So either during the party across the hallway or on the way to the club that we didn't end up going to, Scotland issued a challenge to several Chileans that were helping to host the party across the hallway. A soccer challenge.
They couldn't resist, of course. And neither could Scotland help but brag about his own skills on the pitch (field), which just made them more eager to assert how much better Chileans are at soccer than any European.
I got drafted onto the Scottish team. After having not played in about a year and a half.
Okay, honestly, I didn't mind at all. I was just nervous. I tell people how many years I've played, and they assume I'm good. Not just good, but good. After all, how could someone not play for eight straight years without getting good?
By playing like me, that's how. =P
Anyway, I dragged myself out of bed the morning after the water fight and jogged (not literally) down to the only bank branch open in Edinburgh on a Saturday to apply for an account. Then I stopped for breakfast on the way back, blogged that super long post about the marvelous three days I'd had, and got ready for le futball. Or, as I've been told it's called here, "real football."
Melbourne came with, mostly to hang out and watch but partly because I didn't know where the Meadows were. (I'm so glad she did. I never would have found them on my own.) We were already late when we left, but nobody else showed up for another half hour or so, and the Chileans canceled/postponed.
It was okay, though. We found a bunch of Spaniards to whup us instead.
They'd already been playing, though not for too long. The way the teams ended up were the five Spanish guys versus "the rest of the world" (Scotland, America, Germany and... somewhere else.)
There were six of us compared to their five players, and we definitely didn't score as many times as they did, but we played long enough and hard enough that it wasn't an utterly humiliating defeat. I held my own well enough, I think. I couldn't keep up physically (soooo out of shape that it's embarrassing), but I played smart enough that I'm okay with how everything turned out. I almost scored twice, and got injured twice. That's always the fun part. Unless you're in serious pain.
The first time, one of the Spaniards crashed into me and sent us both flying. I twisted to keep from landing badly, then rolled to keep him from landing on me. The wind wasn't even knocked out of me, but he didn't get up right away. I didn't mean to belittle his manliness or whatever, but everyone else laughed when I went, "Ohmygod, are you okay?"
Oh, well. =P
The second time happened when I had another run in with a different Spaniard. (I think.) I think he might've kicked me, or grazed me with his shoe (or something). It ached a bit, but I didn't even glance at it until another guy made a horrified face and asked what happened. Turns out I had blood dripping down my leg. Oops.
I didn't have any tissues, so I started using an old slip of paper that told how to apply for a job at the Sweet Factory at North County Fair to mop up my leg. Then, thankfully, the German guy on my team handed me a few tissues, and I got to rub hand sanitizer over an open wound. Not as much fun as it might sound like, let me tell you.
(Both pictures, by the way, are of the Meadows, where we played.)
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