Lonny was simply put the most skillful soccer player I’ve ever played with. He did things with the ball I didn’t know were possible. He was an artist and a genius. Time and time again, I’d see defenders playing against us just give up and accept that Lonny was going to do what Lonny was going to do, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Eventually, they’d just smile and try to enjoy the game as much as Lonny could, his smile infectious.
I want to share one experience with Lonny that changed the way I see the world and how I conduct myself.
Lon and I shared the center midfield together in an 11v11 league. In a league where the other teams paid, and Street Soccer USA covered the cost for our team to participate, it was not uncommon that our opponents were predominantly white, perhaps a group that knew each other from work, while our team was predominantly Black and Hispanic. And on occasion, it was pretty obvious that the referees were making calls against us and that they did not like it one bit when our players would argue a call.
One match, we were up 3-2 with two minutes left. The referee had been making some pretty dodgy calls against us, but we had up until then managed to persevere. He called a penalty against us, an awful decision, and our guys were heartbroken. It was never a secret that this team, this game, every game we played in, meant so much to them.
The other team scored and made it 3-3. In the last minute, the referee made an even worse call, and gifted the team a second penalty. We lost 4-3.
The team, and Lonny, were beside themselves and virtually inconsolable. Coach Reed did his thing and managed to calm everyone down after a few minutes, but still, the mood was grim.
While the difference in skin color more obvious, few people, myself included, could truly grasp just how difficult Lonny’s life and many of our teammates lives have been. It made a loss in a game all the more devastating.
Lon looked devastated. I walked over to him to try to console him. “Unlucky,” I told him. “We’ll get them next time.”
His eyes opened wide and he stared at me intensely. “Unlucky!?” he called me out passionately. “We weren’t unlucky. We were robbed.”
I froze. Embarrassed, humbled, I waited for the right words to come to me. Nothing came. I hung my head, then looked up at Lonny. We both knew he was right.
Cliches say that sports are the greatest equalizer, but no, they can’t be. My center midfield partner and I had lived entirely different lives, and that meant we experienced the game in an entirely different way, even when we shared the same field at the same time, in the same position on the pitch. What I experienced as unlucky was what Lonny experienced day after day, injustices both glaringly obvious and more subtle that presented themselves constantly.
Street Soccer USA teaches you to show up and to look up. Looking up to me means being a teammate and means learning to look at the game, and the world, through your teammates eyes, to the absolute best of your ability.
To say that moment changed my life is not hyperbole. Lonny was so real with me, so passionate. For the rest of my life, I’ll remember that lesson and I’ll be be better equipped to look up and to empathize.
I’m devastated and we’re all devastated to lose Lonny so tragically. A death ends a life but not a love, and we all love Lonny and will continue to do so. We’ll show our love by playing the game with the joy Lonny did, with a big smile on our face, and trying to throw in an extra panna or two for good measure.
Before every match, we’d all put our hands in a circle, and chant “family” after 1-2-3. Lon was family, and we’d give anything for one last match with him. Personally, I’d love one last chance to cuss him out for not coming back on defense.
RIP Akeem Loney.