Mud

When I was about 10 years old, I played on a soccer team. Because it was 1968 and there weren't any soccer teams for girls I played on a soccer team for boys. I was therefore the only girl though our coach was a mother of one of the boys.

Mrs. Clifton was, as her name doesn't quite imply, German. Her son's name was Klaus. That was German. Very German. Mrs. Clifton had reddish, thinning hair and a strong spitty accent and rough skin along her ropey arms. She had grown up in Europe and she knew how to play soccer. She organized our practices like a drill sargeant and at the end of every practice and game, she had a cooler filled with sliced up oranges for us to eat.

She also had a tattooed number on her wrist. I didn't really know what it meant until my mother said Mrs. Clifton had survived the Concentration Camps. Years later, when I spent hours after school on my belly in the school library looking at the books no one bothered to check out, I found a book on the Holocaust and read it quickly, painfully -- looking at the pictures in horror and with a bit of fascination. In that book they showed the same tattoos that Mrs. Clifton had on her wrist. It was difficult to put the pictures in the book together with the picture of Mrs. Clifton in her Addidas sweats and hooded sweatshirt on the soccer field. I think it was my first real understanding of the term "survivor."

I don't remember much about playing soccer though I know none of the boys wanted to guard me, afraid they'd somehow hurt me and so I often scored goals in games uncontested. Mrs. Clifton put me at a wing position because I was tall and fast and could sprint the length of the soccer pitch.

I also remember our first game. It rained the entire time. I was cold and wet and still Mrs. Clifton told us to "RRRuunnn, RRRuunnn, RRRuunn" and "Shooooot!" in her heavy German accent. Running was difficult. Mud came up to my shins and the ball rolled like a weight, heavy with clumps of turf. We slid. Not intentionally like you're supposed to in a soccer game, but by accident. Every time we tried to plant our feet , our heels lost any grip they had and we toppled onto our sides and backs. My uniform was covered in mud and dirt within the first five minutes of the game.

By the end of the match, we were encased in mud, our skin buried deep beneath a thick coat of cracked dirt. My teeth clattered together. I was so cold I couldn't untie my laces. I threw a sweatshirt over my jersey and shook with a chill that didn't go away until I sat in a hot, hot bath at home.

I hadn't thought of Mrs. Clifton for years until today when I watched Rubin play with his new best friend, Sadie, an older Labradoodle. They were soaked and muddy within five minutes of their romp, tossing each other around on the ground much like we did when we played soccer. By the time Sadie left, Rubin was chilled to the bone, shivering in rhythmic pulses. We gave him a warm bath, spraying him gently with water to wash out the mud caked in between every hair on his body. He shook even more and then Ann wrapped him in her sweatshirt and a blanket and rubbed him softly until he fell asleep in a warm wooly heap.

Now he's walking around like a fluffball, his fur soft and flowery scented. I don't think I ever walked around soft and flowery after a soccer game or after any game in my life, but today, watching Rubin romp around the wet backyard, I was flooded with memories of Mrs. Clifton, tattoos, soccer, and mud.

Sadie is on top here (light cream) while Rubin is the muddy darker pup underneath. You can see the curl of his tail to the right and if you look closely, his head is buried into the scruff of Sadie's neck.

Halftime...a forced timeout. Rubin is staring at Sadie who is on her own side of the field...