An Extemporaneous Outing to Puyallup

Carl Sparks Stadium in Puyallup was the scene of the girls 3A soccer championship
Photo by TCA

By TCA

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Would you rather have made it to the Championship match, and heartbreak of a loss, or rejoice that you’ve made it to the final? It’s a dilemma that I’ve pondered many a time. 

In my recent history with girls’ 3A soccer, my Shorewood team has not enabled me to attend as a parent, friend or booster in the last decade since my daughters started playing for their high school. Hence my annual lament that I’d love to go to Puyallup, just once, specifically to Sparks Stadium, where the State Tournament final takes place every year in the Fall. 

I’ve contented myself to being a chronicler of events, which has gradually evolved to being a roving correspondent of this very niche sporting event. This year, the stars aligned – I happened to be in Federal Way that Saturday 11/22, my morning appointment finished early, my dinner plans cancelled, 

I had a Press Pass, and most crucially… it wasn’t raining. I no longer had to attend out of obligation, so, on a whim, I decided to live a vicarious experience at the Carl Sparks Stadium. In 1969, the stadium was renamed in honor of a Puyallup High School coach, who became the first Athletic Director of the Puyallup School District.

I made it to Puyallup in plenty of time, with much coming and going, as the 3rd/4th place match had just taken place earlier. It was a festive carnival atmosphere, with fans bedecked in their tribal colors (likely close friends & family) but the crowd had inflated to many times its usual size, for the biggest game of the year, the freaking State Championship, bragging rights for twelve months, and high-school sporting immortality! 

There was a buzz in the air, it was electric, as fans lustily cheered their heroines as the teams were introduced. You could feel the pride just bursting out of the stands, as they watched their daughters, their progeny, participate in this pivotal contest. 

I’m certain that my emotions would have overwhelmed me, had I a rooting interest. As it was, I could be a dispassionate observer, just soaking in the sights and sounds. I made my way to the press box/media room - Lumen Field luxury suite this was not – no prawn sandwiches or sparkling bubbly here. I had to be gratified with the can of bubble water and pack of potato chips in my bag. 

View from the press box
Photo by TCA

I suppose to befit the occasion, I could have splurged on a bottle of Perrier and Tartuflanghe truffle chips (with my other aspiration as a wannabe gourmand). It was rather Spartan, but functional, but I was glad to be out of the elements, with a prime view of the action.

With the formalities out of the way, the referee blows her whistle to start the match! The crowd oohed and aahed, shouting supportive encouragement with gusto to their chosen team. Back and forth it went, both teams playing cagily, as expected. 

As is my wont, I was secretly hoping the underdog would score first, but defense was winning the day. One goalkeeper had to work harder, keeping the opposition at bay as the overdog was showing their quality, and starting to gain the upper hand. But their opponents counterattacked with intent, as they have done, knocking off one higher-seeded opponent after another. Nonetheless, as the half-time whistle blew, the game was scoreless, and the match remained drawn.

Here was the purity of sporting endeavor, athletes playing with passion, playing for the love of the game. It was a shame that one team would win, and the other team would not, but I have seen this movie before, as floridly described a year ago in the Agony & Ecstasy (see previous article). 

The favorites came out pressing hard, as they knew their dangerous opponent was very capable of staging an upset, the longer it went on. As the clock ticked onward, the crowd was beginning to get restless, rippling with murmurs of anxiety, knowing what would await them should the match remain stalemated, namely the horrid torture of a penalty shootout. All the possession in the world would mean nothing, if you could not score a goal. 

Such is the nature of soccer – dominance nor style points counts for little. Opportunities had been few and far between, the margins fine indeed, and as a striker, you had to be ruthless in applying the finishing touch, but so far neither side had been able to find it.

In a moment of magic, the winger drives up the left flank, and cuts inward into the box, with the fullback backpedalling furiously; she feints left, jukes right, gaining a step on the defender, and unleashes a screamer between the near-post and the keeper, precisely into the top left corner, beyond the reach of the goalie. 

With a quarter of the match still to go, a comeback was still possible, as the losing team pushes forward with urgency. With the lead, a team could sit back, remain composed, and play keep-away, but all it would take would be a mistake, a handball, a penalty, to tie it up. 

But even under duress, the leading team remained steadfast in defense, time and again, up till the two-minute mark, plus added stoppage time. Try as they might, the desperate shots go awry, repeated incursions without avail, no lucky bounces would happen tonight. With the trill of the final whistle, the winners exult in their victory, the losers distraught by their loss. 

My detachment slips a little, as I loudly applaud both teams, on a match well-played, full of sound and fury, with supreme effort from both sides. Was there a trickle of moisture in the corner of my eye? It was awfully dusty in that little room. As the trophy was presented, I felt like an interloper partaking in the emotive ceremony, but I wanted to console the losing team, as it was not bad coming second in the state, scant consolation in that moment. 

I beat a hasty retreat, passing by the throngs, one group quieter than the other. I had hoped to write a valiant Cinderella story, but they were vanquished by the better team this autumn night. Those of you who have been to Puyallup would know there is a one-way street taking you into the downtown, my next intrepid task would be to figure out which street would get me out, back to SR 161, and back onto the interstate highway. And that’s the way it was.

Oh, by the way, #3 Bellevue defeated #9 Liberty, 1-0.