In the spring of 1980, I arrived at Giants Stadium for the fourth game of a new season. Stopping by the locker room to check in, say hi, and soak up some pregame dressing room aura that only a team of the Cosmos’ stature can generate, I fully expected to fulfill my duties as a non-entity on a world-class, 30-man roster and then head up to the players booth on the stadium press level to watch a great game while sipping cold beer and eating hot dogs.

When I saw my name on the chalkboard in the center back slot, just in front of Hubert Birkenmeier and Carlos Alberto, just behind Franz Beckenbauer, Bogie [Vladislav Bogićević], Johan Neeskens, Giorgio Chinaglia, Wim Rijsbergen and Eski [Andranik Eskandarian], I froze. Had to be a joke. Veterans goofing on the 18-year-old from Tacoma, or some of the other young American players with whom I’d enjoyed cold beer and hot dogs on game day.

I went to my locker stall and saw my white game kit hung. At least I assumed it was mine; to that point I had never played in an NASL league game. I had never even dressed for a game. Charlie Kessel, the greatest equipment manager in sport and a genuinely kind human being, was known for his highly effective practical jokes and could be counted on each week to provide a moment of hysterical dressing room laughter. But Charlie didn’t joke on a game day. Game days were sacred in Cosmos Country.

When I went to ask the coach to confirm in words what I couldn’t believe in chalk, he simply smiled and said, “Jeffy, no worries. Go play!”

I don’t know if I ever gave thought to how my introduction to professional football might have looked, sounded, or felt, but I’m pretty certain if I had it would not have consisted of that from Pelé’s personal mentor and then Cosmos coach, Professor Julio Mazzei. I had about 90 minutes to transition my mind from press box hot dog connoisseur to player, and I wasn’t actually certain how to achieve that.

In the next 90 minutes only one person talked to me. Carlos Alberto sat down as I got into uniform and quietly spoke just a few words in his halting English-Portuguese baritone, worthy of its own Rosetta Stone three-DVD set.

“Jeffy, listen to me,” he said.

I turned to face him, presenting a respectful, alert, eager pose meant to assure “The Captain” that he absolutely had my full and complete attention. I was ready to absorb the wisdom he would impart and eager to digest anything and everything he could share prior to walking onto the Giants Stadium turf for the first time.

And I waited. And Carlos stared at me. And I waited. And Carlos didn’t speak. Feeling my head about to explode, I said, “Carlos, I’m listening to you.”

And Carlos Alberto smiled that fully committed, Brazilian smile revealing perfect white teeth, huge dimples and well-formed crow’s feet around the outer edges of his eyes. He said to me as he pointed in the general direction of the Giants Stadium turf, “No, Jeffy. On the field, listen to me.” He ever so slightly smiled and shook his head, no doubt fearful of the nightmare about to be unleashed upon his perfectly ordered football world, and walked back to his locker.

For the next several years as the New York Cosmos center back I listened to Carlos. He became the voice in my head, the composer to my poorly tuned instrument, equal parts puppeteer pulling my strings and chess master plotting my movements.

Carlos revealed through my ears the game he experienced through his eyes. With his voice he redefined what I saw and how I reacted. He converted my raw, broadband energy into a focused laser he employed to target danger on the field. Carlos Alberto played sweeper and center back for the New York Cosmos with few words, consisting mostly of, “Jeffy, go!” which unleashed from me a brutal assault on the ball and the opponent. Or a quietly whispered, “Jeffy, wait...” which he would repeat over and over almost inaudibly as we stalked, cat-like, the opponents’ play developing into an area of the field Carlos had predetermined five passes earlier.

Alberto (top row, No. 5) and Durgan (to Alberto's right, No. 25) with the Cosmos in 1980.

Fans must recall the mesmerizing mantra of the Cosmos in possession. I recall watching from the press box in complete awe as my team ­– yep, that’s my team out there – moved the ball and themselves in rhythm. A choreographed ballet recital that left opponents chasing shadows.

I watched countless hours of this poetry from field level with Carlos Alberto’s voice in my ear describing, explaining, questioning and even pondering. He was both the undisputed subject matter expert in his field and a student of the game. He seemed as awestruck as I at the talent within our group, and while his respect for every player was evident, he reserved a special tone and volume when speaking of Franz.

During that 1980 season, as the Cosmos progressed to a spot in Soccer Bowl ’80, I will never forget the pregame ritual between Franz Beckenbauer and Carlos Alberto. They would find a spot in the locker room away from everyone else – at Giants Stadium they escaped into the shower room that was about 40 feet long – and would knock a ball back and forth with one touch, in the air. It never touched the ground. Thirty-five feet apart, one touch, back and forth, back and forth, tick tock, tick tock…

And occasionally they would laugh. On that rare occasion the ball might hit the ground, we would hear them tease each other. Sometimes they might talk a little, but not often. Tick tock, tick tock. That sound became the rhythm of the Cosmos pregame locker room. I engaged in my own pregame ritual with other teammates, but I always remember hearing them together before a game and thinking back to the posters in my bedroom growing up: Franz Beckenbauer holding the 1974 World Cup trophy over his head as captain of the German national team, and Carlos Alberto holding the 1970 World Cup trophy over his head as captain of the Brazilian national team. Tick tock, tick tock. Birds of a feather, I imagine. These two vibrate on wavelengths very different from the rest of us.

By the time the end of the season neared I had played quite a few games with Cosmos and was becoming, if not comfortable, at least manageable in my emotions and that propensity to meet aggression with devastating counter-aggression. I know Carlos had more than a few good laughs at my expense during that first season. He would direct me into the fire with a more insistent, “JEFFY, GO!” After the carnage of bodies were cleaned up, after the yellow card had been shown and put away, after the threats from those opposing players who remained standing had been delivered, Carlos would stroll by me with this huge grin on his face and utter what I assumed was the final leg of his three-legged communication stool: “Jeffy, good.”

When I arrived to the locker room of RFK Stadium in Washington, D.C. to meet the Fort Lauderdale Strikers in Soccer Bowl ’80, the world changed in a way I didn’t think possible. Once again the chalkboard had to be playing a terrible joke, because Carlos Alberto was not behind me. Instead, Franz Beckenbauer’s name occupied that space reserved for the voice. The voice in my head wasn’t going to be there today, of all days, and I had to come to grips with Franz Beckenbauer replacing Carlos behind me. How comical does that sound? I was upset and nervous and scared because Franz Beckenbauer was playing sweeper behind me. The world is a strange place sometimes.

The Cosmos won that day, and in the postgame field celebration Carlos Alberto found me, picked me up in a huge bear hug and kissed my cheek. Then he took my head into his hands and said, “Jeffy, I proud of you.” The stool actually had four legs.

Why Carlos didn’t play that day is not important here, but when he looked into my eyes and told me he was proud of me, I saw in his eyes both the pride he took in bringing me to this point and the sadness and pain of not finishing this journey together.

Carlos Alberto gave the world a gift when he chose to share his footballing talent, his kind heart, his welcoming smile, and his gracious honesty that informed and challenged but never belittled. Carlos Alberto gave me a personal gift when he became the voice in my head and invited me into the world of his vision, his perception, his interpretation, and his understanding of the game of football. For just a brief second while in his presence, I too vibrated at a different wavelength than everyone else.

Muito obrigado, Carlos.