Goooooool!!!

GOOOOOOL!!!!

[originally published on my old blog, circa 2006]

Despite my protests, my wife managed to volunteer me to help coach my son’s soccer team. And let me tell you, after two weeks, it’s been . .. well, an experience. It must’ve been an early anniversary gift. (Happy 12th honey, by the way! Remember our pact where you promised not to kill me in my sleep—any time while I’m conscious is fine. Have at it!)

Anyway, if I had known that more than half the team (8 of 12) had gotten “too old” and moved up to the next bracket, I probably would’ve said no—as it is, more than half the team is made up of 4-year-olds who have never played soccer before, peppered in with a few slow-developing 5-year-olds. Obviously, at this age, I could care less about the team winning or losing, but when it comes to controlling kids, there’s a world of difference between 4-year-olds and 5-year-olds. And aside from wrecking my own spawn’s development, I’m not really qualified to exert any influence over anybody else’s kids.

Then again, I have to raise an army to help out in my global domination plans, and this is as a good a place to get started as anywhere, I suppose.

So there I am, out there, trying to coach kids in a sport that I have never played an official game of, except maybe back in 8th grade during gym class. Seriously, I couldn’t bend it like Bea Arthur if my life depended on it. I was actually doing everything to stifle my laughter at the first practice back two weeks ago when parents were bringing their kids up to me, introducing them to me with a hopeful, bright sparkle in their eyes like, “Here is Junior, our pride and our joy—shape him into a soccer prodigy!”

Oh, I’ll shape them all right. “Anyone here familiar with the work of a Mr. Marilyn Manson? No? Well, we’ll see to that . . .”

So this past week, my son and I arrive at the game, which mercifully is at 10 a.m. (Last week, we had to play at 8 a.m. and now that I don’t do caffeine before noon, this is a time that my brain has not been engaged yet—I can barely keep ahead of my own drool until 9 a.m.) Of course, Jimmy, the notorious ice cream man of Shelton, is there. He has practically become my sworn enemy as he shows up at every kids’ event no matter the time or the weather conditions, including last fall when it there were light snow flurries at a 8 a.m soccer game! Like any kid can resist ice cream, even at 8 a.m. and with a foot of snow on the ground . . .

My son quickly points out Jimmy’s presence. When his older brother was playing soccer, I made a deal (just to get that kid on the field) that if he ever scored a goal, I’d buy ice cream for the entire team. It was a good deal at the time because my older son had mastered the art of running around the field and not coming into contact with the ball. I was safe.

Unfortunately, my younger son actually plays the game hard, and mixes it up quite a bit. Luckily, on his own, has altered the deal to that if he scores a goal, I’ll buy him ice cream. I agreed, pretty much because he loves to play defense, and although I’ve encouraged him to run up and try and play offense, he usually doesn’t do it, or if he does, he does it for a minute than runs back on defense. He talks about scoring a goal before every game, and nothing would make me happier if he did it, but after 20 games last year and one this year (and I’ve been to all of them), I’ve been closer to scoring than he has. We’ve both accepted that he is a defensive monster, and are good with that. Hey, real soccer is more about TEAM defense anyway.

I sorta smile and nod at Jimmy as we go past.

We park and go to the field, where the rest of the team is gathering. I guess the good thing is that if I have to coach, this is the right level because absolutely none of the parents expect the kids to do any more than run up and down the field and occasionally kick the ball. Winning is not in the discussion, it’s all about fun and getting the basic gist of the game. No one insists their child is undiscovered futbol prodigy (yet), or that their kid is not getting enough playing time—as a matter of fact, we can barely get enough of the kids to stay on the field for an entire game. By the 4th quarter, most of them are sitting on the sidelines, saying they’re too tired but still chasing butterflies around, or they’re coming up and asking if they can go see their parents on the opposite sideline every 30 seconds because they have to:

a. tell them “something important,” like, “Hey, I’m playing soccer.”
b. get a drink (the water bottles are already on our side).
c. go pee-pee.
d. place a bet in Vegas on the other team to win.

So the game gets under way, and it looks much like every other kids’ soccer game. Although, now that I’m on the coaching sideline, it’s a lot different for me—I’m a glorified babysitter for 45 minutes, wiping snotty noses and tying shoelaces every 30 seconds (seriously, am I the only person who ties their kid’s cleats in a double knot?) In short, it’s a nightmare for anybody like me who can only stand his own kids.

In the middle of the second, my son makes his token appearance on offense. At one point, he’s in front of the net when the ball comes to him. He lines it up, pulls back his leg and . .. . .

SAVE! (Dang!)

“Nice try!” I shout, then glance in the direction of Jimmy the ice cream man. “Not today,” I mutter under my breath.

And in the course of 45 minutes of play, I pretty much shout myself hoarse because I’m yelling things like:
“Jason, don’t pick the ball up!”
“Jordan, get up and stop picking flowers!”
“Hunter, take your hands out of your pants!”
“Anthony, kick the ball, not the other players!”
“Jack, it’s okay to kick the ball—you’re on offense!”
“Stop! The whistle has blown! Stop! Stop! Stop! STOP! STOOOOOOP!”
“Pyrikles, kick the ball the other way! The other way! THE OTHER WAY!!!!”

(And yes, friends, there really is a Pyrikles. As I said in an earlier post, he’s no Nookatoo, who played on my other son’s team, but then again, who is? Although unlike Nookatoo, Pyrikles actually understands how to play soccer, having scored a goal last week.)

So the game is going as well as expected. Although we are losing (again), all the young players are doing well. They all have been on the field, all trying hard, and have shown improvement from last week. My son has been solid on defense (he truly is the only kid on the team that seems to totally grasp the concept and how to play it properly), and in the 4th quarter, I finally talk him into playing some offense again. What the heck! We’re clearly not going to win, so what does it matter if our best defensive player runs around on the other side of the field for a few min—

Wait?! What’s that? It’s my son, he’s got the ball at midfield and he’s . .. . breaking away from the pack with the ball?!!! He’s dribbling up the field (like we’ve practiced a jillion times in the backyard), running away from all the other kids. . . . and now, he’s all alone against the goalie! He’s getting close . . . .oh my gosh … he’s really going to score a.. …

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!!!!! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!

I literally jump about six feet straight up in the air and scream! He did it! Wooohoo!

And although I’m euphoric for him, the best part comes next. After he scores, he turns around, spots me, sorta raises one hand in the air, sprints all the way from the other end of the field and—

[Burn that memory in deep. Burn it in deep.]

—to me! He gives me a high five and a hug, then shouts “My very first goal!”

I rub his head and send him back out on the field (on defense, of course). The game ends at some point, and I pretty much realize that I have no idea of the final score. I’m pretty sure we lost . . .

The kids line up and shake hands with the other team regardless, as this is without a doubt, their favorite part of the contest. “Good game, good game, good game, good game . . .” They especially like going back around the end so they shake their own teammates hands. Very silly.

After that, they start to hand out juice boxes and snacks, but my son only takes the juice. He looks at me. It’s 11 a.m. in the morning . . .

“Let’s get some ice cream!” I shout.

This coaching thing isn’t too bad, I think as Jimmy hands me a Screwball. By the smile under his blue-stained lips a few minutes later, I think my son agrees with me.