[photo by Isak Aronsson]

• by Andrew Orlando, writing from East Lansing, MI

In the summer of 2006 the whole world was eagerly awaiting the 18th ever FIFA World Cup. Except for me. I laughed at my friends who played soccer. Some even made the trip to Germany to see the World Cup, and I laughed at them even harder. I, like many other Americans, did not consider soccer a real sport. Soccer was a game for children and/or wimps, but not men. Little did I know, by the end of that summer I would form a love for the game and a respect for its players.

That summer my cousins from Florida visited. This inevitably meant an entire week spent with my whole family. Most of my cousins were soccer fans, and some even played soccer. We watched much of the World Cup, held a FIFA 2005 tournament on my PlayStation 2 and even played several soccer games of our own. This opened my eyes to the world of soccer. The different players, teams, styles of play, and the intricacies of the game were all unknown to me until this point. In support of my family heritage I watched all of Italy’s matches that summer. And on July 9, 2006 Italy beat France in penalty kicks to win the 2006 World Cup. My Italian pride was as strong as my newfound love for soccer, an infectious game.

Spurred on by the excitement surrounding the World Cup, I decided I would try out for the high school soccer team. This decision came the day before tryouts began. Though I recently formed what would eventually become a deep love of the sport, my original intent was to merely use soccer. My plan was to join the soccer team to stay in shape for basketball, my true love at the time. I had no real hopes or expectations for success. I knew Mason had a storied soccer program (claiming three state titles to our name) and that rising amongst the ranks would be hard to do against the quality players Mason produced. But I tried out anyway, looking to have fun and stay in shape.

When my dad dropped my off at the soccer field, Mr. Gillengerten was there to great me. G, as he was often called, was the middle school shop teacher. I already knew he coached soccer so it was not altogether surprising to see him there. G, though not a teapot, was a short and stout man. He had dark hair, fairly tan skin (undoubtedly from the hours spent in the sun with the soccer team) and wore Versace glasses. His face was weathered and war-tested while his eyes were alive with fire. The “fire in his eyes” was the fire of an extreme competitor. I would later find that it was hardly a figurative fire at all. G spent most, if not every, pre-game and half time speech glorifying what it meant to play with Bulldog Heart. Bulldog Heart was more than a clever play on words incorporating our school’s mascot in a catchy saying. It was the idea that soccer should be played the way a bulldog fights.

When a bulldog fights he struggles and scraps with anybody willing to go. No matter the size, speed or ability of the opponent. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding the fight, a bulldog will always give 150 percent. And if that’s not good enough a bulldog gives 180 percent if he has to. He does anything and everything to win. And once a bulldog has you in his jaw, he clamps down and never, ever, lets go. That’s what G taught his players. To a bulldog everything is a fight, and to a Mason Bulldog every game is a battle.

G grew up in northern Michigan and played hockey as a youth, not soccer. His coaching career and 30 year affair with the game began when he got a teaching job in Mason, MI. Once settled into his new town G began coaching his daughter’s youth soccer team. Obviously he fell in love with the game because he singlehandedly brought soccer to Mason. G is the originator of Mason High School’s soccer program, founding it in 1982. G used hockey strategies as his template for soccer formations, and hockey toughness as his standard for players.
I quickly learned that G strived to instill this toughness in all of his players. During tryouts, the first week of the season, G introduced me to a drill known simply as “War Games”.

“Everybody form a circle there at midfield,” G commanded. We hastily followed his orders. “Ok, everybody get a ball at their feet.”

Once everyone had a ball G explained the rules and objectives of the drill. “Alright. Ya know, I’ve been coaching for over 20 years now and I’ve used this drill every year. It’s called ‘War Games’ and if this doesn’t get fire shooting outta your shorts, ya know, if you can’t find your Bulldog Heart,” as he pounded on his chest. G always beat on his chest at the mention of Bulldog Heart.

“Then I guess I better get you a shirt that has a big pink ‘P’ on it instead. And I think you all know what that means,” Some of us laughed at this. Others didn’t dare make a sound, out of fearful anticipation.

“The rules are simple: I call out three names. The first is on offense, his job is to get free from the defense, receive a pass at his feet from any of his teammates on the outside oft the circle, and pass it back. As simple as that. The other two are on defense. Their job is, well, stop him. That means by any means necessary. The only restrictions are if you take a guy down you can’t hold him down, you gotta let him get up. Let him try to fight through you again. And nothin’ below the belt. If Walker here’s trying to receive a pass he’s gonna have a Hell of a time if Bobby’s grabbin’ his Johnny, ya know what I mean? So none of that. And you guys on the outside you be on your toes cause the guy on offense is gonna wanna kill you if he’s workin’ his tail of to get free and you can’t even get him the ball. And I wouldn’t blame him. Okay, so that’s the rules, are any questions?” Nobody dared ask a question. “Alright lets get started, you’ll each get about a minute, minute and a half in there.”

[photo by conniiely]

And the “Games” would ensue. The defenders took no mercy on the man on offense. 60 to 90 seconds were spent in Hell for the offensive player as he struggled and fought for every inch of space to receive a ball. War Games could possibly be best described in this way: close your eyes and imagine a two versus one fight. Now the only difference between the fight you just imagined and War Games is that War Games is a soccer drill, not a street fight. To passers-by War Games must have looked like an organized brawl, with spectators circled around and an adult supervisor looking on. And instead of this school sponsored coach, hired to be in charge of these boys, breaking up the fight he hollered and spouted off words of encouragement. No doubt a bizarre sight. Chasing, tripping, pulling, pushing, grabbing, full on tackling all occurred during War Games. All for the sake of G’s effort to transform the boys he coached into soccer players, a transformation into men.

War Games simulated the all too real battles that happen on the soccer field every game. Through my four-year involvement with high school soccer, one of which at the varsity level, I have seen any and all of the tricks players used in War Games, employed in a game setting as well. And anyone that witnesses such things, whether in practice, game, or in any other form of soccer, would be hard pressed to continue believing soccer is a sport for wimps. G joked about having a pink ‘P’ ready for anyone who couldn’t handle War Games. And while many Americans believe that all soccer players wear that ‘P’, the truth is, anybody that earned the pink ‘P’ from coach Gillengerten is not a real soccer player.

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