Momservations Column
|
|
|
Soccer Season Smack-Down |
September has arrived and mercifully saved me from a summer so jam-packed with vacation fun I was sure I was going to experience death by recreation.
Thankfully the school bell rang again. Pummeled and exhausted, I retreated to my corner of a finally quiet and inactive house, saved just in time from defeat.
But this match isn’t over. The tag-team opponent has touched in and it’s looking to take me down just as I was staggering back to my feet.
Soccer season is officially in the ring.
Lord, have mercy on my weary soul.
If this year’s World Cup competition has proved anything it is that Americans do in fact love their soccer. At least here in these soccer-crazed suburbs where parents go in search of soccer leagues that have lowered their starting age requirement to birth. Recreation soccer is for preschoolers. Club soccer is the new college preparatory school, and it’s never too soon to start. This is probably where I should tell you that both my kids’ first word was “ball.”
I should also admit that despite never formally playing soccer myself, my son came out of the womb wearing a Pélé jersey. Then little miss “Me Too” was born and before I could say “off-sides” I had a 4- and a 2-year-old joyfully partaking in Kidz Love Soccer.
As much as I would like to deny being swept up in this crazy, all consuming obsession for soccer, I am guilty of supporting my children’s passion for their favorite sport. I just prefer to do it from the sidelines.
Every year since my son, Logan, and daughter, Whitney, have played recreation soccer I have been asked to be the team mom by the coach. And every year I tell the coach—my husband, Trey—that I give enough already to the team.
I’m forced to live and breathe soccer up to seven days a week as I try to get two kids to two different practices and two different games, wash stinky soccer socks and uniforms, help locate missing cleats/shin guards/balls, try to get some sort of healthy meal in around dinnertime practices, and still somehow have a life that doesn’t involve a Size 4 patchwork ball. As if that wasn’t enough, this year we’ve ventured into club soccer, where I actually get to pay top dollar for the experience of losing my mind. They asked me to be the team manager of that, too.
But Mom’s a team player. If my kids are going to be out on the field giving their best effort for a game they love, then I’m there to cheer them on. I’ll never miss it unless I can’t be in two places at once—at least one child will have a proud mother rooting from the sidelines. (I’m actually lucky I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket yet trying to race across town to catch the end of one game after another one finishes.)
It’s true I may have been dragged into the fanatic soccer arena grudgingly. I also may be known to complain about the early season hot days and the late season cold weather. I might moan just a bit about the seemingly never-ending grind of the sport’s schedule. It’s possible I’ll give up on trying to keep track of who needs to be where when and just let Daddy do it. It’s probable I’ll go on strike and refuse to eat another Willie’s hamburger, El Palmar burrito, or Wenelli’s pizza slice because we didn’t have time to get a good home-cooked meal in. However, if it’s the last thing I do, my kids will know I’d do anything to be there for them just as my parents were for me and my exhausting track-and-field career. Because it’s not until we do for our kids what our parents did for us do we truly appreciate the sacrifices they made in the name of raising happy, healthy children.
So, exhausted as I may be, I’m stepping back into the ring. You’ll find me in my Arden Park Mudhoney’s sweat shirt with my Cal Rush T-shirt underneath, picture and video cameras slug around my neck, backpack chair across my back, collapsible cooler hanging from my side, sunscreen in my back pocket, blanket under my arm, umbrella just in case, ready to cheer on great effort and commendable skill being showcased on the soccer field.
Good Lord willing, I will find the strength to survive soccer season. Unfortunately, my first act of victory will be signing the kids up for indoor soccer season.