Photo by Nina Matthews Photography
Wee little cleats – check.
Shin guards that cover nearly his whole leg – check.
Nondescript SUV – check.
Orange slices – check.
“I’m excited,” my preschooler said countless times on the way to his first ever soccer game on Saturday.
We were running a little late. My husband had made a last-minute trip back home to St. Louis (on Friday his uncle unexpectedly succumbed to a swiftly progressing cancer) and I had overestimated my abilities to get both boys up and ready solo mio.
In my rush to get the boys out the door on time, I sacrificed the sanctity of a morning coffee. Yep, that’s right. I chose to face vast fields full of hundreds of little soccer players and their (sometimes overbearing) parents sans coffee. Brave? Or, possibly, just incredibly dense?
We arrived to find the fields bustling with activity. We located our team easily and met the coach, a large man with a kind voice who had admitted in an email earlier in the week that he had never played or coached soccer before. But I wasn’t worried. These are 3-4 year olds. We’re not exactly training for the World Cup here.
Still, there was that one parent. You know the one – he/she played soccer their entire childhood – and missed the Olympic trials by just that much – they always buy their kid the most expensive soccer gear and ensure their player has had ample training prior to the opening game. This is the parent who always insists their child start first-string and who, in the car on the way home, sternly repeats the mistakes the poor little player made during the game.
I recognized her immediately. She was the parent running drills with her four-year-old before the game. She was outgoing, of course, so she introduced herself right away with a firm handshake and then pointed out her son, who had sad little eyes and probably would rather be reading. I did not divulge that I had spent a good portion of my childhood on the soccer field as well – no need to strike up any unnecessary conversation.
My son got the uniform from the bottom of the box – and it’s unmercifully big on him. He’s already a head shorter than most the kids on his team, and the big shirt makes him look even smaller.
But, bless him, my guy wanted it. Bad.
He was the first kid to get the ball when the game began. And he scored two goals during the game – one for our team, and one for the other team. He was equally excited about both. As was I. One of the girls on our team scored a goal (then ran off the field to jump up and down and scream “wowwowowow” with her parents) and the boy whose mom was THAT mom made a goal (thank God). And the game ended 3 to 1.
Our coach rotated everyone in so that all the kids had a chance to play. And no one played “positions” on the field. We were basically just lucky to get the little guys (and girls) to run in the right direction. But I was proud. My guy had fun, he didn’t push anyone out of his way and – by the time the game was over – he had learned not to 1) shoot at the other team’s goal or 2) touch the ball with his hands.
And he really liked the orange slices.
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