Portland Magazine Winter 2012

THE BEST SOCCER PLAYER IN THE WORLD Sat at a rickety table the other night, behind the looming south wall of Merlo Field, on which there is a fifteen-foot-high photograph of herself in her University of Portland jersey, and signed autographs for, by my count, two hundred children. The children were mostly girls but there was a startling number of boys and they had the same look on their faces as the girls did, something like anticipation and awe and delight and trepidation and wonder that they were actually no kidding about to shake hands with and be smiled upon by the Best Soccer Player in the World, who looked remarkably like a regular human being, with scruffy sneakers and surfer shorts and a shy smile, despite the fact that she is the Best Soccer Player in the World, and millions of people around the planet had just stared at their screens in amazement as she had the greatest performance in Olympic soccer history, and soon she will score more international goals than anyone ever, this after having one of the greatest college careers ever on the field near where she sat at the rickety table, signing programs, scraps of paper, a baseball mitt, hats, shirts, two casts (both left arms, oddly), photographs, and a proof-of-insurance card that a dad hurriedly pulled out of his wallet when his daughter was about to burst into tears because she had nothing for Christine Sinclair to sign.

I stood there for a while and watched the children shuffle closer and closer until they were in the Presence, and a remarkable number of children stood and stared down at their shoes as their moms and dads urged them to at least say hi or something after waiting in line for so long for heavenssake, and I have to say that the way most of them then utterly shyly glanced up at the Best Soccer Player in the World and found her grinning gently at them and quietly saying hey, you excited for the game tonight? you love soccer too, don’t you? isn’t it the greatest game? gave me the happy willies, because the children’s faces then lit up like lamps! because She was talking to them! and She was friendly and gentle and not officious and cocky and self-absorbed in the least! She’s like a regular person!

Most of the children then did proffer something to be signed, but more than a few just stood there thrilled and agog as they shook Her hand, and beamed even more as She said something gentle and friendly to them as their moms or dads edged them past the rickety table, because the line must keep moving, there are lots of other kids waiting to talk to Her, but I watched a few kids, as they got past the table and were steered toward the field by their moms and dads, stare at their autographed scraps of paper like they were objects beyond any calculation or measurement of value, which they were. One girl who looked about six years old kissed her scrap of paper before she tucked it away carefully in a stunning pink purse.

After about an hour it was time for the Best Soccer Player in the World to wrap up, and the table was dismantled, and She ambled off to watch her alma mater open another season with another victory, but I stayed where I was, watching her wade through a shallow sea of small children who reached up to touch her hands as she passed through them like a tall dream. Then She turned the corner and vanished, and it was time for the game to begin, but you would be surprised how many children stayed right where they were, there in the concourse, even as their moms and dads were chivvying them toward the field. I watched one small girl be expertly herded toward the stands by her dad, who angled himself so she couldn’t see the huge candy bars for sale, but just before they entered the tunnel the girl turned and looked back, as if perhaps Christine Sinclair would again magically appear, looking like a regular human person! You wouldn’t believe that the Best Soccer Player in the World is a regular human person with scruffy sneakers and surfer shorts and a shy smile, but this is so, and She was back on campus the other night, and there are hundreds of children who will never forget the moment that She leaned down and said something gentle and funny to them and shook their hands and looked them in the eye and saw them for the holy astounding shy beings they are.

Some moments, it seems to me, are beyond any calculation or measurement of value. I saw a few, the other night, behind Merlo Field.

Brian Doyle