Growing Pains: The Story of the 2008 Anchorwomen (Part 3 of 3)

LATE SUMMER HAD given way to early fall and the warm air stayed along for the ride. Due to a curious scheduling oddity, the Anchorwomen were faced with seven consecutive road games to begin the season. A steep challenge for any squad, nevermind one with new players and a new head coach. After trading results at the St. John Fisher Tournament in upstate New York, they promptly dropped their next five matches in embarrassing fashion. Zero-four to Johnson & Wales; 0-5 to Babson; 0-1 to Roger Williams; and 0-6 to Wheaton. They finally scored a goal against Salve Regina, but nevertheless, lost 1-2.

And on it went. The losses accumulated like the autumn leaves. The season became as bleak as the stark gray bark on the barren oaks and maples. Fall was not kind to the Anchorwomen. The win column would starve for another ten matches. By All Hallow's Eve, their record sank to an embarrassing 1-15-1. One victory. Fifteen losses. One draw. It wasn’t pretty to watch.

Nevertheless, I stayed in contact with Christina well after my assignment was handed in. As a soccer fan, I had never witnessed the struggles the Anchorwomen had endured. I felt for them, and because of their plight, pulled for them even more. I offered them encouragement for efforts. Even after the humiliating four and five-goal losses, Christina remained upbeat.

“I think we’re progressing from the first game," she said. "We’re getting better.”

****
CHRISTINA IS AFFORDED another shot at redemption in the 62nd minute. This time, it’s thirty yards out, and off to the right, rather than right in front of the goal. As the team’s dead ball specialist, it’s her job to guide a free kick to an attacking teammate, or depending upon one's precision, right into the net. She runs up to the ball. It explodes off her right foot and sails toward the right corner once again. It catches the keeper’s mitts again, but this time, the ball falls over the line and into the goal. Christina trots toward her position with muted enthusiasm. Her teammates race to catch up to offer high fives and pats on the back. The game is far from over. She gingerly jogs back to center circle, rests her hands on her knees, and awaits the restart looking as if she had already forgotten the goal.

After the goal, Southern Maine is astonishingly static. Lethargic, even. They need a score to pull even, but they lack the energy to acquire the equalizer. Conversely, the Anchorwomen reclaim their voracious appetite for another goal, and continue to press forward, putting the navy blue backs at will back on their heels - literally. The young women in white evoke images of Los Galacticos - The Stars - of Real Madrid and their dazzling corps of football artists. Christina is the illustrious Raul, whose speed and awareness amazingly place him and the ball dangerously close to goal in the clutch. Kayla is the tough, but intelligent Sergio Ramos, a player who refuses to let any onrushing attacker get through. Maddie is the acrobatic Iker Casillas, a young, but battle-tested keeper whose hands naturally gravitate to meet the ball.

With the stopwatch at 71 minutes, the Anchorwomen fire up another counterattack. Kayla takes the ball near the right flank and defers it to Christina. The pony-tailed playmaker settles it with her left, then abruptly shifts it to her right, takes another touch, and chips a shot from twenty yards that skips off the keeper’s mitts again. It escapes her grasp and flies off the inside of the right post. The ball falls right onto the goal line. The keeper jumps back to recover it, but an advancing Brittney Caldwell beats her to it, and punches the uncorralled ball into the net for the insurance goal. A sudden, but resounding "YEAH!" leaps from the bleachers. Two-nil, Anchorwomen.

***
HOW WOULD YOU define perseverance?

The evening before the final collegiate soccer game she’d ever play, I posed this question to Kayla, whose large dimples are never hidden due to an omnipresent smile. The sun was setting, giving away to a beautifully-painted crimson sky. The team had just concluded its last training session of the season at the RIC Soccer Stadium. She giggled at the question, as of we were plain game of “Truth or Dare.”

She hesitated.

“Sticking…with it, and not giving up. The season’s been tough, but I’ve never thought about giving up on it.”

I tossed the same question to Maddie.

She shot me a look as if I had asked her what the capital of Kazakhstan was.

“What the hell does that mean?”

I half-apologized for asking such an abstract question.

“Obviously, we struggled. It was very frustrating. I’d definitely say that this season has been frustrating. We had a lot of bad luck. We definitely should have won a lot more games.”

Indeed, for all the embarrassing losses, there were many one-goal games when the Anchorwomen came enticingly close to victory, only to fall short. Offside by a nose. A finishing pass that arrived a split second early. The posts were clanked with alarming regularity, as if bonus points were awarded for such dubious feats. Despite their luck, or lack thereof, their efforts never wavered.

“We all tried as hard as we could. We played with all our hearts.”

A gap of silence temporarily fell between us. Her chestnut brown eyes peered toward the horizon.

“I feel like we’re gonna get a win against Southern Maine tomorrow. I’m definitely excited.”

***
FOR ONCE, THE pressure is not square on the shoulders Anchorwomen. There is no late-game deficit. Instead, they are ahead. Winning. But their emotions remain guarded. They anticipate a furious reply. But even after the second goal, the Huskies look dead, like zombies. It’s as if their legs are chained to anchors. And that is just fine with the Anchorwomen. While RIC plays a spirited game of keep away, the minutes roll off the scoreboard. 75 minutes…80 minutes…85 minutes…

Finally, with two minutes remaining, the guests shake off their heavy harnesses. White orbs fly toward the RIC goal. Maddie is tested on three consecutive rapid-fire shots. She parries each one away with ease. With a minute remaining, it becomes elementary: owning a two goal advantage, the Anchorwomen will win this game. The seconds on the scoreboard slowly tick by, as if it were underwater. Maddie sends a line drive kick high above center circle. The crowd bubbles with enthusiasm. The final horn joyfully blares.

The spectators jump to their feet, clapping their hands loudly, whistling and shouting praise.

"WAY TO GO, RIC!"

"GOOD JOB, GIRLS!"

The Anchorwomen have claimed sweet victory.

The women in white trade handshakes, high fives and hugs. Moments later, they come together, lock hands, form a long 20-player-wide line. It clumsily, yet joyfully, bounces toward the RIC faithful. Yards before their supporters, they bow in unison. A “thank you” to their parents, friends, and former teammates in attendance. The partisan crowd erupts. The moment belongs to them. All of them.

After returning to the bench and gathering their equipment for the final time this season, the victors exit the pitch. Wisecracks, laughs, and smiles abound for the Anchorwomen.

Kayla, the steady senior who kept an even keel throughout, slaps me a high five. I ask her if the finality of her soccer career has hit her yet.

“It did a little right after the whistle. I may have teared up a bit,” she says, with a gleeful laugh, as if she were afraid to admit it. “But the fact of the matter is that we FINALLY won!”

For the first time all season, the postgame scene on Mount Pleasant Avenue is bathed in praise and cheers. They wanted it so badly. They played beautifully. In the distance, the maroon and white scoreboard flashes the result: 2-0.

They did it.

Growing Pains: The Story of the 2008 Anchorwomen (Part 2 of 3)

ONLY NINETY MINUTES remained in the 2008 season. Clouds begin to mask the sun, giving the sky a milky tone. Yet, there is an energy emanating near the RIC bench. The women in white bounce against each other like numbered ping pong balls in a lottery machine. Kayla and Christina leap like kangaroos. Their feet have springs on them. It’s as if the entire field is one green trampoline. All week, the Anchorwomen talked about how much this match meant to them. Their dismal record now an afterthought. Only this game mattered. They want to close out the season with a win.

For their families. For pride. For Kayla. For themselves.

Southern Maine wins the coin toss and elects to take the ball. The opening whistle screeches and the central midfielder pushes the ball diagonally to a teammate. But within seconds, RIC intercepts the ball, and begins to dominate the run of play. The passes are crisp and accurate, as the ball obediently finds the feet of the Anchorwomen.

The Huskies struggle to keep pace with their opponents. Three navy blue players swarm upon a single Anchorwoman, while two of her teammates patiently wait unmarked nearby. The passing is fluid and graceful. One touch, then go. The outside attackers glide along the wings on their runs. Their form is melodic, like a samba beat. One player goes here, another replaces her, and another replaces her. A void is filled on the fly. Their positions interchange as smooth as satin. They are playing what the free spirited Brazilians call joga bonito – beautiful football.

But there is nothing beautiful about Southern Maine’s approach. They are like the defensive-minded Italians, and their brand of suffocating - ugly - football, or calcio as it's called in their country, is on full display. Flailing slide tackles, shirt tugging, and wayward elbows are evident signs that a team has not figured out its opponent. They kick and push around RIC’s most elusive attacker, Chelsea Creamer. After a number of shameless shoves, the fiery, dark-haired winger returns the offenses with pointed words for both the opponent and the stout, orange-and-black poloed referee who is failing to protect her. Her sharp criticisms are rewarded with a yellow card caution during the 23rd minute.

Despite the incredulous reprimand, the abused midfielder gets into another spat eleven minutes later. The Huskies are tugging her shirt to thwart her impeccably timed runs. The dark-haired winger pleads for a call against her attacker. The referee shoots her a stern look and once again warns the victim rather than the perpetrator.

“Are you serious?!?” implores Chelsea, her eyes wide and mouth gaping open in sheer disbelief.

"That is bull****!"

A second yellow card is whisked high above her head. Two yellow cards in a single match equal an automatic red card ejection. A player sent off with a red card cannot be replaced. This is not the kind of omen the hosts were hoping for. The Anchorwomen are doomed to play with only ten players for the remaining hour left in the match. They find themselves in a familiar position: backs against the wall. Goalkeeper Maddie Pirri smacks her leather mitts in disgust. Another disappointing loss appears woefully imminent.

***
MADDIE HAD TASTED sweet success. As a freshman goalkeeper, she backstopped the Anchorwomen to the Little East Conference semifinal and hoped the team would ride last year’s success into this season. Then, uncertainty bushwhacked the entire team.

Without a head coach, Coach Jess, with the title of “interim head coach” did her best to keep the ship afloat while the search continued. She conducted double-sessions - a two hour practice in the morning, followed by a two-hour afternoon session to prepare her charges as best as she could. She kept her players motivated throughout, despite the elephant in the room. They trained under the hot summer sun for two weeks.

“Coach Jess did what she could, and she did a great job. She had us focusing on conditioning and getting us in shape for the season,” said Maddie.

Finally, near the end of the preseason, a man with dark glasses and a maroon ball cap approached the field. A flood of whispers followed.

‘Who is that?’ ‘Is that him?’ ‘Is he our new coach?’

Mike Koperda heard the whispers. He tipped his cap to confirm the rumors that he was indeed the new head coach of the Rhode Island College Anchorwomen.

***

FOLLOWING CHELSEA'S EJECTION, Coach Koperda is imploring his charges to keep their heads up.

“It’s alright ladies! Dig deep! This game isn’t over!”

But the Anchorwomen are disorganized. Like a host of moths fluttering around a street lamp.

But after a brief spell of disarray, they rediscover their form, despite the disadvantage in personnel. Now, instead of doom, hope springs forth. Rays of light shine upon them. The prospect of a goal isn’t a matter of if, but a matter of when.

RIC fires up the counterattack in the 55th minute. A loose ball floats over the box. Alicia Lardaro leaps to meet the ball with her head, but a defender hauls her down before she makes contact. The referee races over to the scene, and points to the chalk circle inside the box. A penalty kick is awarded to the Anchorwomen. Because of her precise right foot, Christina Tavana is the designated penalty kick specialist. She coolly dribbles the ball and places it exactly twelve yards in front of goal.

All eyes are on Christina. Her teammates stand back the requisite ten yards. Silence fills the stadium. It is just her, the ball, and the goalkeeper. She pulls her hair back, then holds her hands on her hips, as she awaits the referee’s signal.

SCREEEEEEEEEEE!

On cue, she leans forward. So does the keeper. On the approach, Christina whips her leg forward, the way a golfer swings his driver. A hollow thud pierces the silence. The ball screams toward the left corner of the net. The goalkeeper leaps to her right to intercept. It stings off her mitts and beyond the outside of the post. Chelsea watches from the sidelines, but knows she can do nothing.

Another bad omen.

Growing Pains: The Story of the 2008 Anchorwomen (Part 1 of 3)

(I originally submitted this story without a title, until I received feedback from my professor with "Untitled" in the story line. I'm usually not that cryptic. So, the title here is one I came up with, like, 20 seconds ago. Thought you'd enjoy the spontaneity of that. Or not.

Anyway...)

***

November 1, 2008.

It’s a postcard of a day on Mount Pleasant Avenue in Providence. Fiery oranges, cherry reds, and burnt siennas cling to their towering branches. Their time is near, as they wave their final goodbyes in the breeze. A powder blue ceiling hangs above the emerald green soccer pitch at the RIC Soccer Field. The air is unseasonably mild. It is a splendid autumn day.

For the Rhode Island College women's soccer team, the date on the calendar signifies something else. The alluring promise of the playoffs is often so rich that it can tasted. The post-match perspiration. The sugary lemon-lime of splashed Gatorade. The crisp, cold water that wells itself in a parched mouth.

Throughout the years, women’s soccer at RIC has experienced the joys of victory.They’ve reached the playoffs the previous four seasons. But this season is different. There will not be a postseason for the Anchorwomen. No chance for fruit-flavored showers. No celebratory water-splashing sequences. The only thing on the line on this gorgeous gift of a fall afternoon is a final shot at redemption. To offer a glimpse of what might have been. A chance to prove the cynics wrong. A chance to show that they are a team better than their abysmal 1-16-1 record indicates. As in one win in eighteen tries.

The aroma of boiled hot dogs and popcorn marinate the air. A large white posterboard with “KAYLA #4” spelled out in maroon letters flaps against the stands behind the Anchorwomen bench. Three maroon balloons dance above it. In a touching pre-game ceremony with her proud parents, the team’s lone senior, Kayla Fleming, is presented flowers for her contributions to the team during the past three seasons. As one of the team's captains, she has the added responsibility of being an on-field coach to her younger teammates. It's an understatement to say that this has been a tough season. It hasn’t yet hit her, but this will be her final game as a member of the RIC women’s soccer team. The south end stands embrace the moment with resounding applause.

“I think today will finally be their day,” said one parent. “Let’s hope so,” said another, a twinge of guarded optimism in her voice.

Just before the start of the match, the Anchorwomen, clad in their bright white home kits, gather near their bench and form a crude circle as they wrap their warms over each other’s shoulders. They raise their arms in above the circle. On the count of three, the Anchorwomen proclaim their battle cry:

“TOGETHER!”

***

THERE WAS NOTHING to shout about only three months before. They had been betrayed. Deserted. All of them. Not one was spared.

Earlier this summer, you couldn’t see the RIC practice field from Mount Pleasant Avenue. It was tucked away behind a wall of high oaks and maples that flaunted abundant green leaves. The grass matched the hue of the leaves, despite a few brown chunks of earth and some unflattering patches of crabgrass. Four bright white goal posts bookended the park.

The fall semester was two weeks away. All was quiet on campus, save for the heavy breaths gasped by an collection of young women – many barely old enough to vote - sprinting in dull maroon shorts and gray, sweat-soaked shirts across the vast field.

Nearly forty recruits had signed up to play RIC Women’s soccer team before the preseason. They love it enough to sacrifice the precious free time allowed between classes and schoolwork to devote up to twelve hours a week to play. The vast majority are freshman and sophomores, which left just enough room for three juniors and one senior. However, their love was tested on a humid late-summer morning.

I wasn’t there when it happened, though. In fact, I hadn’t interacted with any of the Anchorwomen until mid-September, when a class assignment sent me toward the RIC practice fields to interview Christina Tavana about the life of a student-athlete.

The project couldn’t have been more perfect. She told me about the challenges she faced not only as a student carrying thirteen credits, but guiding a very young team filled with freshman. Helping them both on and off the field. And telling them to keep their heads up even after the abrupt departure of their former head coach.

What happened?

She spoke about the shock the entire team felt. Just before the start of preseason training, Head Coach Denis Chartier had sent a mass e-mail to his squad. He had resigned. There were no phone calls, or in-person goodbyes. Just the stark impersonalness of an electronic message.

As the only other coach on the squad, assistant head coach Jessica Knobel was flooded with e-mails, calls, and text messages from her players.

‘What's going to happen?' 'Are you going to be our next coach?' 'Who's going to coach us?'

"I was just as shocked as they were," said Coach Knobel. "But I assured them that I would be returning."

Although she announced that the college would be conducting a search for a new head coach, the uncertainty weighed heavily like the humid summer air.

“For awhile, we didn’t even know who we were going to have for a coach," said Maddie Pirri, the team’s starting goalkeeper. "We didn’t know which recruits were going to stay."

Only sixteen remained long enough for the obligatory team photo prior to the first regular season game on August 30th.

Thus began the worst season of women’s soccer in Rhode Island College history.