out of Lowell through the stone-walled countryside of Groton and Dunstable, past rambling farms where cows are already grazing, past the leaning headstones in a colonial cemetery, the sun behind him all along the winding, tree-lined ribbon of Route 113, to an 8 a.m. game.
On this Sunday morning, and on every Sunday morning in the fall and spring, the 3,400 men of 192 teams – from Derry and Hollis in the north, Leominster and Shrewsbury in the west, Salem and Ipswich on the sea, and down to Marion on the border of Rhode Island – are on their way to games in the 33 divisions of the New England Over-the-Hill Soccer League.
Those divisions are in turn organized into age groups of Over 30, Over 40, Over 50 and the fledgling Over 60. Some in the league are well known: John Smith, the Englishman who once kicked field goals for the Patriots; Francis Okarah, a former pillar of the New England Revolution defense; and, playing for the Natick Over 40 team, an athletic quarterback who once awed the nation with a Hail Mary pass to Phelan.
At the Varnum Brook Field in Pepperell, Patrick greets his teammates, “Buenos dias, Arnulfo. Mornin’, Eugene, Jim. Guten tag, Johann!”
The Pepperell team is a veritable United Nations. There’s the Colombian contingent: Arnulfo from Cali; Jose, the two Elkins, Ramiro, Desmond and Javier from Medellin. Wilson from Brazil. Eugene from Nigeria. Johann from Austria. Boa George from Sierra Leone. Lucho from Peru. Pitou and Brian from Cambodia. The Americans: Craig, Grady, Jim, Patrick and the two Daves.
They sit on folding chairs donning shin pads and cleats, while at the other end of the field a group of Saugus Ironworkers take shots at their goalie.
Players from both teams are trotting around the field, passing the ball, stretching and running into the woods to take a leak. When Eugene, the Nigerian, goes into the woods, the players hear a piercing ululation – a cross between a yodel and a war cry. “Why the hell does he do that?” Jim asks. Boa George explains. “In certain parts of Africa, like where Eugene is from, if you step into the woods, you might surprise a leopard or some wild animal, so they do that to frighten them away.” “He’s gonna frighten me away,” says one of the Daves, and as Eugene ambles out of the woods, he yells, “For Chrissakes, Eugene, cut down on the Viagra, will you?”
At 9:05 a.m., the ref blows his whistle. It’s a tough game for Pepperell – they all seem to be tough this season. Though they play hard, they know a victory is unlikely, and when Saugus scores its first goal on a beautiful header five minutes into the match, there is no shouting or recrimination. “OK, let’s go guys. Pretty hard to stop that one,” Jim says.
Saugus is too much. Too much speed, too much skill, too much team. Pepperell runs hard and puts together some nice passing – sparks of the old glory – but the driving wheel is gone, and as the second half draws near a close, Saugus is firmly in control. The men in red are exhausted.
No one complains when the ref blows the whistle a couple of minutes early, and after shaking hands with the opponents, the Pepperell Over 40 team straggles toward the single rusty bleacher on the sideline. Lucho, who had come off the field early clutching his leg, is limping. “What muscle did you pull, Lucho?” “All of them,” he says. Patrick sits on the bleacher, draws a jackknife out of his bag and begins to slice off the tape around his ankle. “Ever think it’s time for golf, Jim?” “Nah, Sanders, you wouldn’t be happy hitting a ball if there weren’t three guys charging at you.”
The players hang around the field for a half hour or so, swapping jokes and making fun of each other’s mistakes and blown opportunities. “Eugene! How can you kick it over the cross bar when you’re five feet in front of the goal? How is that possible?” Jim asks. “Oh man!” Eugene laughs. “I dunno. Too much chaca chaca last night.”
There is no state of relaxation quite as serene and good-humored as the post-game wind down. Especially for players who most would say should have hung up the cleats years ago. And their numbers are growing. The New England Over-the-Hill League initiated its Over 30 league in 1981 with one division. In 1988, the first two Master’s (Over 40) divisions were formed, and five years later the Senior (Over 50) was created. The senior group is the smallest. Bad knees, torn cartilage, arthritis or injuries have caught up with most players by that age, and the golf course beckons, but the league is there for those who, as Jim says, don’t enjoy hitting a ball if there are not three guys running at them. And as he walks back to the parking lot, Patrick Sanders inhales the rich smell of the grass, and hopes he will be one of those.
Get involved:
The New England Over-the-Hill Soccer League – www.othsl.org
Massachusetts Adult State Soccer – www.mass-soccer.org
New Hampshire Soccer Association – www.soccernh.com
United States Adult Soccer Association – www.usasa.com