Soccer goalkeeper provides team’s communication backbone

To the west, the amber sun glows as it slowly sets on a cool fall night.

The battlefield for IU soccer is peaceful — it’s that period of calm before the fight.
At one end of the field stands the general of the troop in his blue uniform, protecting an 8-by-24 foot box of knotted string.

“Here we go defense. Let’s go Tommy,” the general shouts. “Right shoulder, duck in, slide over. Time, time.”

Sophomore goalkeeper Luis Soffner surveys the field, his eyes darting from one tangle of players to the next.

“Hold … time, Caleb, time,” the general commands. “Drop in. Harry, watch short. Side out, boys.”

There’s the crowd gathered around the field, joking with each other and throwing faceless jaunts at the enemy. There’s a commander on the sideline growling deep commands that are inaudible. There’s the voice of Soffner ringing free and clear to his fighters, his teammates.

There’s 32:49 remaining in the first half, and a free kick is pressuring the line.
“Hold the line,” Soffner yells.

The lone call. The sound of shoe against soccer ball. Then five gloved fingers reach to the sky above the rest, and the general’s box is safe again.

“C’mon boys. Let’s go. Let’s go,” Soffner shouts.

Every time a shot comes toward the goal, Soffner’s name is on the line, but he never shows his team a look of disappointment when they don’t listen. Instead, he caresses them with words of encouragement.

There’s a pounding like a drum on the barrier boards. There’s a battle cry of Hoosiers. There’s the band of brothers waiting on the sidelines to take the spot of an injured or tired man on the field.

Senior midfielder Andy Adlard gets pulled from the pitch. “Who goes into the battle next?” asks one of the men warming up behind the goal.

“Estridge,” a coach yells.

“Uh-oh,” junior forward Chris Estridge says, with a smile on his face to his comrade. “You lost the bet.”

There are lights above the field that illuminate the pitch. There’s no smoke, but shots ring solid off the leather of cleat-worn shoes.

There’s a disagreement between goalie and teammate. Then there’s a reminder from the hero of the team.

“Listen to the goalie,” junior forward Will Bruin says. “There’s seven left in the half. Just listen to the goalie.”

Play continues. The period ends.

There’s less than 45 minutes left in the fight. An injured brother limps and tightens his face in pain.

“Richie, if you can’t go, go down,” Soffner indicates to senior midfielder Rich Balchan. “You can’t let that happen.”

There’s a shake of a head and play continues.

From above, the field looks like any other pitch — a little worn at some spots but nurtured with water. At field level, it is a divot-filled patch, torn by metal.

“Keep,” the general shouts as he snatches a ball from the air before it enters his box. He comes down with the sphere in his substantially over-sized bear-like hands. “C’mon boys. Let’s go. We got to sort ‘em out.”

There’s one substitution of a teammate. Then another. But the general won’t come off the field. He’s behind his troops to analyze and to communicate what they can’t see.
“Sharpen it up,” the general says.

There are just seconds remaining on the clock. A ball is pushed toward his box. There’s a slide and a save by his comrade.

“There you go, Bushue,” the general encourages.

There’s a fist bump and a pat on the butt as he sends one of his rookies back to the center of the field for handshakes.

The sun is down. Time is out. And for the first time of the night, the general’s shoulders relax, his hands dangle by his side and all is silent in his box.