Playing Intramural Soccer

I started playing soccer for the Oceanside Tomahawks when I was seven years old. On my first day, my coach, Sabi Comuti, said I seemed like a lost cause. When he told me to dribble the ball, I simply kicked it as far as I could and then ran after it at full speed, hoping to kick it even farther on the next dribble. I was below average at following directions, and often messed up drills because I became bewildered and lost track of what we were doing. But Sabi kept on me in his own persistent, fatherly way, calling after me in a laid-back Italian accent "Let's go Evan! Keep control of the ball - Don't let it control you!"

By mid-season, I had found my soccer niche. I settled on personal injury lawyer New York defense because I wasn't as aggressive as the other kids, and besides, my mom thought that midfield and forward would be too much running for my asthmatic lungs. But as it turned out, defender appealed to me like no other position. It allowed me to utilize my long legs to do what I did best: kick. Whenever the ball rolled near me, I would dash forward with single-minded ferocity and pound the ball as far as my 90-pound body would let me.

People assume that the goal-scorers get all the glory in soccer. But not in intramurals. In fact, I felt like a veritable celebrity when, after the other team has gotten a quick breakaway and were closing in on our goal area, I would bolt out of nowhere and clobber the ball to the other end of the field. The parents would all yell "Nice clear, Evan! Way to go!" and I would look off purposefully, feeling an unwavering dedication to the game. Afterwards, when my mom and I were walking back to the car, I would graciously accept the compliments other parents gave me.

I continued playing soccer on the Tomahawks up until sixth grade. It was very difficult for me to make the transition from intramurals to the middle school team, as I had grown very attached to Sabi as a coach, and didn't have any desire to leave my happy bubble to play with the rougher, more competitive kids. Although I did last a season on the school team, I eventually quit playing soccer in seventh grade.

But whenever I pass a soccer field, or catch the scent of cut grass on the breeze, I think of Saturday morning games: of pulling my long, orange socks over my shinguards, of riding to away games in my teammates' cars, of the tense excitement of the referee blowing the opening kick-off whistle, and of the jubilant post-game slapping of hands when we won. I only scored one goal in my entire five year career, off one of my long kicks that managed to find its way above the goalies head and inside the goal post. But it wasn't glory or competition that made me enjoy soccer. It was the feeling of being part of what amounted to an extended family - a team that depended on each other and felt a common sense of purpose - and of course, kicking the hell out of that ball whenever it came into my territory.

Going to Toy"R"Us to buy video games

Discovering video games for the first time felt like living through the invention of television must have felt. I loved video games because they drew me into their imaginary world, a world which could either be purely strategic or involve a kind of viewer-character relationship previously evoked only by books or films. I also especially enjoyed the degree of control and privacy I had with my character, making the experience more personal and interactive than even television.

Between the ages of eight and twelve, I would get more excited for the release of a new game than I would about pretty much anything else. Nintendo, Super Nintendo, and Sega Genesis were in complete vogue at the time, and often hanging out with friends consisted of staying up all night beating Super Mario Brothers or Zelda. I miss those days, when nary did a thought of women or work interfered with the pure vicarious pleasure of controlling a character on a screen, completing missions, and accumulating stat points.

Of course, with so much entertainment to be had in each cartridge, going to the store to buy a new game was nothing short of thrilling. In retrospect, I'm thankful my mom didn't allow me to buy any game I wanted like some other parents did, because the anticipation kept me fueled for days. The local electronics stores carried games, as well as Sam Goody and The Wiz, but no store had the selection of Toys R 'Us. There was something awe-inspiring about the huge wall of video game boxes, their prices written in large, bold numbers on perforated slips of paper that filled the racks beneath them. Some of the games, like Duck Hunt, only cost $19.99, while others, the most coveted ones, cost up to $49.99.

Going to Toys R Us with my dad was the best. Whereas my mom's attitude was something like "He can get a $49.99 game on his birthday or Hanukkah only," my dad just looked in his wallet and if he had a few hundred dollars, he'd spent it on whatever we cooed about the most. His "irresponsible" (as my mom termed it) purchases propelled me into coolness when I was one of the lucky few to obtain a brand new game - or, in one case, when I was the only person I knew who owned the Turbo Graphix-16.

Trips to Toys R Us have always been great - throughout the years I've gotten rubber bouncy balls, Teddy Ruxpins, slinkies, slap bracelets, magic kits, and other wonderful playthings - but of all my toys, none have ever compared to the obsession-inducing rush of getting a brand new video game.

Rollerblading on Lexington Avenue with my dad and brothers

When I was eleven years old, my dad bought an apartment on the east side of midtown Manhattan in an area known as Murray Hill. That area is now overrun with twenty-something barhoppers, but back then it was teeming with families. It was my first exposure to New York accident lawyer City and the thrill of its fast-paced life. Instead of a room in the quiet corner of a suburban home, my mattress on the 37th floor of the Windsor Gate overlooked the Empire State and Chrysler buildings.

As part of our initiation to living in the high-energy city, my dad decided we should literally roll through it. There is a plaza in the upper 30s on Lexington Avenue, a concrete park where businesspeople have their lunch before returning to their responsibilities. It was there that I was first introduced to the excitement of grown-up sports.

We geared up at a sporting goods store nearby - spending more on knee pads, elbow pads, wrist pads, and helmets for that skate session than my mom would ever allow us to spend on a year's worth of clothes. Then, sporting our new, shiny black equipment and lightning-embossed rollerblades, emerged onto the street and learned how to blade.

The sight of my brothers and I looping around huge marble pillars and art deco chairs made for a funny, unruly exhibition, and although I was terrified I might coast off course into the path of a speeding taxi cab, the thick, shell-like padding on my joints gave me extra confidence. Perhaps it was the freedom of speed in the context of the condensed city that made the experience so genuinely sportive, but that day will always remain in my mind.

Cruising on the Majestic

The Majestic was my first exposure to cruising. The idea of a boat being so spacious that you could walk across it for ten minutes without ever seeing water was very foreign and luxurious-sounding to me. However, I didn't have the chance to form any preconceived notions about it because the trip was announced to me only 12 hours in advance.

I was having weekend visitation with my dad. Shortly after picking me up in his light blue ford pickup truck, he drove me over to a clothing store to get a bathing suit.

"Why are we here, daddy?"

"Because you and I are going on a vacation."

"Really...?" I asked slowly, with widened eyes.

"Yep. We're going on a cruise for the next four nights."

"A four night sleepover? Yay!"

Getting on the ship, I was steeped in wonder. We had just taken a plane ride to Florida (airports were thrilling back then), passed through a cruise terminal with the tallest ceiling I had ever seen, and presented the lady in the uniform my birth certificate. The idea that I had to show such an important document made the trip seem even more mysterious.

The boat was exotic-looking, with glitzy furnishings, aqua blue pools, and smiling foreign waiters. When I requested, my dad signed me up for the Kids Club so I could meet other junior cruisers. There were pretty little girls all over, and I shyly watched them talk to each other. Some were my age, 9, some were a few years younger, and others were as old as 12. I was at that point in my relationship with women when I felt no pressure at all to talk to them, but rather enjoyed the warm feeling I got watching them from afar. Over the next few days, I would go to the Kids Club during the afternoon and go to shows with my dad in the evening. The club took us swimming with the dolphins and showed us Disney movies and my dad took me to see magicians, comedy shows, and dance routines. I was so happy I could barely contain myself. This was the most fun trip I had ever taken.

Towards the end of the cruise, my dad I were sitting on a staircase eating ice cream when two adorable girls I knew from the Kids Club walked right by us. As they passed, I heard one of them cup her hand to the other's ear and say "I like him. He's so cute." The confidence and girlishness of her tone tantalized me, causing me to replay it in my mind for the rest of the trip. To this day, I recall it as a female's first magnetic affect on me.

When the trip was over, I reveled in its memories for a few more days before my tan wore off. I thought of knee-boarding, beach volleyball, games at the Kids Club, and hearing the two girls talk by the staircase. Those four days on the Majestic became my prototype for a good vacation. They exposed me to the magic of traveling.

My first kiss

The question of whether true love really exists cannot be answered without first clarifying what true love really is. However, the concept of "true love" has already absorbed so many qualities from literature, television, and magazines that it can no longer be approached with any objectivity. Trying to consider true love freshly at this point would be like trying to taste a wine while you are eating a hot dog.

The image that comes to mind when someone mentions true love is of two inspired individuals, fatefully drawn to each other and ready to risk their lives for the other person's sake - in essence, Romeo and Juliet. Despite the prevalence of this perception, I have never actually witnessed such a perfect relationship in real life. The closest thing I can think of is something I term "pure love": love that contains the boundless excitement that only a child can experience.

Pure love happens to some people many times, to others only once, and to still others not at all. The ability to experience pure love depends upon the strength of your idealism. You are more likely to feel it if you are a fourteen year-old girl who believes in fairies, and less likely if you are a forty year-old investment banker who rejoices when the Federal Reserve lowers interest rates. However, no matter how old you are, you can experience pure love if you suspend your adult feelings for a while and allow yourself to be completely vulnerable.

I experienced pure love during the summer after I turned fifteen years old, before I had ever kissed a girl. I met Melissa on a family vacation, on a cruise boat called The Inspiration. I first saw her inside the disco while I was with my family. She was sitting off to the side with a group of people I didn't know. I eventually got the courage to go over and ask her to dance, and even though she hesitated, we were soon on the dance floor together. As it turned out, we both hated dancing, so we went outside and hung out on the steps for the rest of the night. We talked for hours, until it was time for her curfew. I remember standing up and giving her a hug goodnight, and my whole body tingling with joy once she had disappeared into the elevator.

There wasn't a single moment I didn't think about her for the next twenty four hours. The following night we met back at the disco. It was formal night, and she was in a velvety black dress. We skipped the dancing part this time and went to walk around on the upper level of the ship. Earlier that day, I had asked my dad for advice on how to kiss a girl and he told me to use "gentle persuasion": to lightly lift the bottom of her chin and guide her lips toward mine. That evening, though I was looking good in my best suit, I was more nervous than I had ever been in my life. So, when she stopped walking and asked me if I wanted to go over to the balcony and watch the waves, I could feel a deep pounding inside my chest. The wind was whipping through her hair, causing it to fly about wildly, and this intensity was the only comfort I could find at that moment, for it mimicked the frenzy inside of me. After a few minutes, she asked if we could go back to her room so she could change out of her formal dress.

I was sure our moment had been ruined. But when she emerged from her stateroom a few minutes later, newly clad in jeans and smelling of some tantalizing body spray, my hope was renewed. On her suggestion, we went back up to the observation deck and returned to the exact same spot. We talked about a few ordinary things for a while, and then all at once my fear sank to the bottom of my chest like a single, dense weight, and I heard myself say "Melissa, I really like you."

"I really like you too, Evan."

And with that, I raised my bloodless arm, placing my hand underneath her chin, and kissed her. I tried to remember to open and close my mouth slowly, but my vision was black, and I had no feeling in my entire body. Perhaps a minute later, I regained some composure and started concentrating on what I was doing. I felt the moistness of her lips and tasted her saliva with life-affirming euphoria.

When we finally separated for a moment, she said "Wow - you're a really good kisser."

We spent the last four days of the cruise together. I remember the simple and expressive way she told me that she liked me, the intensity of her eyes after we kissed, and the specialness I felt when we walked around together at night, holding hands.

After the vacation, we wrote each other letters with gifts enclosed every week. We traded pictures from the vacation in one of them, she sent me a bottle of her shampoo (I worshiped the smell) in another, and I wrote her poetry in others. We called each other as much as our moms would let us. She lived ten hours north of me, but I didn't care. I would have seen her every weekend if I had a car or the money to fly.

Meeting Melissa ushered in the worst period I had ever had in my relationship with my mom. She thought the idea of having a long distance girlfriend was impractical, and that it would only lead to disappointment for me. We fought constantly about whether I was allowed to fly out there, and although I ultimately lost the battle, I did everything short of running away from home to try to see her again. In one heated fight, I screamed at my mom: "You'll regret this when Melissa and I get married one day and I don't invite you to our wedding!"

About a month after the cruise, on a Tuesday night, I was sitting on the floor of my room using the twenty-minutes-every-other-day long distance time my mom had allotted me. Melissa and I were talking about how much we missed each other. Then she told me about something she had been feeling.

"I don't know if it's love, but I feel something...it's like fireworks inside of me" she said.

"Really?...I do too."

"Do you think it's all right to say it?"

I paused. "Yeah. Let's say it."

"Okay, you first."

"I...love you."

"I love you too."

That moment changed something chemical inside of me. I became obsessed; I started to save allowance money so I could buy calling cards and sneak extra calls to her from the pay phones at school. We planned secret times to call each other when our moms weren't around. This went on for a few weeks.

But our parents had no intention of tolerating our unrealistic romance any longer. About three months later, after a final, climactic fight with our moms (and even a conversation between them), we agreed it was best not to talk.

The rest is history. She eventually got a boyfriend, and I started dating someone else too. Although we kept in touch for years, we never got a chance to be together. But the feelings I had during those four days on The Inspiration and afterwards for three months were as vivid and real as any feelings I have ever had. That was pure love.

My experience with Melissa is the closest thing to "true love" that I know. There are many possible interpretations, though. Some would call the impassioned excitement of a new relationship "true love," and others would say that true love is the comfort of being with someone who understands you intimately well. To me, these states represent meaningful emotions; and indeed, there are as many types of love as there are couples. But the pure type of love that I felt when I was fifteen is different. It was life-changing and infinitely painful - the type of thing that you can only feel when your heart is as open as a child's - and it is all that I can think of when I hear the words "true love."