SoccerDaze

I’m not positive, but this might be one of the longest amounts of time I’ve neglected my blog ever since its infancy. Good thing it’s not a baby, amirite?

But seriously, apologies. Want to know why I didn’t blog for a week and a half even though I traditionally, neurotically bordering on pathologically post at least on a weekly basis if only to have an outlet for the adverbial adverbage swilling in my head? Me too. Got no idea, especially considering how impossibly awesome my students are this semester.

Bowen: smiling

For reals.

I’m not a gushing person by nature, but they're fantastic. And this is why:

Last Wednesday I first got wind that this Thursday would be another English department soccer game. I vaguely looked forward to it, but in the back of my mind was the isolation that comes with being the only American. The only girl. I remembered the first time I tried to play at Kosin and was sent away since no one had told me it was a student-only game. The weekend went by.

This Tuesday afternoon, I was walking up to my office when I met Bowen, coming down the stairs. Bowen is a third-year and built like a brick wall, expressionless even when he smiles. Even when he's talking, I don't think he actually moves his mouth.

“Five o’clock,” he said ominously, holding up a spreadeagled hand. “Five o’clock Thursday.”

Daniel

Yesterday, I was rushing off to class, perpetually late to morning freshmen English, when third-year Daniel skittered by. Daniel’s a shorter guy, an excellent student with a dorky laugh. He often skitters, but he can also skitter around a full complement of defenders, all a good foot taller than him and land a shot from the corner of the eighteen. “Oh!” He starts a lot of sentences with ‘oh!’ “Oh, Thursday! Five o’clock! Bye!”

Today, the much-anticipated Thursday, I finished off 9 am freshmen English and stayed at my podium as my students swarmed forward, rather than out of the doors. Chloe--tall, bright, perpetually late to class--checked her attendance record. Grace, with big dreams to become a cartoonist, always gives me a personal goodbye. El--my elfin student who loves fairy tales, once brought me pictures with which to decorate my office, and picked and personally brought me the most perfect pink lotus flower I’ve ever seen in my life--stopped by to tell me that when her boyfriend visits from Seoul she wants me to meet him.

Matthew--skinny as a beanpole with one of those smiles that proves “exuberance is beauty”--and Kaka--an older student, fresh home after his military duties, hard-working and aggressive--hovered nearby.

Skinny Matthew.  Not his real smile.

I raised two eyebrows at them, half-smiling. They’re both soccer-mad and the last time the three of us played together we connected on a few nice passing plays. I knew what they were about.

Kaka, the “hyung” or “older brother” in this situation, looked to skinny Matthew, who speaks pretty good English for a freshman.

“Um, at five o’clock, we are playing soccer. Together-?”

“Yep, I’m coming!”

Kaka

Truth was, I was waffling about it--it’s been a stressful week, I needed to relax--until that moment. Matthew grinned and Kaka broke out into his “Okay!” that sort of means, “Great/I agree/Good idea” all at once. Heartfelt, impromptu, double high-fives are my favorite.

The day passed in a high-stress, high-energy blur. By five o’clock I’d had a nice, throbbing headache for the past three hours and knots in my neck. My voice was disappearing from trying to control a 46-person conversation class.

But it was Thursday. Five o’clock. And  Brick-wall Bowen, Skittering Daniel, Skinny Matthew, Okay! Kaka, and all the rest of the soccer mad English boys were there: Hoon, Gerrard, Torres, Snoopy, Matthew2, Kevin, Steve, Jacob, Mike.

We didn’t win the game. I didn’t play well. But I think I’m starting to understand the power of Korean group mentality, the power of inclusiveness even on an avowed introvert. And it's great.

**For the record, these pictures were taken somewhat under duress (ala most things I do to my students here). During our English department retreat, I passed my camera around the circle and told them they had to take a self portrait. They hated it because they couldn't look at themselves as they took the picture like you can with a smart phone. Consequently the picture quality suffered because the kids were super awkward with my digital. Also, I promised the kids I wouldn't post the pictures on my blog. Sorry, Hannah. I lied.

Professional Chukku

I’m not sure if it’s Korea or living abroad in general, or me in general, but I’ve recently been getting exactly what I didn’t expect. In America, if I want to go to the grocery store, it pans out pretty  much like I imagine: I get in my car, I drive for ten minutes, I buy too many cookies and not enough fruit, get back in my car, and go home. If I need to pay my bills, I pay them. If I want to play soccer, I go to any old field and shoot around for an hour.

I’ve tried to pay my bills twice today—the first time I’ve tried since November—and failed (no one was there and might not be there tomorrow; who knows?). The last time I played soccer by myself I got roped into coaching three fourteen-year-old boys for an hour in exchange for a convenience-store coffee. Today I had to hop three buses to find my local grocery because the normal bus drove by, lights off.

Busan Asiad Stadium, home of the I'Park!

Yesterday I tried to go to a Korean soccer game. My friend Candice messaged me with news of free tickets and I jumped on it, dragging my friend Kim along as well. We showed up a little late and had to sit on the endline, but we were close to the players on the field and even closer to a crowd of rabid teenage girls screaming and singing their support of our team, Busan I’Park. Like most girls in Korea, they didn’t seem to have much understanding or interest in the game itself, but the sport provided them an excuse to scream which, Kim explained, was all they really wanted. Their energy was ferocious. If North Korea ever attacks, I know who I’m hiding behind and it’s not the conscripted South Korean army of man-boys in dorky glasses.

Sometime during the first half I noticed a distinguished-looking gentleman cheering along with the girls—or attempting too. He was grinning and clapping on the wrong beats, obviously unfamiliar with the cheers, but enthusiastically so. During halftime, he approached us and asked me and Kim, in very slow, careful Korean, “Is the soccer game fun?”

This was back before the game when we figured this
was as close as we'd get to the players. HA!

I understood, but I looked at Kim to answer, since she’s the Korean of the two of us. Kim, who never hesitates, hesitated. Then she answered, (in Korean), “Uh . . . yes? I’m Korean!”

Confusion banished—maybe he’d assumed Kim was foreign because her English was so fluent?—they were off to the races chatting. I’m a student—this is my professor. Yes, she teaches English. She’s from Chicago—she loves soccer. I smiled and nodded at the parts I understood and accepted the business card he offered me that said, “From the office of the mayor of Haeundae.”

We took pictures together while the boys played (no one besides me seemed to be watching the game). We watched a video he’d had his secretary make for his grandson who lives in New York. We got invited to follow them after the game and meet the players.

You know, just because.

The girls in front of us screaming “최 강 부 산,” literally, “Busan is the best!” might as well have been a Greek chorus.

Kim and I took some pictures with the players and basked in their sweaty, exhausted victory (Busan I’Park rarely beats a team as well-ranked as Seoul FC) before walking the mayor to his private car and saying goodbye. Earlier in the game he told Kim to text him so we could all meet up for the next game (in two weeks). Kim said she’d like to, but she’s a student and we got the tickets for free. The mayor told us not to worry about that. No joke.

I have no expectation.s

Ladies and Gentlemen, the mayor of Haeundae! He said one of the main reasons he comes to the games is he likes the energy the young ones have to cheer.

"Busan is best!" Kim and I didn't get the memo that this was a serious picture. Oops!

"Really, Korea?" "Why not."

Meet and greet with the coach.

This player, #4 Park Jong-Woo, is famous for the scoring the winning goal over Japan to give Korea the bronze medal this past London Olympics. After scoring, Park lifted a protest sign "Dokdo is our land." A write-up of the kerfuffle is here. What is not mentioned in the article is that for part of Park's punishment, he still has to serve military service, which no other Olympic medal-winner has to do in Korea.

Goalkeeper Lee Beom-Yeong, who made four pretty dang nice saves this game to keep I'Park
ahead of Seoul through to the end. And of course, Kim, the awesome.

Kim hauled this guy off the line and asked to take a picture with him. I don't actually know his name or number, but he was very obliging. 

Feels great to feel short in Korea!

One of my former soccer teammates posts "WeirdhandWednesday" pictures every Wednesday. They crack me up because they aren't nearly as awkward as my hands are in every picture I take. Exhibit A, above.  These are some pro-level I'Park fans. I wish I'd thought to ask them to explain the offsides rule, just to see if they could.

Arubai?

They called me noona and held the very definition of trepidation in their eyes as they shuffled toward me.

Where are you from?

I’m from America.

Ah. How old are you?

I’m twenty-four.

Ah. You good!

This last was directed at my soccer playing abilities. I had been skirting the edges of the local soccer field, practicing my juggling on dribbling whilst watching soccer so bad only high school boys could play it so. When they took a break (from what, I’ll never know since they took turns running during their “game”), I took shots on goal.  At one point, three shuffling fourteen-year-old boys approached me.

After the above conversation, they ran away, their courage spent. But a minute later they were back.

Coach. Us. Talk. English. Soccer. Kachi. Coach!

Your coach wants me to talk to him?

Yes.

We “talked,” exhausting my limited Korean and everyone else’s limited English skills and I spent the next hour training with three gun-shy little Korean boys. I may or may not be committed to every Sunday from 5 until 6 for eternity, but I’m not entirely certain. I will go back next week, mostly because all three boys have potential and because if I have left Korea having taught three Korean boys to shoot with both feet and the concept of passing the ball and then moving to open space, I will consider my stint here on the peninsula worth it.

("arubai" is probably misspelled, but it's a Korean word meaning "part-time job." The Japanese call it "arubaito," but I've no idea why. Nor do I know if the coach really meant the "job" part of arubai or if he meant "volunteer." Only time will tell.)

Soccer Time: Aussie Style

KFC! KFC! (this was 20 minutes before the game; the seats were full for
the game)

On my birthday, I bought myself a ticket to an Australian soccer league game: Melbourne Victory vs. Wellington Phoenix. Heading into the game I had very little idea what to expect. The last professional soccer match I watched live was nearly three years ago: a between Turkey and the United States. I was in the nosebleeds, and it was a very unimportant game played in front of an American crowd (American soccer fans are the Eeyore of soccer fans, if Eeyore was dumb as well as unenthusiastic).

Australia did not disappoint me—my tickets were the cheapest I could find, and I still got to sit in the second row—and Australian fans definitely didn’t disappoint. From what I understand, there’s a lot of British culture underpinning Aussie culture—they drive on the left, incorporate the union jack in their flag, and have an incomprehensible appreciation for cricket. And they speak with funny accents (surely that’s a British thing!).

And—like their forebears—they know how to appreciate a good soccer match, with all the illogical fervor of true fans. They cheer and groan in all the right places. The layman fan behind me was explaining strategy to his kid will a level of competency that made me want to turn around and pump his hand as a fellow connoisseur of the Beautiful Game.

After Melbourne’s first goal, the cheering/taunting/loudmouth-competition with the Wellington fans (two sections to my right), opened up. The loudest, longest, and most widespread Melbourne cheer that involved all four sides of the field’s participation and a lot of pointing and yelling was on the topic of bestiality. However, due to the incomprehensibility of most of the shouting to American-accent trained gal like myself, I have no idea who was supposed to be shagging whose sheep under which circumstances or for what reason. It shall ever remain a mystery.

Queuing or Coup-ing, which is worse?

(Sidenote: I’m writing this in the beautiful Carlton Gardens, next to the fountain on the South side of the Royal Exhibition building and everyone with children in a two-mile radius has chosen to descend on me. Moreover, I think the local pigeons are going to make a move in the next few minutes. They’re coup-ing ominously. Heh.)

But my favorite cheer and, indeed, the best part of the game came early in the second half when Marco Rojas took a beautiful corner kick (fifteen meters from where I sat!). The ball bounced back out to him and he attacked the goal with speed before laying it off to his fellow player at the top of the goal box. The shot was just wide, banging against the post back again to Rojas, who easily netted it, despite the sharp angle. The crowd around me erupted and broke into this little cheer:

“Marco Rojas! Marco Rojas! Marco Rojas! He scores when he wants! He scores when he wants!”

Lovely.

I wonder how many beers it would take to get an American crowd of 18,600 to cheer that for a soccer player.

And now, a birthday picture!

Birthday cake!!

I Medical

Sometimes I view my job here in Korea as a form of glorified cheerleading.

Me: How can you ask for a favor?

Freshmen: *cough* *pretend to look for a pencil* *glare balefully at the world*

Me: Look in the book—you can do it! “Would you mind…”

Freshmen: Would you mind . . . . mumblemumblemumble . . .

Me: Would you mind what?

Bill: Would you mind . . .open . . . window. . . mumbleshamefacedmumble

Me: Great, Bill! That’s it! Keep it up!

Bill: Would you mind window mumblemumbleducksheadmumble open me?

Me: Not really—but good job! John?

John: hurple?

Me: Almost! Would you mind opening . . . *point to the window*

John: win . . . dow?

Me: the window, but yes! Great job! Go team!!!!! *double thumbs up, smile, nod encouragingly*

I’ve found myself naturally adopting this cheerleading mentality with every Korean who talks to me. I nod. I smile. I throw thumbs up left right and center. Everyone needs more encouragement, right?

Wrong.

Remember my soccer buddy who is made of awesome and all things sweet? He came back the other day and took me to soccer, which was excellent fun. I wowed the little boys, got some exercise and a ride home from a guy called Young Boom.

Soccer buddy (in Korean): Do you have an English nickname?

YoungBoom: Ahhhhhh TIGER!!! YA!

Soccer buddy (to me):  “Boom” means “tiger.”

Me: I’m not calling him Tiger.

Soccer buddy: Okay, bye!

BoomTiger: Do you like . . . ummmm . . . cheekin?

Me: Um, yeah! Chickin’s good. *thumbs up*

I abhor chicken. It is greasy and makes my stomach feel like it’s hosting an unhappy but high on ecstasy amoeba party.

BoomTiger: Team. Cheekin. Eat?

Me: Um, no. I have to go home and study. Don't worry! I can take the subway.

BoomTiger: No! No! I drive. I medical. Me.

Me: I see. Cool. *thumbs up, smile*

BoomTiger: Gum?

Me: Sure! *anything-to-make-the-awkwardness-go-away smile*

It will take at least twenty minutes to get home. I ask questions—short, not scary questions—I chatter. I try to be a friendly, appreciative passenger. BoomTiger doesn’t know much English, but he asks questions, too.

BoomTiger: You like pizza? Chickin? Pasta?

BoomTiger: I drive car. You like?

BoomTiger: You like alcohol?

BoomTiger: You like music?

BoomTiger: Do you know ghjdiicsak? Music?

BoomTiger: Are you hungry? Food by Kosin eat?

I tried. I really did. I tried to stay encouraging. But when he said “Michael Jackson” and proceeded to belt a sampling of some incomprehensible rendition, wobbling his head back and forth like a mating peacock,[1] I shifted irreversibly into “polite.” Finally, as I was wondering what might possess someone to be quite so confident in their inabilities, he finished his warbling.

 BoomTiger: Shim shim? Do you know shim shim?

My phone dictionary displayed gratitude, heartfelt thanks.

Me: Yes. I shim shim. Thank you for the ride home.

BoomTiger: You. Phone.

Me: Hmm. Phone. Yes?

BoomTiger: Shim shim. Call!

Me: Ye-es.

I decided to check my phone again where I see the secondary meaning of shim shim. Bored. Meanwhile, BoomTiger has figured this out as well by calling a friend to ask him for the translation. I nodded and smiled, applauding the kind of efforts I rarely see even in my most dedicated students. Good job, BoomTiger! You tried really hard! Keep it up! Work on your verbs! I was already nodding and smiling when BoomTiger said, triumphantly:

BoomTiger: You bored. Call. Me!

Me: Oh. 

Oh please no. 

BoomTiger: Bored, yes. You? Me. Call!

Me: Oh, yes, bored, but--phone?

BoomTiger: You call. We food place. Eat. Alcohol. Okay?

Oh, be still my fluttering heart.

What went wrong? What could possibly make a boy think that, after sitting in the same car for ten minutes struggling to communicate the simplest banalities (even if she didn't already do that for a job), a girl would want to voluntarily sign up to do it again? Did I miss something? On the bright side, I've now got "medical insurance."

BoomTiger: You sick? Me call! I medical.

Oh good.

---

[1] Or rather, how I imagine mating peacocks do as they spread their useless but beautiful plumage.

Soccer Time, Thai Style

The Thai soccer circle was a lot easier to break into than the Korean circle. Last Friday I played my first game with the boys (boys, boys, it’s always boys) and shared with them the good news of women’s athletic emancipation.

This is P'Ton, who actually is not crazy contrary to this picture. 
He loves to learn English and is housedad not only to the forty 
orphans in the HELP Thailand house, but also to his own 2
daughters. Thais, like Koreans, are older than they look.

I’ve been pampered in Korea with turf fields and goals with nets. Here we play on dirt mixed with weeds with metal two-feet high mini-goals. No nets, no lines, and no smooth surfaces. The ball’s the same, though, as are the boys: incredulous and intrigued. When P’Ton, my soccer liaison (the Thai version of Gyu), went back on Saturday to play he said no less than five guys asked him where “Hlaine[1]” was. 

I miss playing with girls, though. Girls are undeniably slower, usually more scared of the ball, and less likely to play competitively, but they’re also smarter. Girls learn their passing game and their limits (sometimes too well), whereas playing with boys sometimes turns into a game of See Who Can Hold onto the Ball the Longest and Dribble around Everyone Else Even if He Ends Up No Where Near the Goal or Anyone Else on His Team. Like everything else, soccer comes with opportunity costs.

So I try not to take it too personally when they tell me I play soccer like a man. They mean well.

---

[1] The night before my birthday, the founders of HELP Thailand took me and the other workers out for a joint celebration for me and the other intern, whose birthday was on January 4^th. We had dinner and an ice cream cake that said “Happy Birthday Kristen & Hlaine.” P’Ton has thence adopted the appellation for me.

A Double Post

Also, I fear sea captains and being thrown into the ocean and eaten
by sharks.

I dislike being the outsider. I dislike not fitting in and that feeling of walking on ice, hoping to pass for someone who ought to be there. I hate being alone; I fear it worse than most things[1]. Fear is probably why I’m a Christian—not fear of Hell or God or judgment, as it ought to be, but fear of having to go it alone.

Then again, I hear tell that’s what Hell is—eternal separation from God and therefore from everything and everyone. Hell is loneliness.

When I think about the times I’ve felt alone, it doesn’t seem like an unreasonable belief. Being third wheel is pretty awful and being the new kid in town is worse. Korea has its moments, too. Sometimes at the beginning of a class when all 52 students are ignoring me and jabbering in Korean, I think Goodness, I could start talking about practically anything, and no one would understand—even if they bothered to listen.

Not a great feeling. Luckily, it’s not one I feel very often here in my post-pubescent days. I have an overabundance of confidence and I’m generally secure about finding my place. But there are exceptions to every rule.

I’ve never gotten the hang of soccer, in a social way. Pretty early on I understood the whole passing thing, and the don’t use your hands thing, and even the off-sides thing clicked before I was ten. But I have never—never, during all my nearly 20 years of soccer playing—figured out how to relax like a proper jock while kicking a soccer ball around.

Consequently, the joy of soccer has always come with a huge opportunity cost: awkward loneliness in left midfield. Most days, I’m okay with awkward, because of how beautiful the sport is and how inexplicably joyful passing, dribbling, shooting, and defending make me feel. Most days I’m willing to pay it, but not today.

Glad that’s out of my system. Now, because I hate sounding like Harry Potter in The Order of the Phoenix, here’s part two of this post. Here’s why not today:

I would rather...

...hear an entire opera sung at two very slightly different pitches

...read the Epic of Gilgamesh for the eighteenth time

...listen to an hour-long sermon about how women should learn in silence and full submission.

...watch a silver Solstice get smashed up by a Hummer

...smell whatever my downstairs neighbor cooks in the lining of all my clothes for the rest of my life

...have every single one of my students use the word “fastly” instead of “quickly;” misuse “good” and “well;” use articles at random and just as randomly not use them; confuse there, their, they’re and your and you’re at every possible, maddening opportunity. In short, I would rather hear people wildly butcher the English language

...than have to watch and be a part of lazy soccer.

Maybe that makes me a terrible English teacher but, lazy soccer is boring. Half-assed defending, passing, and moving all for the sake of one cool move or a too-high shot makes for the dullest game on earth. Bad soccer like this is—and I am freely admitting this without anyone aiming a gun or 6-iron at my head—worse than golf.

I get it. Really. I understand that there are very, very few people possessing an iota of the competitive drive that I have. Nor are there myriads of soccer players diseased with the perfectionism that plagues me. So it makes sense that for that enormous majority, playing soccer isn’t always about precision and speed and intelligent passing patterns, but more about hanging out with friends and goofing around.

The Little Prince and his rose and me. Nevermind - third wheel's kinda fun!

I get it. Really. Except I don’t. I missed something—probably somewhere in middle school or high school when I was reading books about mice with swords—I missed something about how to have fun the way jocks have fun. And it’s even harder when everyone else is speaking Korean. They could all be making horribly racist, sexist jokes about me and I would have no idea. Not that I think it would happen, but it’s a pretty lonely realization to have.

On Sunday, a friend and I were walking on Haeundae beach and we saw this sand structure (pictured above). It was such a perfect rendition of the Little Prince—so meticulously done and exquisitely proportioned. As we walked away, I looked behind me just in time to see some little kid kick the sand Little Prince. The Little Prince’s boot sprayed back into nothing but sand and the sculpture was marred. I felt wounded. If you’ve read the book, I think you’ll understand.[2]

That’s what lazy soccer is like to me: watching some little kid destroy something whole and perfect for ninety minutes. It’s awful, and it is way worse than “fastly.” Sorry, Grammar Nazis.

I know where my loyalties lie.

---

[1] Snakes being a huge and ever-present exception.

[2] For the Harry Potter nuts out there, I can’t help but compare this to killing a unicorn. Remember the first book?

Rocking the Soccer 'Burbs

In my never-ending search for more people to play soccer with, I’ve acquired a Tuesday night group out in Daeti. Gyu, my soccer savior, helped connect me to these boys who (he says) use “tough language” and, as (I’ve noted) smoke between games.

Nancy picked me up from the airport when
I first got here, and has the cutest southern
twang in the world.

I’m not sure exactly how to describe the skeptical Korean face. Nancy (pictured left, disgustingly fit, and nicely cheery) calls it The Korean Stare. We get it a lot in class.

Actual excerpt:

“In the picture, do you think he is walking proudly *point*, or absent-mindedly? *point* Raise your hand *demonstrate* if you think proudly.” 3 hands and 47 Korean Stares. “Raise your hand *demonstrate* if you think absent-mindedly.” No hands and 32 Korean Stares (everyone else isn’t looking at me).

But the stare I get when I lace up my cleats, while difficult to read, is possible to guess. 3 parts confused, 2 parts skeptical, and 1 part completely disoriented. As soon as I start playing, it’s mayhem. If it didn’t resemble the utter disbelief one might expect from someone who has never seen a pet poodle roll over and play dead, it would be flattering.

A favourite from Jeju.

I got cheers and hollers from even the simplest of moves and whenever I actually did something good, the boys in the stands would faint and weep and make marriage proposals.

I am joking, of course. But I have gotten a marriage proposal before (pre-Korea). And their reactions here are similarly ridiculous.

That said, of course I love being the girl rocking the guy’s world. I love the catcalls at the boy I just beat one-on-one; I love watching them gradually realize I won’t break if they touch me; I love turning the 2 parts skeptical, 1 part disoriented stare into a thumbs-up and an invitation back next week.

Because more soccer is never a bad thing.

I promise (maybe) that I'll stop writing about soccer and start writing about...Korean culture and things. Maybe. 

Don't Worry - I Know CPR!

There are have been some memorable quotes this past week, but my favorite is from Gyu (my unofficial soccer translator who happens to play outside mid like a [skinny, Korean] demon).

Let me preface this by saying that Gyu has a smile that is all things sweet, sincere and polite. But it’s not exactly reassuring when he uses it while translating soccer buddy #38’s, “당신이남자가아니라는것을확신합니까” into

“He says, ‘Are you sure you’re not a man?’ But in a good way!”

The runner-up for this week’s quote contest came from an unidentified defender who kicked me in the stomach.

“Are you okay? Don’t worry. I know *gestures* CPR!”

Third place goes to my dad for telling me to “Have a good weekend! Have an adventure!” Unfortunately, I have failed to do this. Three hours of soccer (even in the beautiful rain) does bad things to an out-of-shape-Elaine’s quad muscles and four hours of sleep does even worse things to her adventurous spirit. So I settled for a small walking tour of my side of the Yeongdo mountain (봉내산, Bongnaesan).

This is "Tomato," one of our main go-to restaurants.

Some friendly schoolgirls who practiced their English on me.
When I asked to take a picture, this was the resulting scramble
for the pink comb.