Eddy Prugh is a professional footballer from the United States. It hasn’t always looked as that would be the case though. In this superbly written article below he tells us about overcoming adversity, fighting for his dream, playing against Didier Drogba, training in Bolivia and Shaun Wright-Phillips. This is his story and it’s a remarkable one.
Enjoy.
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It’s true, soccer has been growing in America but it still has a long way to go to be even close to the big European leagues. Some cities are better than others – Portland, Oregon, for example, has the nickname Soccer City. It’s not an enormous shock to see players from cities like that turn professional. They’ve grown up around a professional team and been able to see soccer at the highest domestic level in their own city. There are public parks with goals all over the city and hopefully—and this is still the most problematic—they’ve been able to receive good coaching.
In other places in America, it’s more difficult to understand how players can become professional. In my home state of Montana, there have only been two professional men’s players ever. Both are currently playing; myself and my good friend and teammate growing up, goalkeeper Zac Lubin.
Montana is a state located along the Canadian border, ripped through by the Rocky Mountains. While Montana’s skiing, fishing and hunting are second best to only Alaska, it’s soccer is perhaps only second worst to… perhaps Wyoming. Playing club soccer as a youth in Montana was an absolute joke. I remember travelling to regional tournaments in places like Colorado or Washington and getting beaten by ten goals.
With no disrespect intended, I didn’t become professional by paying close attention to the teachings of any of the coaches I grew up playing under. Nobody ever ignited my excitement at watching a bit of individual brilliance or explained in detail how a certain formation should work. When I first heard about YouTube things changed dramatically. I had always been obsessed with the best players, googling them and looking at their statistics for the different clubs in Europe. After YouTube came about not only could I search them on Google, but I could actually watch them.
I can’t possibly explain how many hours of highlight videos I watched but it was surely thousands. I loved to watch the classic midfielders of my youth – Zidane, Gerrard, Pirlo, Scholes, Kaká – but it didn’t matter if they weren’t in my position. I also watched hours of Henry, Rooney, Ronaldinho, both Ronaldo’s and Iniesta on this beautiful website called YouTube. I began to understand the intelligence of players like Lahm, Xavi and Bergkamp. I came to understand the art of defending and watched the greats of that as well, over and over.
For whatever reason, in the snowy mountain town of Bozeman, Montana, I chose soccer over the other sports that I played at the time; hockey, skiing and tennis, although sometimes it seemed like soccer had chosen me. Then something monumental happened in my life. It was 2003, I was thirteen years old. My dad took my brother and I to England to watch a Premier League game, but not just any Premier League game…
Manchester City vs Manchester United
Back then it was The City of Manchester Stadium—the first season played in it since City moved from Maine Road. City were fighting for Premier League survival while United were trying to catch Arsenal at the top of the table. City won the game 4-1. Since we were at City’s stadium we cheered their goals as true supporters.
Shaun Wright-Philips scored the fourth, after chasing a ball down the line before feinting the United defender and smashing a shot off the underside of the bar in the 90th minute. After that, I was a City fan. The colors and sounds of a Premier League derby game had blown me away and I was addicted. This was before the days of streaming and Premier League games weren’t televised in America like they are these days. I was resigned to checking scores online and watching the highlights when they would appear on YouTube a day or two later.
Wright-Philips would go on to have a phenomenal season. The next season he picked up where he left off and following the 2004/05 season he would move to Chelsea. I was still a fan. He was my favorite player for years to come. I couldn’t shake the feeling I got when he smashed home the fourth in that derby win.
Photo credit: Bodens BK
I would return to Montana a new kid; I wanted to be a professional. I wanted to walk out of a tunnel and hear the crowd; I wanted to hear my name. In America, if you aren’t an absolute superstar and ready to play professional at 17 or 18, the natural next step in a player’s career is to go to university and play for their team. I wasn’t progressing as a player in Montana. When winter comes, there isn’t an inch of grass or turf outside to train on. The players I was playing with and against didn’t have the same ambition and obsession as I did. I needed to get out. I researched boarding schools on the East Coast, academies in other countries and eventually found the place I was looking for. In the early days of the MLS, it was the place where everyone would go to train. Some of the early stars of the MLS had come directly from there; The Tahuichi Academy in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Ask any old-timer of American soccer, they’ll say it used to be the place to go to learn and develop.
I left for Bolivia when I was fifteen. I was gone for a year and when I came back I maybe wasn’t instantly ready for the pros, but I knew what it took to get there. I saw the determination and desire in the eyes of the young Bolivian players. I understood football on a global scale: the dream of playing in the bright lights of a European stadium, the paycheck that would allow them to buy their mom a new car. It was all so much grander than the mindset and culture of American soccer.
The next thing I had to do was get recruited by a university team. There are three levels in NCAA college sports, Division 1, 2 and 3. In the state of Montana, there was one college soccer program: Montana State University at Billings, Division 2. I was recruited heavily by them and offered a scholarship but I knew if I stayed in Montana I would never be able to find a way out. No other coach form any other school ever called my house. I had dreamed of playing Division 1 soccer. It was the holy grail of accomplishment for a player from Montana. There are currently a total of three players from Montana playing Division 1 soccer and that is actually more than normal. I went to a showcase tournament in the state of Oregon and was a guest player on club team from southern Oregon. I played well but didn’t get a look from any coaches from the big schools. Instead, a coach from a small, private Division 3 school in Washington saw me and told me that if I wanted, I would have a place on their roster the next season. I spoke with him at length and soon realized that he was an actual tactician – something I had been feigning for since falling in love with the sport but that was damn near impossible to find in America. Division 3 wasn’t my dream-come-true but I wanted to play for this coach and I didn’t receive a single offer from anywhere else so Whitworth University was where I went.
The level wasn’t mind-blowing by any means but we played great soccer. It was free flowing and fast-paced when it was meant to be while patient and probing when that was the aim. I enjoyed soccer more than I ever had and I scored goals. At the end of the first semester when the season was over, I spoke to the coach and told him that I still wanted to accomplish my dream of playing Division 1 and maybe even beyond. He was receptive and understanding; he helped me transfer to Oregon State University. This was a big school in perhaps one of the best Division 1 conferences in the country playing against schools like Stanford, UCLA and Cal-Berkeley.
I was star-struck but the glitter faded quickly. A week after arriving on campus, the coach that had brought me there was fired and the new coach didn’t want a thing to do with me. I would try to play with the same cleverness that my previous coach had encouraged but I was berated for not hitting the corners or playing the channels, there was no build-up play and emphasis was on strength and athleticism, not intelligence. I vowed that the next season I would adapt and get better but at the end of the season I was brought into the coaches office and was told to find a new school. I was crushed but I couldn’t give up on Division 1 so easily. I transferred to Marshall University in West Virginia. I had two years of eligibility left. To my dismay, the exact same scene unfolded there as well. It started well but I was diminished to a glorified long-ball specialist, trying to put the ball on a big striker’s head and pushing up as quickly as possible for second balls.
It seemed that I should have stayed at the Division 3 school. I was dismayed and bitter at the game I loved so much and had given so much for but hadn’t received anything in return. I would learn later that this was a childish response: nobody is owed anything from the game. A year passed and before I hung up my boots for good and started looking for a job in the Criminal Justice field, my mom implored me to give it one more shot by attending a combine in southern California. I was reluctant but also understood her point that I couldn’t give up without one last try. I paid the $300 and flew to Irvine, California. I played really well in the group of very assorted talent. A short white-blonde guy had been patrolling the sideline of the field for the three days of the combine. I had noticed him but didn’t understand his importance until later. I flew home to Portland, Oregon where I had moved after school. Days later, I got a Facebook message. It was the director of the combines saying that there was a Sporting Director in Sweden who was interested. My heart almost flew out of my chest.
Prugh playing for Bodens BK with the captain’s armband. Credit: Bodens BK
Two weeks later I was on a plane to Sweden to a club called Bodens BK who played in the fourth division of Swedish football. It wasn’t the professional club I had dreamed of representing but as you can imagine, I was eager to take whatever I could get. For three seasons I played for Bodens BK. I fell in love with the community and several blonde girls who didn’t quite share the same feelings, but that was OK. I had turned professional and although I didn’t get to play in front of the thousands of chanting fans I had dreamed of, I still got to play in a European stadium. After three amazing years that I was beyond lucky to ever have, I knew it was time to find something new. I came home ready to face the music in a sense and play American soccer again. The MLS was out of reach, and I signed for a second-tier team in the USL, Colorado Springs Switchbacks FC. Here’s where things get amazing. I signed my contract and kept up with news from around the league. Days later, I saw that none other than Shaun Wright-Philips was leaving the New York Red Bulls of the MLS and signing for Phoenix Rising, a USL team in our conference. I couldn’t believe my eyes and I had goose bumps for an entire day.
The season started and time went by, inching toward our game against Phoenix. I’ll never forget the whole day of the game. I lay around the hotel room with my South Korean roommate who I was good friends with although he didn’t speak a word of English, I wondered if Wright-Philips would play. We left for the stadium, the team sheet of Phoenix was on the board and at the number ten position…was not Wright-Philips. It wasn’t even clear if he was on the bench. I was deflated but still went about my business in a professional manner.
We went up a goal in the twelfth minute. I should mention that none other than Didier Drogba lead the line for Phoenix. I hated Chelsea but obviously I was awe-struck to stand next to him in the tunnel. Anyway, two second half goals sank us and we left with nothing. I walked off the field frustrated and headed for the locker room. I turned the corner into the tunnel and there, twenty feet away stood my childhood hero in street clothes, all 5 foot and five inches but somehow he seemed ten feet tall to me.
“Hey Shaun.” I said trying to make sure my voice didn’t quiver. “What’ s up man?” he answered coolly. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe this. If someone had told me that I would turn professional and one day play against Shaun Wright-Philips I would have simply said: “No chance.”
I told him how I had seen him play years earlier and that he was my favorite player for years. I tried not to seem like a fan since we were now playing at the same level, but I don’t know what I sounded like. I pulled up my shirt and showed him the City tattoo that covered my right shoulder. I asked him with hope in my voice, “What are the chances I can get your shirt when you come up to play us in a few weeks?”
What a cool guy.
“Oh man I’ll get you one right now if the kit man is in here. Let me check.” He disappeared into the dressing room while I stood in the hallway, nerves on edge. It was an excruciating three or four minutes but when he emerged, he had a red Phoenix shirt wadded in his hand. He tossed it to me and I told him that he’d never know how much I appreciated it. I think he could sense what it meant to me. I had met my hero and he had given me his shirt. Only sports, and in particular, football, can bring people together like this.
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Eddy Prugh had a really impressive spell in Swedish football, scoring 26 goals in 70 appearances from his position in central midfield. In his second season at the club he was appointed club captain and represented his club terrifically on the pitch as well as off it. His story is an inspirational one, and his accomplishments show us there is always a way back. He fought hard to realize his dream to become a professional footballer and he made it happen. In the four years since almost giving up on the game, he’s become a professional, spent three hugely successful seasons in Sweden, returned to America a more experienced and knowledgeable man and played against Didier Drogba. Additionally, he’s met his hero, Shaun Wright-Phillips, and has his shirt at home.
Eddy inspires. His story is fantastic. Eddy’s achievements remind us to never give up on our dreams.
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