Soccer mom

I just read that our spring soccer season starts late this year. The feeling of relief is palpable...almost like a reprieve. You see, while mr. herewegoagain and rowdy son LIVE for soccer, I LIVE for soccer breaks.

My life as a soccer mom started out oh, so innocently. I didn't vote for Clinton and I don't drive a Suburban. We signed up "for the fun of it". Rowdy son was five, the atmosphere was pleasant, the kids followed the ball around the field in a large group and sometimes got it between the tiny goalposts. We parents chatted and laughed. This is America, after all, and what did any of us "really" know about soccer?

The next year, rowdy son needed a new ball. To illustrate my complete ignorance about the game, I should describe our shopping trip to Walmart. I looked over all the balls in the sporting goods dept. Soccer balls come in sizes and we needed a "3". I couldn't find a "3", so I saw a ball that looked "about the right size". (Why I thought I could tell the right size is beyond me). I asked the older gentleman who worked there if it was a size "3" soccer ball. He looked it over (it was a very pretty red, white and blue and rowdy son was quite happy with it)...said to me, "Soccer eh? I used to coach soccer. Great sport. Yep, you'll be happy with that ball. It looks to be the right size". I paid the $10 and off we went to practice.

Three weeks later I was there when the kids were kicking their balls around and the coach took rowdy son's ball and said, "Let's not practice goal shots with the VOLLEYBALL".

I had taken my son to soccer for weeks with a volleyball. NO one had mentioned it to me. Not the coach, not the other parents...not even mr. herewegoagain--who I furiously asked about it when I came home, red-faced. He looked at it and said, "By golly, it IS a volleyball".

THAT'S how we started in soccer.

The next season, rowdy son begged his dad to coach. Mr. herewegoagain grew up in the America of Little League and Pop Warner Football. He knew NOTHING about soccer. He said, "Of course I'll coach". I winced and poked him and he said, "It's just like basketball, the kids are 8 years old, how hard can it be?".

Here's the thing...how many soccer coaches in America show up to the first practice (with the right ball, I will add) and ask for help from any of the parents who want to? Most of them, right? How many of them hear an Irish accent say, "I'll be glad to help". How many of them have a dad on their first team who used to play for the IRISH national team? Yeah, well, we did.

He was a nice guy. It's just kind of embarrassing to be reading the coaching manual while the dad next to you is "helping" run practice, you know? And he's speaking with a brogue and reminiscing about the good ol' days playing World Cup games....

We got through that season. It was kind of fun. Mr. herewegoagain had gone to coaching clinics, he had played in the coaches' game, he was into it all. We felt that we were really going to be the "experts" on our next team. No more Irish dads. THIS time WE, the herewegoagains, were going to be the expert on little boys' soccer.

We got the Australian that time. HE had played for 30 years, HE still played on a premier adult team, HE wanted to "help in any way".

Good grief, why don't these guys just sign up to coach?

(Actually, they do now...greatly inspired by us, no doubt--as in, "let's really teach these kids soccer".)

The next season was the season we all prefer to forget. That was the season that mr. herewegoagain decided to coach TWO teams...sweet girl's team and rowdy boy's. The boys did fine...we had a good season and enjoyed it. The girls...the girls...the girls...Well, there is nothing quite like losing 20-0 in a game where "we don't keep score". Maybe the officials don't, but believe me, the kids know what's up with that. (And really, could the coach on the other side quit yelling "Shoot" when he was up 10-0?) Luckily, our girls didn't really seem to mind...they were awfully busy strolling up and down the sideline, or not coming to practice or the games, or saying, during the 2nd half, "Can we just quit now and go home?". Sweet girl, who plays like a monster with her brother, played like a little debutante against the girls. It was more like, "here, can I help you get the ball?" to her opponents instead of the tackling she practiced with ferocity at home each night against rowdy boy.

I've met other mothers of girls that age since then who said, "Oh we had a rough season that year too, I think we lost all our games" and I say with complete confidence, "You didn't lose ALL your games." Yeah.

So, it all starts in about six weeks. I'm dreading the soccer-speak at the table. The discussion of strategy. The hopefulness at the team seeding meeting. The joy of winning tempered by the sadness of losing. Mr. herewegoagain got "Soccer for Dummies" from the kids for Christmas. It was his favorite gift. He's been reading it assiduously since then...throwing out tidbits of knowledge for us all to share. Yawn.

He's ready. I'm not. But, herewegoagain.....