Soccer

Thirty or more years ago, playing sports was so easy. I put on whatever uniform had to be put on, got in the car, and went to the field. No doubt it was a bit more complicated than that, even for my elementary-aged self. And now I know it must have been way more complicated than that for my parents. With as many kids as they had, I’m now amazed they let us play sports at all.

 

Of course, it might have been a little simpler than it is today. Thirty years ago no one communicated by e-mail. You certainly didn’t have your inbox flooded with directions, links to calendars and sign-ups, or a ridiculous amount of reminders as to time, place and proper wardrobe. My parents were of the generation that kept a printed calendar on the wall with time and place clearly posted. They were then responsible for checking said calendar and getting us to the correct place at the right time. I am apparently of the generation who cannot be responsible for getting to the correct place at the right time without a dozen e-mail reminders, the calendar on my phone beeping, and text messages for extra measure. And even with all that, the coach on Emry’s team didn’t even show up.

 

More than 30 years ago, I played soccer. Twice. I’m thinking it was four to six weeks of Saturdays on chilly autumn mornings at the fields of the local Christian school in New Hampshire. To be honest, all I remember was that every Saturday was chilly, foggy and damp. (Probably not true, but it seemed that way.) The shin pads were uncomfortable, I don’t remember a whole lot of instruction, and I got put in the same wing position every time. The ball nevercame my way and, if it did, it was being chased by the more “important” kids on the team who had no intention of sharing it with me. My only use was to throw it back in when they kicked it out. All in all, I loathed soccer and learned nothing except to stay out of the way. In God’s sovereign plan for my life, perhaps that was the only thing I was suppose to learn. Because it certainly proved useful on the soccer field this past Satruday.

 

Emry has wanted to play “football” ever since she kicked a soccer ball around at the Indy Children’s Museum two springs ago. (And, yes, she calls it “football”…I don’t know why except that’s what it logically should be called.) Since two of her little friends from church were joining another church’s league, we felt it was a good idea to give her a taste of the sport. When I signed her up, of course the online form asked for volunteers. I had no intention of volunteering for several reasons, the main ones being I don’t like soccer and I have a baby. However, you either volunteer or pay $20 not to volunteer. Every ounce of spendthrift Scottish blood coursing through my veins screamed. Were they kidding? Is that even ethical? Because I was not about to paynot to volunteer. So, I bit the bullet of being a good parent, and volunteered for the easiest position in the dropdown box: manager. I mean, you don’t have to know anything to herd kids.

 

Unless, of course, the coach doesn’t even show up. Which means the “manager” gets to coach! Thankfully, Ed was there to keep an eye on the sleeping Elly. Thankfully, there is very little skill needed to instruct four to six year olds in soccer. Thankfully, the team was down two kids so I could throw a yellow t-shirt on Ethan and let him play. (He was over the moon with delight after a long week of bemoaning his three-year-old fate of not being old enough to play.) And thankfully my two seasons of soccer finally paid off.  After kicking the ball around with the kids and giving them some very basic instruction on the sport, all I had to do was stay out of their way while yelling things like, “Don’t touch the ball with your hands!” “Not that way – your goal is the other way!” and “Keep the ball within the lines!”  Even I could do that.

 

And so begins our time as soccer parents. When asked, Emry says she had fun. It’s hard to tell because she’s so serious about it. Ethan, not at all afraid to be right in the middle of all the action, was elated. Elly slept through the whole thing. I think Ed was mostly bemused at my having to coach. And I was so exhausted I couldn’t keep my eyes open that afternoon as I tried to get a jump start on a proposal I have due this week. 

Honestly, I’m glad the “season” is only eight weeks long…soccer still isn’t my favorite sport.