The game started well enough for us. A few minutes into the game, Jimmy let one of his signature wicked shots wail. We all had our hands in the air and for a moment we thought we were going to be the first team to score on them.

Then, out of nowhere, the keeper - flat on his ass - sprung out like Mighty Mouse and punched the ball out into the air. He may have even deflated it. I don't remember.

It was all downhill from there. They took over the game and we couldn't wait for the oranges at halftime - Sicilian blood oranges were in season.

I distinctly remember the murmurs from our "supporters" (read: family members and "friends") in the stands as they hurled creative, playful insults in three different languages.

We lost 6-0 - saved by the mercy rule.

After the game, we were told that the team who just spanked us silly was from the Indian reserves.

Now we were really perplexed.

"Indians play soccer?" we wondered. Such sheltered, wasted lives we led up until that point. Note: The term Native was not part of the '80s lexicon. But "Relax (Don't do it)" was.

At the end of the game the comments didn't let up. "Look at the muscles on their legs!" our motivational coach blurted. "I bet they don't go play video games like you guys. They know what it takes to win."

Man that was harsh.

They know what it takes to win.

If there was one line that I took away from that forgettable, lukewarm autumn day, it was that one because it's a true axiom in sports - wanting it more than the next guy. But we did try that day. It just wasn't good enough. That sucked.

I'm sure the coach was proud of us. Maybe I blocked it out or something.

Still, I sure could use an "I love you guys" right about now.