MOJOMENTUM

One Final Look Back...

2009-04-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

Our last day in Mex arrived with a bump in the swell. While the waves were definitely bigger than they had been all trip, they were also more prone to closing out or sectioning off, so you had to choose wisely. Fortunately we arrived at first light and had it to ourselves for the first hour and a half and could pick and choose.

I rode G's single fin and caught some really fun waves before eventually taking a monster on the head which snapped the leash and sent G's board shooting to shore without me. Thankfully a local guy swam out and grabbed it before any really damage could happen. I had a long swim in and decided to call it a day/trip. These are the picks I took while enjoying one last heaping portion of huevos ala Mexicana at the Ranch. Click on the photos to enlarge.

The breakfast joint (above) is the only structure here. It's run by a woman and her three young daughters who cook up delicious treats to be enjoyed while watching the surf.

The guy above caught a bomb and despite never getting tubed raised both his arms about four different times in claiming celebration. Perhaps he was just giving thanks to the good Lord, it was Easter after all and it was a damn good wave.

There weren't many barrels being had today but this guy came as close as anyone. He made this wave and had a good long ride as a result.

This guy dropped into a good one and did well to get around the eventual section for a nice long slide.

The guy above was camping here with his family and had the raddest board on the beach.

We met Nick (above) in Troncones. He's been on quite the surf safari killing time between Med School and his up coming residency at NYU. He surfed the right (see previous post) with us for a few days. He also said he saw a dorsal fin down there the day after we all surfed together and decided not to paddle out alone...smart guy, guess that's why he's gonna be a doctor.

The guy above got more waves than anybody and, despite his bull-dogish look, was also the most stoke-evoking guy in the water -- hooting and rooting everyone in the line up...I guess that's what happens when you catch more waves than anyone else.

Bill (above) is the shaper behind Billboards Surfboards. He spends about half the year down here camping and surfing. The rest of the year he spends up in North Carolina shaping a board a week to make ends-meet. Not a bad gig.

These two looks about sum up the trip. Total exhaustion (above) and total satisfaction (below).

At First Light Go Right

2009-04-08T12:51:00.000-07:00

Today we arrived at our go-to spot at first light only to find that the swell had dropped. Not to be deterred we headed south to a right hand break that we'd surfed once before. Aside from the endless line of plastic bottles, it was a beautiful 20 minute sunrise walk along the beach. When we reached the spot we were greeted with glassy waist to shoulder-high waves peeling fast down the line. We had the place to ourselves (Mark, G and me) for over three hours. We each took turns riding G's new single fin which was definitely the perfect board for these waves.

The next five days are calling for a big jump in swell 5-7ft @ 15-16 secs. It should be fun.

What Goes Around Comes Around...

2009-04-04T14:38:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, when I took some photos (see previous post), I got a few of a guy named Jeff who was down here from LA with his wife and son. I got his email and sent him the shots, he was stoked. Today, Jeff returned the favor and sent me a photo his wife took of me today.

Above...My photo of Jeff seting up for a big turn off the top.
Below...Jeff's wife's photo of me setting up to Greco Roman wrestle someone.

Gracias Jeff y tu esposa!

Huevos Rancheros

2009-04-03T12:07:00.000-07:00

Mex has gifted us with consistent shoulder to head high surf. Just two days into our trip and we've already had two really fun days of surf. The place pictured here is about a 30 minute drive from our casa in Troncones. When you arrive by car you pull up to a cliff that overlooks the break. Today we pulled up to find lines stacked up as far as the eyes could see. This spot is off the beaten path; in fact, the only thing here other than a few camp sites is a small open air restaurant that serves up huevos (any style) along with homemade tortillas. In short, it's paradise. I snapped these photos when I came in to indulge in some Huevos ala Mexicana - a tasty scramble of eggs, tomatoes, cheese and onions served with rice and beans all topped with spicy salsa.

G (above) gets acquainted with his new single fin.

Shit eatin grins were the expression de jour.

Background: Mark H. contemplates what to do with all that green.
Foreground: Our new friend Alex heads out for seconds.

This one had Chum's name all over it...we're missing you amigo!

A Portland Thang

2009-01-09T14:11:00.000-08:00

When a Portland based Director (Whitey) shoots a video for a Portland based garage band (Red Fangs) in a classic Portland location (Mt. Tabor), you get a video with a distinctively Portland radness...

A River Does Indeed Run Through It

2008-09-12T21:16:00.000-07:00

For the fly-fishing faithful, a trip to Montana is nothing short of a pilgrimage - a chance to test ones skills against some of the most fickle wild trout in the world. And while I'm definitely not a seasoned angler, it's impossible not to appreciate the beauty of this place and the meditative serenity of being completely lost in the pursuit of the big one.

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Uncle Bill takes aim while cousin Chris thinks of another zinger.

Our guide has a bumper sticker that says "Love 'em and leave 'em". Perhaps this is a bit more love than he was advocating.

The fish in these parts are all wild (or at least they have been for the past 20-plus years). There are rainbows (pictured above), browns (below) and white fish. The white fish are the only ones truly native to the US. The browns and rainbows, which are the most revered by anglers, were brought here by humans from Asia many years ago. How the hell they got them here is still a mystery. I caught both the fish pictured btw ;)

The man above is Mike, we came across him during our float down the river. He was trying to land this brown just as we arrived but didn't have a net. We lent him ours. He was stoked, it was his first time fly fishing and I don't think his expectations were too high, thus the lack of net. I asked him if I could take his picture and he obliged.

25.5 ft @ 10 secs with 35mph winds from the south

2007-12-02T15:29:00.001-08:00

In case you wanted to know what it looks like.

A bun in the oven...

2007-09-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

My first custom board is currently being cooked up by Erik Hakon Olson.

Last Chance Nica Dance

2007-07-27T11:10:00.000-07:00

Our last day in Nicaragua brought one last chance to grab that elusive barrel. With my girlfriend on the beach shooting pics, the day also brought what Chum likes to call "Camera Courage", i.e. the go-for-broke tube 'tude that generally results in a good pounding and, if you're lucky, a few decent pics. I errored on the pounding side.

This first sequence I like to unimaginatively call "Faceplant":

It starts with bit of a late take off but with plenty of time to get down the line....

Followed by a short drop before a quick bottom turn...

A bottom turn into a...wait, where's that front foot going?....

Doh! There goes another one.

This next sequence is a tad bit more promising in that both feet got on the board but the close-out barrel soon made sure they didn't stay there for long...

In truth, this trip wasn't really about the pursuit of barrells for me - I'm still just happy to get down the line. Nicaragua was, like you guys have pointed out, about surfing every day and improving. One of the many areas of improvement for me was going backside. The fast, steep drops in Nicaragua gave me an opportunity to work on my backside attack and specifically grabbing rail.

Three weeks surfing in Nicaragua has definitely helped my surfing and I've seen parts of waves I've never thought possible but I can't help thinking that even if I had another three, six or even 52 weeks here, I'd still have a lot of improving to do. Then again, I suppose that's the beautiful thing about this pursuit.

Out of my element

2007-07-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

Surfing in Nicaragua has been humbling if not down right humiliating at times. But there have been moments of bliss (often followed by a good pounding).

Needless to say, Chum faired much better than me in the style and wave count department...check out his pics at Sissyfish.

Fresh Tracks

2007-05-13T13:56:00.000-07:00

It's been several months since my last blog. I wish could say it's all due to the fact that I've been installing the new surface for my half-pipe but that acutally only took a weekend. My pops who works in the wood trade hooked me up with some factory direct b-grade outdoor skatelite for dirt cheap (apparently the same material is used for counter top surfaces). The rain has let up in these parts which means I've finally been able to take the new surface for a spin. First impression: it's faster and smoother than the old surface but just as hard on the body when you fall.

Building A Better Fire

2007-02-18T20:55:00.000-08:00

My good friend Suk recently posted a video he made from our days in Amsterdam titled "Building A Better Fire". Suk's description of the film on YouTube goes: "Ahhh, sunshine and lazy sunday afternoons. Drifting half-mindedly through slightly hung-over summer days. But then hunger strikes. No need to panic, though, Ean's got a good idea. Or does he?" It's a fitting lead indeed but in my opinion, it's the words Suk has choosen to 'tag' the piece that i feel truly reflect the life and times: "Amsterdam" "Ineptitude" "Slacker" "Cinema verite" " BBQ" "Firestarter" and "Jackass". Oh the sweet memories.

Inspired By True Events

2007-01-26T15:55:00.000-08:00

The January edition of the Woodpeckers CD club is officially completed. Above is the cover, below is the story...

............................

The story goes something like this, but before I get into it, I should warn you that this is one of those stories where you had to be there. But then again, isn’t every story? I suppose whether you had to be there or not really boils down to how well the story is told – a well told story makes you feel like you were there and thus less like you actually had to be there. But then again, if the story were about a shark attack, you probably wouldn’t want to be there no matter how well or badly the story was told. Perhaps we should just start from the beginning of this particular story.

The story goes something like this…

It was New Year’s Eve day 2006 and fellow Woodpeckers Rob, Matt, Rick and Gabe were over at my house enjoying the day. Our time was spent lazily going back and forth from watching football on TV, to playing music in the basement, to skating the recently installed half-pipe in my backyard. If you didn’t know better and were a passer-by peering at us over the fence, you could have easily mistaken us for a bunch of teenagers conjuring up cures to suburban boredom. But we were all in our early 30’s and wise enough to know that boredom was a luxury not to be squandered.

So we played on…

It’s at this point in the story where it would be wise of me, the storyteller, to provide you with some details that could perhaps help you feel more like you were actually there. For example, the day was unseasonably clear for Portland. You couldn’t say it was a warm day, but you wouldn’t call it a cold day either, at least not for that time of year. But regardless of your opinion on what’s cold or not, the sun was definitely shining, albeit at a very low angle so that it was casting what Emily Dickinson might call “A certain slant of light that oppresses like cathedral tombs.”

Can you picture it? Try a little harder.

Perhaps this will help. Earlier that day my girlfriend Sheila had cooked a large breakfast of scrambled eggs. The scent of caramelized onions and bacon filled the air and for the first time since my move back from Europe over eight months ago, Portland smelled like home. Throughout the day, while us boys played, Sheila and Rick’s wife May spent their day under knitted blankets watching movies, reading magazines and talking.

OK back to the story…

Sometime around midday my brother Gabe had to leave to pick up his girlfriend Taylor from the airport. Taylor was flying in from LA to join us for that night’s New Year’s Eve revelry, the anticipation of which was as much a part of the day’s air as the smell of caramelized onions and the reality that within a few months, Gabe would be moving from Portland to LA to live with Taylor.

A question just came to me that I would like to pose to you the reader: How is one to feel about a situation that fills them with both a profound sense of happiness and emptiness? Confused? Selfish?

By this point you’re probably wondering where this story is going. I’d like to say I know but I’d be lying; but then again, lying is a part of storytelling so you’ll just have to trust me on this one.

So let’s recap...

Gabe is off to the airport. The air smells like sweet onions and home. The sun is shining. Sheila and May are cozy inside. Rick, Rob, Matt and I are outside. What have I missed? Let’s see…oh right, now I remember…music…there was music. I had recently purchased a new portable iPod speaker system which we had brought outside while we learned to skate on the new ramp. I had set my iPod to shuffle which meant that the music playing was a random collection of my favorite tracks and songs that made me question my judgment on everything.

It was at this moment in the story that a track came on – an electronic disco track by LCD Soundsystem called “45:33”. When the track came on and the whimsical disco beats kicked in, it was as if the day had finally found it’s sonic harmony. Have you ever seen footage of a bridge when it starts to bend and sway because the wind reaches that perfect resonance that renders all engineering hopeless? The technical term is torsional vibration. (Trust me, I Googled it.) Apparently the LCD track was this day’s torsional vibration tipping point. As soon as the music played, Rob and Matt were on top of the skate ramp vibrating their torsos like a couple of go-go dancers while Rick was sliding back and forth on the ramp like a metronome on wheels. As sole witness to the moment I grabbed my camera and tried desperately to capture it all, the entire scene – the dancing, the trying of new things, my best friends lost in the moment, the embrace at the airport, comfort under the blankets inside, the smell of home, the sun shining…I wanted to capture all of it but all I had was a tiny camera and what I really needed, what I really wanted was a huge set of arms with a wingspan so wide I could wrap them around the entire moment and hold it so tight that everything and everyone would know just how much I loved them.

Like I said, you had to be there.

Nevertheless, here is a collection of tracks inspired by true events. I can’t guarantee that they will make you want to grow gargantuan arms and embrace the world around you, but I do hope you enjoy them.

“45:33” - LCD Soundsystem
“Hot in Here” - Tiga
“And I Was a Boy From School” - Hot Chip
“Saturdays” - Cut Copy
“Let’s Make Love and Listen to Death from Above” - CSS
“You’re So Gangsta” - Chromeo
“Love’s Too Much” - Shapemod
“Feel Good Hit of the Fall” - !!! Chk Chik Chick
“Without Love” - Z-Trip vs Doobie Brothers
“In the Meantime“ - Mocky
“Operate” - Peaches
“Wildcat” - Ratatat
“A Little Bit More” - Jamie Lidell

Shake 'n' Skate

2007-01-16T14:28:00.000-08:00

December 31 marked the end of yet another year and, more importantly, the completion of the skate ramp in my backyard. The combination of the two has inevitably lead to my 2007 new year's resolution - learn to skate. A few friends came over New Year's Eve Day for the inaugural skate session/impromptu dance party. I'm not sure what needs more work, the shaking or the skating but both were pretty damn funny to watch.

None Shall Pass

2006-11-09T08:46:00.000-08:00

Anticipating a small window of opportunity, my brother G and I headed out Sunday at 6 a.m. in hopes of catching a brief reprieve in the otherwise stormy winter conditions that have been hitting Oregon lately.

Lack of surf and the inevitable jonzing-induced optimism that comes with it, prohibited us from reading any writing on the wall with regards to the realistic potential for surfable surf. Perhaps our most telltale sign that today was not the day to go surfing was the big branch that had fallen across our usual path to the beach.

Not to be deterred, G and I pressed on until we reached our usual spot-check point. With dense fog covering the entire beach, spot-checking had to take on the sonic varietal.

“Definitely sounds like there are waves.” Said G.

Giving new meaning to “You gotta go to know”, G and I suited up and paddled out into the abyss. There were definitely waves - an endless wall of 15 footers and white water to be precise. We made it no further than the inside reforms.

Adding injury to insult, my bro’s “wave”-of-the-day ended with him being surprised to see me emerge from the white water which caused him to accidentally shot the nose of his board into the side of my face in an effort not to run me over. God bless the 5-mil hoody.

Rain Delay

2006-11-04T16:27:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a little help from my friends, I was finally able to move the half-pipe I bought over a month ago from the previous owner’s barn to my backyard. Unfortunately Mother Nature wasn’t as helpful as my fellow soon-to-be shredders so the bruises and breaks will need to wait until things dry up a bit.

Gracias Chum, Nash and brother G.

A sell out and proud of it...at least for now.

2006-11-02T18:27:00.000-08:00

The latest LCD Soundsystem’s album has received critical acclaim. Pitchfork, perhaps the most discerning indie hipster in the crowd, gave the album an 8.0, the literary equivalent to a worship bow. While it’s little surprise that an LCD album should be well received by the critical masses, it is surprising that this particular album has been.

The album, titled 45:33, was commissioned and released by Nike, meaning that LCD aka James Murphy, created an entire album that bares his name and is branded with a Nike swoosh, a fact that has not been lost on the critics. In fact, nearly every critic has addressed the topic of “selling-out” in their write-ups but subsequently have gone on to evaluate the album for what it is, a decent 45 minutes of electronic music.

I find the critical acceptance of 45:33 quite comforting. Primarily because I work for Nike and I’m responsible for cranking out more albums baring the names of top artists along with the Nike swoosh. The acceptance of this album invariably makes my job easier. The album along with Murphy’s sincere album notes outlining his creative approach and impetus for doing this project, has shown that an artist does not have to check his soul at the door of corporations provided it’s the right opportunity.

In this specific case, the opportunity was to combine Nike’s running insight with Murphy’s musical genius to create 45-minutes of music for runners. To do this we (Nike) commissioned Murphy and provided him with a brief outlining the general structure of a 45 minute run, i.e 8-10 minute warm up, 25-30 steady drive, and a 8-10 minute cool down. In the briefing we said something along the lines of “Think of this like you would playing to a packed club, you want to take them up, keep them up and then bring them back down.” It was clear from the get-go, however, that Murphy didn’t need a musical reference, he understood the task at hand. After the briefing, Murphy went away and did what he does best: made great music and thus 45:33.

The other reason I find comfort in the way that 45:33 has been received is that it makes me feel a little better about the fact that I have worked in the corporate world for the past 10 years (all at Nike). While I’m by no means an artist like Murphy, I do have the occasional artistic tendency and/or ambition and have often toiled with the idea that I should be doing something a bit more…er…artistic.

10 years ago I abandoned my dream of playing professional soccer and signed up with Nike. Over the years I have dabbled in various creative endeavors (writing mostly) but my livelihood has always come by way of my work at Nike, work that has always demanded a combination of creativity and athletic insight. On good days, I see my job as a continuous articulation of the music brief we gave LCD, i.e. my job is to create something inspirational and useful for athletes. On bad days, I see my job as a glorified shoe salesman. The critical acceptance of 45:33 has helped make today a good day.

Related articles:
The Year 'Selling Out' Broke
The Daily Californian
By Tyler McCauley

The Twin Towers

2006-05-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on my way home from work my girlfriend called to say that there was a big surprise waiting for me when I got home. Naturally my imagination veered in the elicit direction. Needless-to-say, I was truly surprised when I arrived home not only to NOT find my girlfriend awaiting me in scantily clad attire but to also discover that the two Deodar Ceder trees that had been keeping a watchful eye over our neighborhood for the past 75 years were being cut down.

Upon moving into the house, I had coined the two trees the “Twin Towers”, thus it is with sad irony that I now watch them crumble to the ground at the hands of men with company names proudly displayed on hats, shirts and the side of trucks. Of course there are much greater tragedies in life than the loss of two tall trees but I am naturally upset to see them go, especially considering the circumstances with which it's all come about and the inevitable affect it will have on the neighborhood and our house.

Last summer a company called Metro bought the house and lot from our two elderly neighbors for a ridiculously low price of $186K. To make matters worse, had our neighbors known we were looking for a house they would have gladly sold it to us instead. Second, Metro subdivided the lot and sold them off separately. The new owners are now going to build an additional house where the trees once stood.

The other morning I asked the guys who were removing the tree's who was responsible for the construction. They were coy and reluctant to tell me. I tried to assure them that I wasn't going to cause a fuss and that I just wanted to know who was responsible for taking the trees down, to which one of the guys replied, "Progress sucks sometimes." While he wasn't intending to be confrontational, something in his nonchalaunt dismissal of the situation made me want to run him through the wood chipper like the guy in Fargo.

While I’m far from a tree hugger, the sight of all this and the circumstances that have surrounded it has disgusted me and spurred thoughts of monkey wrenching, or at least an irate call to the people responsible. Unfortunately, I'm about as confrontational as a plunger and neither my girlfriend nor I are of the eco terrorist ilk, thus our lone pathetic act of defiance was to sneak over late last night and steal a few pieces of the twin towers in order to create a small memorial in our backyard.

Ronnie and me

2006-05-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

It is safe to say that no other player personifies the spirit of Joga Bonito more than Ronaldinho. Thus it was fitting that after four months spent in Europe desperately trying to capture the essence of Joga Bonito for nikefootball.com, our final stop was Camp Nou Stadium in Barcelona for one last shoot with El Maestro himself.

Two days after FC Barcelona’s monumental Champion’s League semi final triumph, we met R10 on the very pitch that saw them through to the finals. Our mission: to shoot him for the soon-to-be-released Joga Chain.

I have shot with Ronaldinho before but for some reason this shoot held extra meaning. Perhaps it was because our shoot was delayed for over a week thus delaying my own return to the US. Perhaps it was simply because of the God-like stature that Ronaldinho has ascended to these days. Nevertheless, it was safe to say that I was excited, nervous and totally stoked about this opportunity.

Unfortunately Ronalindho didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. Understandably he seemed tired; after all, he had, only two days prior, fended off a desperate and extremely talented AC Milan team. On top of that, he spent the previous day shooting a Japanese advertisement, which he would have to continue shooting as soon as we were done with him. Nevertheless, despite his obvious exhaustion, he greeted my crew and I as if we were long lost friend - with his signature smile and a warm embrace.

For all his remarkable talents on the pitch, it is his infectious ability to evoke joy that I find most astounding.

Our shoot was short, 25 minutes to be precise, but as one would expect, despite his apparent exhaustion, Ronaldinho delivered the goods. I’d like to say that it was the result of our direction but I think it simply comes down to the fact that the essence of the Joga Chain concept is to inspire footballers to play beautiful. and there simply isn’t anyone in the world better at that than Ronaldinho.

A Born Again Oregonian

2006-02-19T05:22:00.000-08:00

The past two months spent traveling around Europe has reinforced my sense that I am an Oregon boy through and through. The magificent architecture of Europe is no match to the natural monuments I have grown up worshiping. Shorties beach is one of those earthly Meccas. Descending the old-growth lined passage that leads to the sandy cove is perhaps the closest thing I will ever come to a religioius pilgrimage. A few friends and I spent the last day of 2005 at Shorties climbing rocks, racing tides, leaping streams and wrestling with the white water. My friend D was visiting from Amsterdam and took these pictures.

Scrappy Productions

2006-02-17T23:53:00.000-08:00

Last October, I moved from Amsterdam to Portland after my 6-year stint working abroad had seemingly come to an end.

Today, I find myself waking up on my friend D's couch in Amsterdam reading Chum’s surf blog and wondering when I will return to Portland again to bask in the embrace of the mighty Pacific and my girlfriend's honest kisses.

I have been back in Europe since the middle of December (save for a week's return home over Xmas and New Year's). In the two months since my return, I have spent less than two weeks in any one place, bouncing back-and-forth from Copenhagen to Amsterdam to Barcelona, London and Madrid.

The reason for my return was the same as what brought me to Europe six years ago: work and football. My current gig has me traveling around Europe in an attempt to gather compelling video content featuring the world's top football stars for my company's World Cup marketing campaign. The job has proven to be anything but easy due to limited time and access to athletes. Fortunately for me, I have managed to convince a few of my talented friends to join in this Napoleonic quest to conquer Europe and return home with the spoils.

I have always felt that my one and only talent is finding and knowing people who make me look good. This project is proving to be further proof of that notion. Any nuggets of success that we have managed in the past month have been the result of my crew's individual talents rather than any form of leadership and direction on my part.

We have coined our operation "Scrappy Productions" for its rag-tag, shoot-from-the-hip nature. While it’s a fitting name, there is nothing rag-tag about this crew.

Mark, our creative and spiritual leader, is the Woody Allen of our team - a perfectionist prone to neurosis. He’s the one everyone is routing for and the one who will save our butts in the end.

Allen, a quick-witted, good-humored and crazy Scot, is the epitome of the modern media missionary. He’s covered the Ibizia party beat for MTV, been run down on location in Sierra Leone and currently aspires to produce a documentary about amputee footballers in Africa.

Arnout is a budding Dutch photographer who has mastered the technical side of the camera and is proving to be well on his way of mastering the artistic side as well.

The mansions these guys have built out of the matchsticks provided them is simply remarkable.

2005-10-11T14:41:00.000-07:00

It's been over a month since my last blog and the only excuse I have is that I've been on a month long bender. My pending departure from Amsterdam and my desire to savor these last days have turned me into a veritable Yes Man agreeing to nearly every invitation that comes my way no matter the level of debauchery involved or the inevitable consequences the following day.

Friend: "OS, How about another drink?"
Me: “Why yes, I think I will.”

Friend: "Hey mate, what’s say you and I sneak into a coffee shop for a cheeky jay?"
Me: “OK, but I’ve got to be back in time for my 2pm meeting.”

Friend: "Dude, sorry to wake you at 3am but we’re heading to a club, wanna come?”
Me: “Be there in 15.”

You get the picture. Enough with the excuses.

A week ago I had the granddaddy of all farewell parties. Friends from LA, NYC, Edinburgh, Cologne, London, and Kosovo traveled long and far to join my Amsterdam contingent for one last weekend of Amsterdamage that finished with a big bash Saturday night. Below are a few pics from the weekend's adventures.

-OS

A Soccer Player Turned Footballer

2005-09-09T08:43:00.000-07:00

My next stop along the road of “Goodbye Holland” is a little fishing village called Spakenberg, home to the football club Isselmeervogels.

In 1998 I relinquished my dream of playing professional soccer in order to pursue a more rational and promising career at Nike. Up until that point I had had varied success playing professional indoor and semi pro outdoor soccer but the time had come to hang up the boots and move on.

About a year and a half after I quit the sport I loved, Nike sent me to Holland, one of the most soccer-obsessed countries in the world. When I arrived in Holland, the entire country was getting set to host the European Football Championships. When the Championships eventually kicked off two months later, Holland filled with football fanatics. It was the sort of scene I had fantasized about while growing up a soccer player (and thus sporting outsider) in America. Fans were drapped head-to-toe in their nation’s colors. They sang songs, drank yards of beer, occassionally beat the crap out of each other, and of course cheered to their hearts end for their beloved football Gods. I had truly arrived in soccer paradise.

The experience was such that it inspired me to start playing soccer again. Through a few contacts at work I was able to find a club for the following season. That club was Isselmeervogels located in Spakenberg about 45 minutes outside of Amsterdam.

Below is a piece I wrote after my first game with the Isselmeervogels. It's a decent account of the club's history and my initial experience there. However, what I didn’t know at the time I wrote it, was that, at the age of 28, I was about to embark upon a four-year personal soccer renaissance that would see me fall back in love with the sport, play the best soccer of my life, write obsessively about it all, and ultimately find peace with hanging up my competitive boots for good.

RUN FOREST RUN

I've stumbled into something special over here: I've just finished the first week with my new football club Ijsselmeervogels -- the richest amateur club in Holland and not surprisingly, the most successful over the past ten years.

I knew they were good and people took them seriously once I started telling random Dutch people which team I was going to play for and the moment I said Ijsselmeervogels (pronounced: 'ice-smear-vogels'), they all ooooh'd and aaaah'd. However, the true significance of the team hit me when I joined my coach and a few teammates for a beer at the clubhouse after one of our training sessions. The inside of the clubhouse resembles an old golf clubhouse, there's a bar and restaurant surrounded by numerous trophies, pictures and paintings from recent and distant triumphs -- the club has been active since 1934.

Outside, the clubhouse sits between our home ground (an intimate 5000 person stadium with a perfect gem of a pitch at its heart) and the home ground stadium of Spakenberg (the town's other Amateur Club and our bitter rivals). The rivalry between these two teams is so intense and deep-seeded that the old loyal Ijsselmeervogels fans won't even go watch Ijsselmeervogels play at Spakenberg, simply because they don't want to honor the opponents with their presence. Instead, they choose to sit in their own clubhouse and listen to the game on the radio, nervously drinking beer while the muffled roar of the Spakenberg crowd rumbles outside.

Usually Ijsselmeervogels and Spakenberg play twice a year - once at home and once away. However, it seems that last year the rivalry became so vicious the two clubs were forced to take each other off their schedules. The cancellation was due to a long series of events with two bizarre incidents at the core: First, Spakenberg bought Ijsselmeervogels' two best players mid season for 75K guilders each (apprx. 35,000 dollars each) simply to insure that Ijsselmeervogels would not succeed. In a town where most people have their own stories of families literally divided right down the middle because of an allegiance to either club -- this was consider the dirtiest of tactics. Needless to say, tensions flared and violence ensued which led to the second incident where a Spakenberg fan threw a bomb on the pitch during the last derby at Ijsselmeervogels home ground.
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A little Dutch Football background: The KNVB is the governing body of Dutch Football (Don’t ask me what it stands for). The KNVB Professional league is divided into a first and second division. Ajax plays in the first, Ernie Stewart's team NEC won the second division title last year. There is relegation and promotion between the to divisions but the losers of the second division don't drop into a third division. The next six division of Dutch football are the KNVB 'Amateur' divisions. Ijsselmeervogels have teams in all six of these divisions: their A team plays in the Amateur league first division, the B team in the second division and so on. Most professional and amateur clubs have youth programs from U7 to U18. The Amateur league is split into two leagues: The Saturday league and the Sunday league. Essentially this split is religious: the Saturday league is the Protestant league and the Sunday league is the Catholic league. In Holland, this is basically a North (Protestant) and South (Catholic) split. The Saturday league is notoriously better. There is a famous story (in the Ijsselmeervogels clubhouse at least) about an old Ijsselmeervogels player named Henk De Graaf who went on to play with Ajax and the Dutch National Team but unfortunately would never play on Sunday because of his religion which caused him all kinds of trouble and ultimately kept him from becoming one of the true Dutch greats...so they say. Last year Ijsselmeervogels B team won the Amateur second division title and went on to beat the Champions of the Sunday league second division -- making them the second division 'Champions of Holland'. Which means this year the second team gets an automatic entry into the Amstel Cup (Holland's equivalent to the F.A. Cup). The first team didn't have much success last year. I am, as far as anyone can remember, the first American to play for Ijsselmeervogels.
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Currently I play with the Second team. While getting on the first team is obviously the big objective, right now the quality of the second team is tough enough that it's a good way to get my touch back and retain my game speed of foot and mind.

Practices are pretty mellow. They have the luxury of knowing that every player is born with an understanding of the game and blessed with decent techniques. The second team lads aren't very fit but the Dutch style of football seems conducive to this - they let the ball do the work, close down space quickly and don't spend a lot of time chasing the ball around on defense – overall they're very organized, like the country. The A team looks like it's made up of true athletes.

The football here essentially comes down to a system and every coach in Holland has the obligation of passing along and reinforcing the Dutch system like some sort of religion. My coach was kind enough to provide me with two translated printouts of the team's system and some common football terms (tijd means 'time'...keitch means 'man on'...etc) -- I call it the bible. The system made sense and didn't seem too different from ones that I had played before but it was a totally fascinating sensation when we actually got on the pitch and everyone seemed to be doing the same thing...It really is easier when eleven (make that 10 - minus the American) like-minds are working as one on the pitch.

Which brings me to gameday.

This Saturday was my first game with the B team. Although I knew I was as good as anyone on the team, I was indeed nervous. We met at our Club, watched some of the Ijsselmeervogels' U14 game. I was amazed at watching young kids play sophisticated football. After the youth game we gathered in the Club's boardroom where Coach reviewed the system, the roles and responsibilities, and told us our positions. I was starting at number 11-- outside left mid -- my responsibility was to get the ball wide, think attack, and take my defender on one-on-one if isolated.

After the tactical review, we traveled about 30 minutes to a nearby club (I've already forgotten their names) and another immaculate pitch. We were playing this club's A team in hopes of a more challenging game. We were early, so we sat around their clubhouse and had coffee and sport drinks until it was time to hit the lockers, get dressed and get warmed up.

Before the game, Coach talked again about the system. I just sat and looked like I understood his Dutch instructions. I did notice he mentioned my name a couple of times but I couldn't figure out the context. Eventually one of the players said "Eeeen!" (That's how they pronounce my name)..."Eeen, when we kick-off, we always go forward -- you must sprint down the left side and we'll kick you the ball." I nodded and said "Run Forest Run". Fortunately they had seen the flick and laughed...then Peta, one of the guys who keeps the team light did his best Jerry Rice impression and said: "Just be sure not to catch the ball."

With that final laugh we were ready to play. On thing I noticed is that here there are no contrived rah-rah cheers before the game. People play with passion and heart but they know solid technique, tactics, teamwork and a little magic will ultimately win the day. For someone who has always been a rah-rah dude, it was quite nice to experience such casual confidence.

The game started as planned with me sprinting down the left skeptically thinking that I was part of some Dutch football initiation prank. That was until a long ball sailed over my head and out of bounds. We quickly put the other team under pressure in the left corner. Their throw-in went to a defender who struggled with his first touch allowing me to take the ball from him and head for the goal line where I cut the ball back to a teammate on the penalty spot for an open shot that he sailed high. I thought to myself, "Damn, it would have been nice to get an assist on my first touch of the ball." After the play I instantly lost my nervousness.

The ensuing goal kick went to the same outside defender on my side. I sat back until our center midfielder Kennen said, "pressure", signally for me to sprint after the defender. The defender cut outside and tried to pass it down the line but I intercepted it and touched it past him towards goal. The sweeper and stopper came to cover but I cut the ball between the two leaving them both behind. The keeper charged my long touch but I got there first and tucked the ball past him for the first goal of the game. And I thought, "Damn! It’s not so bad scoring the second time I touched the ball."

The lads were cool about it, laughing and congratulating me. I instantly realized my path to acceptance - no matter where you are, everyone likes a goal-scorer.

The rest of the game went well. I later moved from midfield to forward and scored another goal, which was ultimately, ruled an own goal. I also got an assist during a classic Dutch play that started with a series of one and two touch passes.

We eventually won the game 6-2. After the game, we sat in the locker room for about an hour just hanging out and talking. The Dutch are never in a hurry to get anywhere. Someone brought in a crate of Heineken and my teammates showed me how to use two bottles to pop the tops off. There was some more joking "Eeen! you played good........for an American".

The Dutch men are cool: relaxed and void of a lot of the machismo and insecurities you see in other cultures. They enjoying hanging out and talking for hours but have an odd inclination to do it stinky and naked.

Overall it was a great day. The smell of fresh cut grass and the ability to just run around on a beautiful pitch would have been enough -- but to have scored and had team success was quite remarkable. We went back to the Ijssemeervogels clubhouse with our heads up high knowing that the team had picked up where they'd left off last year. The A team also had success that day beating a decent opponent 2-0.

We'll see what the season holds -- but the A team is in my sights. It's going to be tough to break through, especially because work and travel will have me out for the next couple of weeks, but scoring goals can always make people overlook your faults and, at times, even your nationality. I've enrolled in Dutch language classes now so hopefully by the end of the season I'll be able to understand more of the team's jokes and what my coach is saying.

If you're interested and speak Dutch, you can follow all the action at the team's official website: www.ijsselmeervogels.nl That's the score for now.

Postscripts….

Throughout the four years I lived and played football in Holland, I wrote so much about my experience with the game (playing, watching, working..etc.), I thought I was writing a book; however, looking back at my journal now, I realize that what I was actually doing was writing a football blog, only without the actual internet aspect. So consider this the first entry to my non-existent football blog.

During my second year my team and I won the Dutch Amateur National Championship for our division.

I eventually made it on to the A team and became a regular starter.

Soon after I wrote this, I quit my Dutch classes and never managed to understand my teammate’s jokes or my coach’s instructions.

I still don’t know what KNVB stands for.

(Photos by A. Groen)

Edinburgh Now

2005-08-29T16:53:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was spent visiting my good friend The Suk in Edinburgh, Scotland.

While much has changed since my first visit to Edinburgh, some things have definitely remained the same. Namely, that Scotland is home to some of the shittiest weather on the planet.

Now, I know we are all prone to putting a few positive spins on life’s misfortunes every now and again in order to make ourselves more comfortable with the things we cannot change. Say for example we discover a bit of grey hair, we declare it “A sign of being distinguished”. A little extra something around the booty we call “A little cushion for the pushin’”. Get peppered with bullets by your own troops, “Friendly fire”. Fair enough, we are all guilty of employing a few irrational rationalizations and words to lessen the blow of some of life’s less pleasant sucker punches.

However, when it comes to describing the weather in Scotland, I think my friend The Suk and his Scottish co-habitants have lost their euphemistic minds.

Case in point…

Saturday around 1pm, we left The Suk’s apartment to embark upon of day and night of festival shows and site seeing. As soon as I stepped outside his apartment, I immediately realized that my long-sleeve shirt and long pants weren’t going to be enough to battle the wind and cold so I quickly returned inside to grab more clothes.

As I reemerged, wearing a wool sweater (opting not to bring my rain jacket purely out of principle…it is August after all), The Suk followed closely behind wearing what can only be described as a very stylish ski jacket. Upon noticing the weather, The Suk declared, “Nice day. No need to take a cab. Let’s walk.”

It was about this time that I realized that Jon had ceased being a tourist and was now a bona fide local Edinburger.

This realization was further reinforced throughout the day as Jon deftly navigated us through the city while providing keen local insights such as, “See that puddle of puke on the sidewalk? You’ll want to avoid stepping in it.”

Actually, Jon has become quite a local and, throughout the entire weekend, managed to provide us with endless anecdotes about Edinburgh’s history and contemporary culture. The Suk could go on and on about the city’s academic legacy which features the likes of Darwin. He could ramble endlessly about Edinburgh’s literary triumphs such as Robert Burns, Dr. Jeckle & Mr. Hyde and Harry Potter. He could speak at great length about the city’s biotechnical breakthroughs like the cloned sheep Dolly. Yes, The Suk has indeed become a true Edinburgian and can go on an on about the city…whether you’re interested or not.

The locals call it the ‘gift of gab’ - a unique trait that when taken too far, makes you want to introduce the perpetrator to the ‘gift of gag’.

Of course I jest. The Suk and his girlfriend Cat were wonderful, insightful and not the least bit annoying hosts. To be honest, The Suk, being the intellectual giant that he his, has long realized that going too deep into anything with me is a lost cause and, instead, now opts to navigate across more pedestrian territories such as football, films, and where we’re going to get the next glass of wine.

Nevertheless, in his endless (albeit vain) quest to culture me, The Suk arranged for a full weekend of diverse and entertaining festival activities. For those of you not familiar with the Edinburgh Festival, it’s a month-long collection of different festivals all happening at the same time. The main ones being - a comedy festival called The Fringe, a book festival, a film festival, and a theatre festival. There are so many festival activities going on at one time, we estimated that there are more than 20 shows starting every ten minutes on any given day.

While the shows are the main draw, the city is also quite a spectacle. During the month of festivities, the entire city becomes enchanted - the streets fill with performers, musicians, magicians, fortunetellers, and drunk English guys wearing white button-up long-sleeve shirts that they keep un-tucked as if they’re attempting one last gesture of defiance at their high school headmaster.

The key to enjoying the festival is knowing what to see and what to avoid. Because there are so many shows going on (each of which is promoted like it’s the next Hamlet) it’s extremely important to be able to decipher the good from the “Holy shit that was weird. I think I need to see a therapist.”

Last year we were festival rookies, and although we saw some gems, we also saw some serious turd balls. None worse than the one-man play that featured a guy playing Kirk Kobain, Courtney Love, as well as their infant child Francis Bean. Truly shocking.

Navigating the festival’s offering can best be compared to navigating the World Wide Web - for every Tommy and Pamala Lee video, you’ve got a fat bearded guy whacking off.

Fortunately this year The Suk did his homework and acted as our festival Google. Through some secret mathematical algorithm and a bit of fairy dust, The Suk was able to determine the best tickets to buy.

When I arrived Friday night, we went to a midnight comedy show called ‘The Best of the Fest’. It featured six different stand-up acts that had all been deemed…er…the best of the festival.

Saturday was our big festival day, The Suk had lined us up with three great shows. The first of which took place in the basement of a medieval church. It was a multi-media show that can best be described as a cross between a Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy sketch. It was a vaudeville style show performed with deft skill by two US actors who, like Chaplin, mixed slapstick humor with sweet delicate moments.

After the first show, we had about an hour to walk around the city. As we walked through the old parts of town I couldn’t help but notice the ominous dark clouds forming overhead and begun wishing I had brought my rain jacket. The Suk, upon noticing the same clouds, said, “Ahh, looks like a nice thick layer of UV protection is making its way our direction.”

The second show was simply amazing. Amazing in the way I’d imagine the birth of my first child to be amazing. Amazing in the way realizing you’re falling in love is amazing. Amazing in that it was simultaneously inspiring, moving, and frightening to be so moved.

The show’s billing sounded rather innocuous: “Shane L. Koyczan - A national champion slam poet from Canada”.

As a big fan of the movie Slam and having recently seen Saul Williams perform his slam poetry live, I harbored the narrow-minded view that slam poetry, like rap music, was reserved for the urban-strife black folks of inner city America. Of course, I was just being a big idiot - slam poetry has long been an expression of all races, colors, classes, and religions…but Canadians? To be honest, going into this show, I was like, “I gotta see this shit and imagined something along the lines of ’Oh moose, oh great beast, with your antlers ragged and stern like a thousand erections. How dare they hang your heads on the wall?’”

But when the festival host introduced the poet by quoting Maya Angelo who had said, in reference to Koyczan, “The future of poetry is in good hands.” I started to get the idea that I was going to be pleasantly surprised.

Surprised I was. Moved to tears I was. Stitched in laughter I was. Inspired I was.

Below is a love poem from Koyczan’s, one of the shorter pieces he performed. Imagine these being passionately and honestly recited by a substantially overweight yet thoroughly self-confident, charming and intelligent white guy in his late 20’s.

Skin 2

I don’t imagine you
saran-wrapped in black latex
or seeping out the edges
of something tight and red

I don’t close my eyes
to dream of your back
arched at the impossible angle
of a bow pulled tight
encouraging your shoulder blades
to drip the blood
of stockpiled broken hearts
but I hope the sound
of you not shielding your eyes
from my blinding humility
will one day top the charts

it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard
and you’re the Charlie Chaplin of your beautifuls
because you make me believe it
when you say it all without saying a word

looking at you it occurred to me
I could sit around all day
Wearing nothing but your kiss

you make mirrors
want to grind themselves
back down into sand
because they can’t do your reflection justice

and this just in
I am done with those
who in life would have made me fight
an army of imperfections
a battalion of flaws
tonight we’re going to keep this city up
when they hear our bodies
clap together like applause

After the show we made our way across the city for some dinner and drinks. At this point the skies looked as though they would rain down upon us at any moment. While I was kicking myself again for not bringing a rain jacket, Jon casually said, “Looks like we might get a chance to soak up a little atmosphere this evening.”

Our third and final show of the day began at midnight and took place in a famous and elaborate circus tent that travels the world from festival to festival. The show was called Le Clique. It was a burlesque show, not too unlike a raunchy version of Cirque de soleil that featured everything from a beer chugging, scissor swallowing diva, to a belly dancing cross-dresser, to a pair of acrobatic albino twins, to a sexy Spanish magician who pulled a hanky out of her pink panky. It was fantastically awesome! The perfect capper to the perfect day.

The following Sunday was spent sleeping in and casually touring the city through gale-force winds and rain, or what The Suk and other locals referred to as, “A breath of fresh air.”

The lazy day provided ample time to catch up with a dear old friend. Although The Suk and I see each other less and less these days, it never ceases to amaze me how easily we can slip back into the casual comfort of friendship. It’s a feeling I can best associate with being around my brothers, which is probably a fitting comparison – The Suk has indeed become like family. And it brings me pure familial pleasure to see The Suk at such peace with his life these days.

Until the next time brotha...

(Shane L. Koyczan’s “Skin 2” and other poems can be found in his book Visiting Hours, www.motherpressmedia.com)

Edinburgh Then

2005-08-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I fly to Edinburgh to visit my good friend The Suk. The upcoming visit conjures up memories of my first trip to Edinburgh two and a half years ago. At the time, The Suk was making arrangements for his move from Amsterdam to Edinburgh to pursue a masters degree in Biotechnology Ethics and Policy. My brother Gee was also contemplating a move to Edinburgh to get his masters in Literature. The Suk, Gee, my friend Sean and I went to Edinburgh together for two days of research, whiskey and bonding. Jon took some pictures during the trip, which remain some of my favorites from my entire time in Europe. In these pictures lie all the emotions of that time: adventure, freedom, possibility, brotherhood, melancholy, homesickness. Or maybe I just like them because they're black and white and look a bit like an 80's album cover.

See you soon Suk.