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Sparkle (2)
Fall has both officially and seasonally arrived here in the North East, marked by crisp but sunny days and sweater-worthy nights. In my house fall also means outdoor weekend adventures, the occasional homemade soup and pajamas before 7 pm. For other parents in my town, however, fall is soccer season, a period of several months where their kids are bending it like Beckham three times a week, rain or shine.
Like many towns across the country, soccer is practically a religion where I live, practiced with a devotion that would put some monks to shame. Birthday parties are arranged around games, cliques are formed among teammates and more than a few parents I know have spent too many Memorial and Labor Days out of town, not at seaside havens, but in post-heyday towns like Poughkeepsie, NY or Allentown, PA, rooting for their children’s travel teams. I’d be lying if I told you I simply chose not to participate in this community cult. In fact, I’m a little envious of the bonds that are formed on the sidelines among parents who share the triumphs and disappointments of their brethren’s athleticism. It’s just that we tried our hand at soccer last spring and it didn’t go too well.
It was late March and I don’t’ know who was more excited about JP’s eligibility to join the town’s soccer league, which starts in the spring of the year you begin Kindergarten. Sure, JP was looking forward to that first Saturday afternoon but in the way a 4-year old looks forward to something that doesn’t involve sugar, with anticipation but nothing on par with say, a birthday party. My husband Jim on the other hand was beyond himself, buying my son cleats and shin guards while simultaneously shifting through his collection of FIFA jerseys to pick which country he would represent for his first official day as a Soccer Dad.
Photo by the bbp via Flickr
When we arrived on the field that first morning, excited to start the new phase of our life where our cheers for JP’s efforts would move beyond our four walls, it was a little intimidating. First off, when we went in search of JP’s team I didn’t think I’d need any more information than his name and grade, for how many teams of Kindergarten boys could there actually be, right? Well, the answer is 10. There were another 10 teams of girls. Uh oh, I thought. This might be a little more intense than I thought. My fears eased a bit when I finally tracked down and met JP’s coaches, two really nice men whose own boys were wearing the same orange shirt as my son. We each gave JP a high-five, stepped off to the side and watched our son eagerly run out on the field. Almost immediately the Dad-coaches began running drills and JP was having a blast kicking the ball, even if he wasn’t navigating the twists and turns of the orange cones perfectly. When 20 minutes later the kids were broken up into two teams for a scrimmage I was a little confused. Wait, a game? But these kids only learned the basic principles of the sport 20 minutes ago, I reasoned. How could they be expected to play? The answer was immediately evident.
These kids were no rookies. From the way they were manipulating the ball and weaving around other players it was obvious these boys had done this dance before. I looked over towards my son as he stood perfectly still in the middle of the field, oblivious to the disruption he was causing to the game. His head was down and he had his arms crossed around his chest, a gesture I know from experience is part-disappointment, part-I-am-not-moving-from-this-spot-unless-you-physically-drag-me. Jim ran out and asked him what was wrong and when JP told him that he didn’t know how to do what the other kids were doing, my husband assured him that this was how you learned the game and really, the main goal was just to have fun, even if all that meant was running up and down the field. Jim’s pep talk seemed to work and JP got back in the game. He was doing well, following the pack of boys who controlled the ball while parents cheered from afar (most encouragingly, others with an aggressiveness I found scary), until another boy scored a goal. Instead of celebrating his teammate’s success, my son took to the ground with all four appendages splayed out in
