world cup: china vs. america

They’d finally persuaded me out onto the soccer field. They were older than me, my Chinese students, but not by much — most in this group were in their mid- to late twenties — and they all wanted to see their American teacher play soccer because Americans were supposed to be strong. Americans were also notoriously ambivalent about the sport worshipped by all other nations, so I’m sure they secretly wondered if they could whip up on me.

So there I was, lone white guy on a Chinese soccer field at a Chinese university in Beijing, China, representing. Leading up to the game I was nervous that I’d be humbled and embarrassed. Thankfully my years of eating bench in high school soccer seemed to have paid off, because I was able to hold my own.

It was a fun game. I was out of shape, though, and quickly winded. Within five minutes I was leaning over, hands on knees, at every break; after ten I was ready to quit. But it hit me: I was the teacher, the authority figure. If I stopped, they would stop. That’s just how the Chinese show of respect worked, and they were having so much fun I didn’t want to ruin it for them.

So I kept playing. It wasn’t hard to be enthusiastic, with all the spirited rivalry and laughter. But my legs were also becoming downright sore, my lungs burning. These guys played all the time, but this was my first exercise in weeks, and I was fading. After thirty minutes I just couldn’t take any more. Let it be a lesson to them, I decided: not all Americans are strong. “I’m going to take a break,” I said. “You keep playing, I’ll keep score.”

“No, we will stop,” they said, calling for the ball.

That dratted deference to authority! “No no no,” I protested. “Please keep playing. I just need to rest.”

“We will rest too,” they said.

Rats. “Alright then, I’ll keep playing.”

So the game resumed. As the minutes dragged by the ball seemed to get faster. So did they — I was having trouble keeping up with anyone. Still, in such a lively game it was tough not to try, and I didn’t like being shown up. I just couldn’t believe how strong they were! Let that be a lesson to me, I thought: the Chinese are healthier and tougher than we think. Here I was, the huge hulking American (compared to them), and I couldn’t even sprint around on a soccer field for an hour.

Oh, I was dying. At every break I knelt a knee on the ground to rest my thighs. Surely any minute they were going to tire and stop! But no — they were still having fun. I fought to continue for their sakes, as well as not to embarrass myself. An hour and a half into the game, however, I was beyond dead.

“You all are so strong!” I laughed. “I’ve got to stop. Please, you keep playing.”

“We will stop too,” they said.

“No, please don’t,” I insisted, guilt-stricken. “I’d love to keep playing but I just can’t, I’m so out of shape. Please, please keep playing.”

“No, we will stop too,” they said.

Nothing I could say would change their minds, so we all walked off the field bragging about each other’s soccer skills and clapping each other on the back. I don’t remember how my legs carried me up the four flights to my apartment.

A week later I was eating lunch in the cafeteria with the same group of students when I told them, “I can’t believe how strong you are! We played soccer so long, my legs were sore for three days!”

“Mistah Hobison,” they grimaced, shifting uncomfortably. “Our legs are still sore!”

That dratted deference to authority — they’d been bound to play as long as their teacher played.