I Started Playing Soccer Again as an Adult — Here’s What It’s Actually Like
I started playing soccer again after 12 years away. Here's what adult rec soccer is really like, from finding my confidence to unexpected family traditions.
OUTSIDE THE NOOK
I’m writing this from my couch with my ankle strapped into a brace, which feels like an appropriate place to talk about my decision to start playing soccer again as an adult.
For the record, I do not regret it.
I would, however, like my ankle to remember that this was supposed to be a fun little hobby.
About a year ago, my younger brother and I joined an indoor soccer league. There was no inspiring reason behind it. We didn’t make a fitness pact. I wasn’t trying to reconnect with my childhood or become an Athlete™ again.
It was basically just: Fuck it. Why not?
There were a few small problems with this plan.
I hadn’t played soccer in 12 years. I had never played indoor soccer. I didn’t know the rules, where I was supposed to stand, or just how quickly my lungs would betray me.
I found out thirty seconds into our first game.
A year later, I can sometimes play a full game without coming off the field. Tuesday night is now one of my favorite parts of the week. My grandma has become our most loyal fan. And I am currently under doctor’s orders to temporarily stop doing the thing I once couldn’t survive for more than three minutes.
So, yes. A lot has happened.
I Thought I Was in Shape. That Was Cute.
Before I started playing again, I genuinely believed I was in decent shape.
Then soccer very kindly corrected me.
During those first games, I could barely stay on the field for three minutes at a time. I would sub in, run around for a bit, and before long my lungs were burning and I was gasping for air.
Three minutes.
Sometimes less.
There’s a very specific kind of fitness required for soccer that I had completely forgotten about. You’re not just running. You’re sprinting, stopping, turning, defending, controlling the ball, checking where everyone is, and then sprinting again because the ball bounced off the wall and came right back at you.
Indoor soccer is fast. The field is smaller, the ball stays in play, and half the time something has happens before my brain can process it. I'm usually playing on instinct.
For the first few weeks, my internal monologue sounded like this:
Where am I supposed to stand?
Am I too far forward?
Is that my person?
What in the world was that whistle for?
Has it been long enough for me to sub out without embarrassing myself?
Why have I been on the field for 45 seconds?
How do you defend again?
Slowly, though, my body caught up. I can play a full game now if I need to. I still get tired, but I’m no longer counting every second until I can get off.
Soccer has even changed what I do on the other six days of the week. I stretch every day. I walk more. I pay attention to strength and stamina because I can actually feel the difference when I play.
I guess “I want to keep playing my Tuesday indoor game” motivates me far more than “exercise is good for you.”
The Moment I Stopped Panicking Every Time I Got the Ball
The stamina was easy to notice. The confidence snuck up on me.
At first, getting a pass felt like an emergency.
Oh crap. Someone gave me the ball.
Now it’s more like:
Give me the ball.
To be clear, I’m not Messi. Nobody is putting together a highlight reel. But I know where I’m supposed to be now. I understand how the game moves. My touch has come back. I make decisions faster. I’m more willing to take someone on instead of immediately passing the ball away before I can ruin everything.
Confidence makes a big difference. Turns out, I play a lot better when I’m not afraid of getting the ball.
I’ve even started filling in occasionally for an all-women’s league. I like it, although I’ve learned that I prefer coed. I’ve also played outdoor again and confirmed something teenage me didn’t know: indoor is better. At least for me.
A year ago, I was quietly hoping nobody would pass to me. Now other teams ask me to play with them.
I like to think that’s pretty cool.
Adult Rec Teams Are Their Own Kind of Friendship
I’ve been with the same team for about a year now. We have fun. We know how each other plays. We’re getting more comfortable. And somewhere along the way, we’ve started becoming actual friends.
I could not tell you what most of these people do for work.
Not a clue.
But I know who will attempt the risky pass. I know who will chase a ball they have no chance of reaching. I know who I trust behind me and who gets quietly competitive.
Ask me what they do between 9 and 5? Nothing. Blank stare.
There’s something nice about making friends this way as an adult. Nobody has to sit down and ask, Hello, would you like to begin a friendship? We just show up, play, talk a little more each week, and slowly getting to know each other.
Adult rec soccer also comes with an unspoken agreement:
We’re trying.
But we’re not trying that hard.
I want to win. I want to play well. I will chase a ball I probably cannot reach.
I also have a full-time job. I need my knees. I’m not launching myself into every tackle like I'm trying to get recruited.
Every so often, there’s a player on the other team who has not gotten this memo.
Nobody at my job knows I play, which makes Tuesday night feel like a mildly ridiculous secret life.
Tuesday night: sprinting, yelling, sweating, getting kicked in the shin.
Wednesday morning: Good morning! Please see the updated ship date below.
Again, I’m not Messi. I have emails to answer.
Tuesday Night Somehow Became a Family Tradition
This is the part I didn’t see coming.
Soccer was supposed to be one thing my brother and I did together. Now my parents feed us before our games, so Tuesday means dinner at their house. My dad sometimes comes to watch. My husband usually comes.
My grandma goes to every single game. Every one.
Even the late ones or the double headers. The start time does not matter.
She’ll be there.
One of her friends started coming to every game also, and now he has become my friend too.
What began as “the night we play soccer” has turned into dinner at my parents’ house, family in the stands, and all of us talking about the game afterward. Sometimes a trip to DQ. It feels completely normal now. That might be the strangest part, because none of it existed a year ago.
We accidentally made a tradition.
And Then There’s My Brother
I can’t write about this year without talking about my younger brother.
We signed up together on the strength of one very convincing argument: Fuck it. Why not?
But we weren’t starting from the same place. I was coming back to a sport I hadn’t played in 12 years. For him, this was his first real sport. Ever.
I’ve watched him learn from scratch, and the difference between where he started and how he plays now is huge. But the biggest change isn’t what he does with the ball. It’s the way he carries himself.
He’s more confident. I can see it during games, but I can see it outside soccer too.
This is his thing now. He’s an athlete. He has a team and games and something he works at, gets better at, and looks forward to every week. I know what that change feels like because I’ve been having my own version of it right beside him.
A year ago, we were both trying to figure out where the heck we were supposed to stand. Now we eat at our parents’ house, do our stupid pregame stretches in the living room, and know how to play together without having to talk about it much.
We still talk about the game afterward, of course. In great detail. Whether anyone else wants us to or not.
Somewhere in all those Tuesdays, my brother and I got closer.
I got soccer back. I got fitter. I found a team. But one of the best parts of this whole impulsive decision has been watching my brother find something he genuinely loves too.
I don’t know if he realizes how proud I am of him.
I guess he will when he reads this.
Nobody Warned Me Soccer Would Ruin My Sleep
That was enough sincerity. Let’s talk about peeing.
Adult soccer has taught me that being physically exhausted does not equal sleep. Our games can be late, so I’ll get home completely spent, shower, crawl into bed, and wait for my body to realize we’re not still playing.
My legs: dead.
My brain: wide awake.
My heart: Should we do another sprint?
No. We should not.
Then there’s the water. During and after a game, I drink as if I'll never see it again. Once I finally fall asleep, I spend the rest of the night getting up to pee.
My usual post-game routine:
1. Be too wired to sleep.
2. Finally fall asleep.
3. Wake up to pee.
4. Repeat. Sometimes seven times. Seriously.
5. Eventually sleep again.
6. Hear alarm.
7. Internally cry.
8. Go to work.
Nobody puts that part in the inspirational sports montage.
Turns Out, You’re Supposed to Stop Playing on a Sprained Ankle
Which brings us back to the brace.
This week, I sprained my ankle during the first half of my first game.
Then, because I am a person with excellent judgment, I played the second half.
And then another entire game.
Without a break.
In my defense, it hurt, but it didn’t seem that bad at the time.
The next morning, I couldn’t make it more than three steps.
This defense did not impress the doctor. She called me dumb. Fair.
She also admitted that she probably would have done the same thing, which I feel weakens her accusation.
Now I’m at home in an ankle brace, temporarily banned from soccer right when I’ve reached the point where I feel genuinely comfortable on the field.
A year ago, I was desperate to come off after three minutes. Now I’m being medically forced to stay off, and I’m already irritated about it.
That’s probably the clearest measure of progress I have.
Somehow, This Became My Thing
I didn’t start playing soccer again because I wanted to transform my life. I didn’t set a big goal. My brother and I thought it might be fun, so we signed up.
Now, I’m more confident and a much better player than I was a year ago. I’ve made friends. I found a version of the sport that I love even more than the one I grew up playing.
Tuesday means dinner with my parents. My husband comes to watch. My dad sometimes does too. My grandma has perfect attendance. And I’ve spent a year doing something I love with my little brother while watching him fall in love with it for the first time.
The sprained ankle is annoying. I’d still do all of it again.
For now, I’ll wear the brace, complain about missing a few games, and then I’ll put my cleats back on and go right back to playing.
A year ago, soccer was just something my brother and I decided to try.
Somehow, it became one of my favorite parts of the week.
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