The search for lost glory. The registration fees. The tragic team names. The championship t-shirts. The inflated egos. The weekend war. This is rec league soccer.

Rec league soccer rightfully attracts players with all levels of experience. It’s a perfect format for new players to get in and learn the game from seasoned vets. But sometimes, especially in the United States, players sign up without a hint of knowledge or respect for the sport. For many, it’s ingrained in youth: soccer is an easy sport for sissies. By fate, some of those kids grow up and find themselves on a rec league soccer field, usually to win points with the boss or a hot chick. And, gee whiz, a little exercise would be good!

The secret is, soccer (at all levels) is much more than a little exercise. There may not be the brutal contact found in American football or the raw muscle power of baseball, but soccer easily requires many multiple times the running of any other major team sport. It’s pretty much all running. This requires endurance and condition for which many aren’t prepared. I’ll share two personal stories of players who faced the consequences of underestimating the requirements a rec league soccer match, in the hope that you can take this knowledge and one day save a life. Seriously.

The Tale of Holy Shit He’s Not Breathing

While warming up for an outdoor game last summer, I noticed the current match had stopped and a group of people were standing over a guy flat on his back. This is not an unusual sight, as people twist ankles, smash knees, and cause general bodily mayhem pretty regularly. Plus, it was almost 90 degrees and heat exhaustion is common. But this was different… he looked young, in shape, and he was not moving.

The air of the situation got tense very quickly. I was 20 yards away but heard snippets of conversations in frantic tones. “Is he breathing?” “I don’t know.” “Go get help.” Within seconds his teammates sprinted off to summon help while others stayed behind and performed CPR. If you have never seen CPR in real life, it’s terrifying to watch. “I don’t think he has a pulse.” I felt like throwing up.

The ambulance showed up a few minutes later and I overheard from teammates that this guy had been playing vigorously and suddenly dropped limp, only sporadically regaining consciousness. His breathing and pulse were off-and-on. After a few moments on-site, they whisked him off to the hospital.

The next week I asked the facility organizers if they knew what happened to the guy. They told me that his heart was significantly damaged because it stopped (!) for a period of time and he would undergo surgery soon. Why? Instead of water, he had been drinking Red Bull. In layman’s terms, it was explained to me that the resulting electrolyte imbalance was so severe that his body shut off like a switch. Apparently he didn’t realize that the exertion required for playing soccer in such heat would require a lot of water (and temperance) to keep up. My guess is, he had a late night and needed a boost for the game. The boost led him to overwork a dehydrated body, and the result almost killed him.

The Tale of You Can’t Play Soccer if You Smoke

Years ago, I joined a team of all coworkers, but I hadn’t been at the job long enough to know much of anyone. At the first game, I recognized a guy for a reason that sent up a red flag or two: I see him everyday on my way into the office, smoking a cigarette by the door.

The starting whistle blew with this guy on the field. He seemed fine but subbed out literally one minute later. I went in for him, played ten minutes or so and came back to the bench. I saw him seated, clinging to consciousness, sucking in air, pale and covered in sweat. Moments later, he limped away to puke.

Not only did he not return to the field that day, but he never showed up to another game. The moral of the story is, if you smoke, you can play golf or pool. Only.

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There is a tiny nation in the world of soccer of which many of us are citizens: The Recreation League. Far from Old Trafford, papparazzi, and highlight reels, you’ll find me playing co-ed, open age group, in a middle tier division, in Columbus, Ohio. In the grand soccer scheme, my team hardly exists. There is no cup for us. We have no fans, no salary, no recognition, and no respect outside our microcosm. But what is inside the microcosm is what Rec Rules is about—a regular look inside the American recreation league culture.

The search for lost glory. The registration fees. The tragic team names. The championship t-shirts. The inflated egos. The weekend war. This is rec league soccer.

The rec league is in many ways like a bloodsoaked Darwinian social experiment.

Due to the impossible task of evaluating new, unfamiliar teams, league organizers have no choice but to handle the insertion of these teams as a realtime assessment. Consequently, newcomers are usually placed in a skill division that is no more than a best guess. Imagine if you had never seen a wolf before, and upon adopting one, opted to keep it in a pen with your goats. They’re roughly the same size, hairy, with four legs. A reasoned but wholly uninformed guess just slaughtered all your goats. And just when you figure out where the wolf ought to be kept, a lion shows up looking for a home.

Add to this the spotty reliability of recreational players, and you occasionally have games so severely lopsided it’s hard to watch. In fact, teams that are too often the goat usually go extinct altogether. Natural selection is a brutal judge.

I have personally suffered through a savage attack (losing by 10) and have had the sadistic pleasure of winning by 20. As good as you think you are, there is a team somewhere in your past or future that will tear out your guts like a National Geographic documentary. The good news is, sooner or later, we all get to be the goatslayer.

[Anecdotally, I just realized I once played for a team whose mascot was a goat. And we lost a lot.]

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There is a tiny nation in the world of soccer of which many of us are citizens: The Recreation League. Far from Old Trafford, papparazzi, and highlight reels, you’ll find me playing co-ed, open age group, in a middle tier division, in Columbus, Ohio. In the grand soccer scheme, my team hardly exists. There is no cup for us. We have no fans, no salary, no recognition, and no respect outside our microcosm. But what is inside the microcosm is what Rec Rules is about—a regular look inside the American recreation league culture.

The search for lost glory. The registration fees. The tragic team names. The championship t-shirts. The inflated egos. The weekend war. This is rec league soccer.

If there is one infallible law of the rec league world, it is rule #1. When we all accept this, the world will be a better place.

About an hour ago I was on the giving end of a 4-2 win and the receiving end of some verbal jabs from one particular opponent. “That high school shit don’t [sic] work on me,” was his first volley, in reference to some of my wayward footwork. He continued throughout the game, insulting various players on my team. I was surprised by his unprovoked brashness. Sure, trash talk is accepted in a soccer player’s repertoire, but in a rec league? Why go for a mental edge that risks others’ perceptions of you as a person, in a contest full of people who play soccer for fun and health? There is no relegation zone. You can’t be fired for a bad performance, nor get a raise or called up for a good one. It’s out of place, and ironically juvenile. (And speaking of irony, I would estimate any high school team within 20 miles could have their way with any team in our division… including this guy’s.)

So, guy, I refer you to the first law of rec league soccer: It’s just a rec league. You don’t need the cheap advantage you might go for in a cutthroat professional environment. If it were that type of environment, I would have headbutted you with haste. ‘Cause that’s how it’s done.

The widespread delusion that what we do on the field has some greater significance than helping us stay in shape, or giving us a healthy competition once or twice a week, is an endearing quirk of the rec league. When players mouth off, or commit fouls out of frustration, I have to wonder if it’s rooted not in competitive spirit but a deeper resentment of underachievement in other aspects of life. Like, maybe he didn’t get much playing time in high school. Or his kids hate him. Or his wife is cheating on him. Or maybe he was afraid we actually were better than him. To which I retort, WHO FUCKING CARES? (see rule #1)

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There is a tiny nation in the world of soccer of which many of us are citizens: The Recreation League. Far from Old Trafford, papparazzi, and highlight reels, you’ll find me playing co-ed, open age group, in a middle tier division, in Columbus, Ohio. In the grand soccer scheme, my team hardly exists. There is no cup for us. We have no fans, no salary, no recognition, and no respect outside our microcosm. But what is inside the microcosm is what Rec Rules is about—a regular look inside the American recreation league culture.