I don’t remember Dave’s last name, but he was the captain of a men’s summer soccer club I played with for a couple years in college.  Jim’s high-school buddy and teammate Howard Kogan connected me with the team, but I don’t think he was playing the game I’m thinking of. Dave was a canny central defender/sweeper.  Dave was thirty, which seemed ancient, with a Tom Selleck mustache. He was an easy going guy before and during games. He played smart, which I liked, to make up for being a little bit older. I was in my usual spot as left defender/fullback. 

One night we were playing a team who’s center forward was a local star, nineteen like me, but built like a small truck. He’d just come off a season at a Division I school, maybe. He was fast, powerful, cocky with success. Dave had spent much of the game matching brain against brawn, keeping Tom (or whatever his name was) in check.  Late in the game, the striker and Dave chased a long pass heading towards our goal. They were racing side by side on the breakaway, Dave a head taller, and Todd (or whatever his name was) like a bull chasing him down a street of Pamplona cobblestone. Dave got his foot planted in front of the ball to stop the run. Tim, or whatever his name was, had a foot pushing behind the ball, and just leaned into him with his shoulder.  Not like a football tackle, more like this moment of pause-tension in a tug of war or arm-wrestling match. There was an instant of complete stillness, and then, Dave’s leg just…snapped. 

I was chasing them down the field anyway, and I’ll never forget the gunshot sound of his leg breaking, muffled and held in place by the padding of his shin guards. That wasn’t as disturbing as the low, sad-cow moan Dave let out as he fell and laid there. To his credit, Tig, or whatever his name was, was as gracious and concerned and helpful as anyone else was, while we waited for the ambulance to arrive and drive onto the field, to gurney Dave away.