There was a time when they were dangerous. Faster, stronger, knees still working. Back when their hamstrings could be trusted. They played in big games, scored big goals and genuinely believed they might play forever. Then life happened. Careers, kids, bad backs, soft middles and sticks collecting dust in the garage. But when the sun goes down and reasonable adults head home, something begins stirring beneath the soil. The Nightcrawlers emerge.

A collection of players who used to be good and are still willing to tell you about it. They don't practice and rarely stretch. They arrive five minutes before the game, spend ten minutes discussing who's going to play midfield, and somehow nobody volunteers. Their pregame consists mostly of Advil, athletic tape and trying to remember which knee hurts.

The first five minutes of every game are absolutely electric. The next forty-five are pure survival.

But nobody really cares. The Nightcrawlers aren't trying to get anywhere. It's old friends, old sticks, cold drinks and one more excuse to play the game. We keep score. We occasionally win. We immediately forget both. So when the sun goes down, the lights come on and respectable adults start heading home...we crawl out.

Slowly. Very, very slowly.

THE NIGHTCRAWLERS

We used to be good.