It's been almost three years since we moved to Montreal, and just about an even three years since I played my last game with my (the best, obviously!) former soccer team in Ottawa. I can't believe how much I took for granted that that town LOVES soccer. Moving to a bigger city, I was sure it would be easy. If Ottawa was soccer-crazy with just under a million people, Montreal clearly had to be even more so, right? Wrong.
I won't ever get back all the hours I wasted on fruitless google searching for "Montreal women's soccer" and dreaming that I'd find something close to home or for people over twenty years old. Or the (repeated) conversations I had about joining the anarchist soccer league (?!). I'm not sure I'm anarchist-league material (I like rules. I even wear shin pads. Recently voted least likely to be an anarchist, me). Also, co-ed soccer is horrible.
But I've finally stepped up and decided that if I want to play I'm going to have to travel for it. TO LACHINE. This is less than ideal (suburbs? seriously?), but it was made immensely more worth it yesterday when I headed to a two hour clinic to work on the passing, defending and scoring technique that I was sure I just would have forgotten, in advance of next week's first game.
Turns out? Playing soccer is just like riding a bicycle. You never forget.
It also turns out that when you don't play for three years, you can hurt muscles that you forgot existed. I keep telling myself it's good pain.