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When Peter Hockaday, a Senior Sports Reporter for The Casper Star-Tribune, wrote me an email, there really wasn’t any question about whether I was going to read it or not. The subject line read “Crap, Piss, and American Soccer.” Now who among us could say no to that? Here is what I found inside:

This is a decidedly Wyoming story, because that’s where I live and where this story is set. The state motto here is “Equal Rights” but it might as well be “Don’t Tread on Me.” Much like the American soccer team, Wyoming is a state that is overlooked and unknown. I admit I knew little about Wyoming before moving here for a job after college almost two years ago. I soon learned two important things about the state: the wind is as prevalent as Starbucks in my hometown of Seattle, and the terrain is surreal in its flatness. But that latter part can be a positive, too. To my delight, I found that my new place of residence had a sprawling 12-field soccer complex.

In the summer, we have the regular rec soccer leagues that I imagine take place in cities from South Carolina to California. But in the winter, that’s when things really get interesting. When the wind blows the snow across the road so hard you can’t see two feet in front of your car, when your nose hairs freeze every time you step out the door, that’s when the soccer players in Wyoming pull back the curtain and reveal quite a show.

In the winter, the city runs a rec indoor soccer league. But instead of a nice indoor complex with boards and artificial turf, we play in a rodeo arena. Bucking chutes, normally reserved for horses ready to burst onto the arena floor and buck off their riders, are our end lines. A giant tractor stands guard in one corner. Before games, that tractor flattens the normally loose dirt on the floor of the arena. But no amount of tractor-work can truly flatten the dirt; the ball bounces off the playing surface like a baseball taking hops off a barren sandlot. Trapping becomes a valued skill above all others.

8 seconds to soccer

Whereas the fitness-seeking athletes will show up for the summer leagues, only the most dedicated show up for the indoor league. Our cast ranges in talent but shares a singular soccer passion. There’s the grumpy and massive Brit who never remembers anybody’s name and the flashy high schooler whose only goal is to make you look foolish for defending him. There’s the girl who played in college who enjoys matching game with the boys, and the local dentist nicknamed “Doc” by the grumpy Brit. The leader of our crew is an American soccer diehard who must get the latest U.S. jersey the day it comes out and dutifully has the name “Prophet” stitched on the back. In the context of this story, his name is fitting indeed.

The group isn’t the only reason I look forward to Sundays at The Arena. There is a certain strong-headed acceptance that comes with playing in a rodeo arena, and it’s a code we dutifully stick with. Besides the uneven surface, there are nastier hazards. The arena floor itself is clean enough, but when balls go into the bucking chutes, they often roll around in the manure and piss left behind by the bucking broncs. The arena itself has a pungent smell that cowboys get acclimated to but is always shocking to the non-cowboy. In one game, I rotated into goal for a spell. After I retrieved the ball from the chutes several times but managed to stay clean myself, I stared down a breakaway. I got into good position. I took the manure-covered ball directly in the center of my chest. The visual and olfactory marks left by the ball stuck with me until I got home, and my Jeep didn’t fully recover until the next day.

But through it all, we never talk about it. The writing of this story, in itself, constitutes a breaking of the code. I’ve never heard any player discuss the bizarre nature of our soccer situation. Much in the same way that the state has used silent resolve to move past the controversial events of its recent past, we employ our own silent resolve in our dedication to the game. The idea of “middle-class soccer” has been discussed here, but what about “working-class soccer”? We live that ideal every Sunday at the rodeo arena.

When we step out on the packed dirt, and focus intently on controlling the ball with all its crazy hops, life becomes about “1-2!” and “line line line!” This group of soccer players has found something we enjoy and we’re sticking with it, horse manure or no, snow or no, bumps or no.

Simply, we play.