Soccer anyone?

Losing is not a problem, but I like to win just as much as the next guy.

So it was cool as hell to win a soccer competition yesterday at the IAMO Sommerfest 2005.

The day began with a "friendly" match between the lady researchers and the lady administrators. Sometimes these two groups butt heads, so the match had an air of excitement to it. The crowd wanted to see some blood. At least I did...

Both teams played well and thouroughly sportswomanlike, but the difference was in the goalies. The administrators had long before decided on who would play goalie, and the girl had trained for weeks in preparation for the match. She was intimidating and efficient, swatting away all the researchers' shots with her gloved hands.

The researchers' goalie, on the other hand, was like a hotel doorman – she let just about everything in.

Final score: Researchers 0, Administration 3.

There were four men's teams in the round-robin competition and simply put, I thought my team was gonna get spanked. I've played soccer for all of 6 months, and of my teammates, the only one I knew hadn't exercised since his baby was born a year ago.

The other teams were all stacked with talent – each one having a standout player who, when we play against each other, makes me look slow and stupid.

But the Ukrainian and the Belorussian boys on my team played well, and as a team we were able to set each other up for shots, play reliabe defense, and our goalie allowed only one goal in two games.

In the end it was the Danish goalie's stingy defense, the Belorussian boy's passing and attacking, the American's hustle and scoring, and the Ukrainian's footwork and hat-trick that brought us the trophy – a bottle of champagne.

And like the competitive fool I am, I remain completely full of myself.

We had a ball

Many of the goings on in rural areas are just not my cup of tea.

For example, while I very much enjoy looking at farm animals, I have little desire to touch them, to ride them, to smell them, to clean up after them, or to listen to them while I'm trying to sleep. Heck, I even have just a slim, bordering on negligible, desire to eat them.

Thus, when our Czech friends invite us over because, as they say, "We kill pig," I always steer us clear. (We did drop by once – on accident – after such a spectacle had taken place. Seeing sausage being made one time was enough for me this lifetime.)

It was in this spirit - this snobbery of rurality I suppose - that I approached last weekend in Zdeslav. We were going there for a long weekend, and as Jarmila mentioned while packing, the annual Fireman's Ball was to take place on Saturday night in the village pub.

I have known for awhile that Balls in the Czech Republic are an important tradition. While we were at the Czech Agriculture University, Jarmila even dragged me along to one. Made me wear a tie and trip the lights fandango to waltzes and other such dances for an evening before I started to step on her feet, not really intentionally, but neither regretfully.

Outgoing Czech high school seniors also have Balls, and instead of the student-only affairs that Proms are in the U.S., the Czechs invite the whole family along to celebrate. We missed our Czech nieces' graduation balls, much to Jarmila's regret (and my relief) and I thought that was the end of the Threat of the Balls.

Alas, I knew as soon as she mentioned the Zdeslav Ball that we were going. The usual excuse of being elsewhere was void. Instead, the lack of interest on my part was outweighed by the pull of the whole family planning on attending, the possibility of Jarmila's long-lost friends being there, and the fact that once we arrived in Zdeslav, the Ball was THE topic of conversation.

The whole village would be there, they said. Live music. Cutting down the Maytree. A chance to win Tombola (a type of lottery where the villagers donate an item to a pool and then the firemen sell chances to win the stuff. Basically a fundraiser for the volunteer firemen).

In short, it was to be a proper Czech hoedown.

Saturday night then, along toward 8 or so, people started converging on the pub. Jarmila had convinced me to bring along a nice shirt and khakis, and she was going to wear a dress. But everyone we saw were wearing jeans and shirts, and I started lobbying for Jarmila to dress down a bit, maybe wear jeans as well.

Mistake.

"Jim doesn't want me to wear a dress," she tattled to her mom.

Mom's disbelief was palpable. "What?! Why not?! It's The Ball! Everyone will be there! What's wrong with a dress?! I'm wearing a dress!"

The bad mood I created was enough for me to drop the matter. We would dress for our respective parts: Jarmila would be the Belle of the Ball, and I would be her American husband escort.

I have been to the pub for lesser events, you see, and it is always the same. I am the curiosity of the village, as Americans are about as rare in Zdeslav as muscle cars or pet therapists.

Now, my sociable self enjoys being the center of all this attention, but my introverted self agonizes over it and so I slinked away for a pre-party beer while the makeup was being applied. I was debating the merits of a second when Jarmila emerged. She of course looked wonderful, and I felt sorry to have tried to talk her into dressing down. We walked up the street to the pub.

The Tiger

The pub in Zdeslav, called the Tiger, has seen better days. Though not rundown exactly, even I can recognize that it needs a good scrubbing. But this was the Firemen's Ball, so everyone appeared to ignore the surroundings.

We weren't inside the crowded hall for five minutes before the village boy named Wenceslas (Vaclav for short) collared me. I had met him once before, on Easter, the week after he had hacked up his right arm and hand in some sort of wood-cutting accident. The wounds were un-bandaged and angry-looking when we shook, but his right was still the hand he extended to shake with.

Back to the ball: drunk as hell, never having been beyond the biggest hill in sight, and as honest and strange as the day is long, Wenceslas insisted we do a shot of rum together. Got in my face in an innocent drunk way until I relented. Wouldn't hear my objections to the rum. Wanted to talk at me even though I couldn't understand the bulk of his slurred Czech. Jarmila finally came to the rescue and dragged me to the dance floor, but it only lasted for awhile. Soon after we sat down, Wenceslas came over and made a big show about asking Jarmila to dance.

One doesn't turn down dance requests at the Zdeslav Firemen's Ball, so off Jarmila went to politely endure the reminisces of her childhood buddy with the drunken breath.

After their dance, Wenceslas led a reluctant Jarmila up to the bar, so I followed after. When I got there, she was objecting to the insisted-upon shot, and when she saw me I was volunteered as a replacement. But I was feeling tough and protective, so I declined the drink.

"Then dance with my wife," said Wenceslas.

"No, I don't want to dance, I said.

"Jim can't dance," Jarmila added.

"Well, you can either dance with my wife or do a shot of rum with me," said Wenceslas.

"Where's your wife?"

"That's her over there." He pointed her out.

Short. Black hair. 200 pounds easy.

I looked back at him. "I'll do the shot."

Jarmila giggled and Wenceslas looked at me for a moment wondering whether to be offended. Then his thirst overcame him.

Jarmila was dragged somewhere by someone else, and after we did the shot, I agreed to do another and listened to Wenceslas talk. He wasn't very interested in what I had to say, so no problem with my language. Instead, he just seemed happy to tell me about his childhood time spent with Jarmila. From what I gathered, she was quite the athlete. Best soccer player in the village when she was young.

After a bit, I extricated myself and found Jarmila selling tickets for the Tombola. They'd set the price too low for the tickets and people had bought them all up before I'd gotten there. So I had no chance at the jar of olives, the beer glasses, or the large ceramic jar.

The big winner of the Tombola was an older couple who won a deer.

Not a pet deer, but a dead, frozen deer. It was without head and hooves, and was folded up to fit into a big banana box.

And they loved it.

As did the people who won the cord of wood.

And the beer glasses.

And the olives.

Which made me realize something: There are simple joys to be found in Zdeslav that I should perhaps stop resisting.