We're on a break

Wednesday night was Kellen's final soccer game of the year.



And thus ended our first foray into the world of competitive soccer, which began almost one year ago.

A year filled with summer camps, tryouts, practices, fall soccer, indoor winter soccer, spring soccer, tournaments, and even our first out-of-state competition. And most painfully, a year of practices every Tuesday and Thursday night, rain or shine. (Oh, the curse blessing of having a team parent with keys to their church's gym --- even a good hard rain doesn't cancel practice!)

Which means last night was our first Thursday night in almost eleven months with No. Soccer. Practice. And I had big plans for our family. I was going to cook dinner, and then take the kids bike riding around the lake. We were going to bond, and relax, and laugh, just like those happy families in those stupid magazines that always make me feel so inferior.

Instead, my after-school PTO meeting ran long, then I had to run to Home Depot to buy yet another gallon of paint, (Caribbean Sunshine Yellow by Behr, thank you God, I can feel my mood lightening every time I walk in the room) because I am apparently genetically incapable of guesstimating how much paint it will take to finish painting my living room. So then it was really too late for me to cook dinner so I stopped on the way home and bought a pizza. And when I got home Kendrie was in a foul mood, and Brayden was in the middle of watching "Look Who's Talking Too" (and the heck with all the cute talking babies, there is actually a lot of cursing in that movie, but of course nothing my kids haven't heard from me already, which is probably why they will grow up to be social delinquents, because cursing talking babies make us laugh ....) and couldn't be bothered with a bike ride.

And Kellen, bless his heart, already had his pajama bottoms on and was playing with his army men on the staircase. Don't ask me why he stages battles on the staircase when he has an entire bedroom to play in, he just does. I think for him, "chill" was the operative word for the evening and after playing soccer approximately 1500 hours the past year ..... he ... didn't .... want ... to ... do ... ANYTHING last night.

Except chase the ice cream truck down the street in his pajama bottoms, with the rest of us running after.

So although my evening didn't go quite as planned, Kellen was happy, I now have enough paint to finish the living room, and I got the world's best fudgesicle.

On second thought, it might have been a perfect evening after all.

PS. At the game Wednesday night, some of the other parents were talking about whether we would start practice for next season next week, or take a small break before tryouts, which take place in June. They all unanimously agreed they would like to continue practicing so the boys don't lose too much of their skill over the summer.

Seriously? Are you kidding me?

We LOVED this team, and consider it a great experience. But we are taking a few weeks off. To play army men and eat fudgesicles.

Kellen will try out again in June, then come July, we will be one of THOSE FAMILIES who tries to juggle simultaneous sports, when he attempts to play his first season of football at the same time as his second year of competitive soccer.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

Perfect Mother's Day

Nothing says, "I love you, son" quite like getting up early on a weekend, to watch your son's soccer team play in the cold and rain.



Especially when they lose.



And one of the parents on the other team almost gets in a fist-fight with your son's coach, which was about the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen, and that's including those poor people who have to stand on the street corner in Statue of Liberty costumes during tax season, waving you into their quick tax return businesses, and that's some total ridiculousness.

But anyway, near-fist-fight and loss aside, it was a great way to spend a Mother's Day.

Except that it was Saturday, and not today, so really ............. um .................

never mind.

My new, NEW favorites

OK, I know I said I had a favorite photo less than an hour or two ago, but I'm still sitting here browsing through the tournament pictures, and I've found a few more favorites.


I love this one:

because it shows off Kellen's ninja warrior athlete prowess.



I love this one:

because it shows off Kellen's stealth, intelligent, mental ninja warrior capacities. (That, or he's just wondering how much longer until half-time so he can get a drink of water.)



So by this one:

it's pretty clear that's he's not a ninja soccer warrior at all, but rather a poor impersonation of Farrah Fawcett. In fact, I think the boy next to him is wondering to himself, "Hmmmm, dude? Or chica?" although really, I don't think anyone sporting a faux-hawk should point fingers. I'm just saying.



Ahhhhh, wait, here we go:

Ninja warrior soccer skills back in action .......





No, at this point I just have to face the sad truth. This photo makes him look like Ursula from The Little Mermaid.

Poor Sports

Amended to add: It's 3am, and I actually woke up, worried that someone might read this (heaven forbid, someone local who knows a kid on the other team) and think I was bashing the other players or their parents. That wasn't my intention, although I think it might have come across that way. They are a good group of kids, and a few of them interact lots with the boys on our team and seem to enjoy their company. Just that with some people, players and parents, there is this level of competitiveness that I don't understand. A win-at-all-costs mentality that I find silly in an eleven year old soccer (or insert sport of your choice) league.

And what bothers me specifically about it is the people who have it, seem to think less of people who don't. They look at us like we're weak; we look at them like they're obnoxious.

I heard a parent from one of the teams we played this weekend (it's awesome taking pictures from behind the goal ... you would be amazed at what you hear from the other teams when they don't think you can hear them) tell his son, "You need to get a lot more physical this half, just make sure you do it outside of the box." This was from the game that warranted four poor sportsmanship cards. And for those of you who aren't familiar with soccer, a foul inside the box warrants a free goal kick (ie, potential goal) whereas a penalty outside the box is just a free kick. So he was basically telling his son, "Fouling them is ok, just don't do it in a spot that could cost us."

And you know, if that's the attitude it takes to compete in sports, then I'll be steering my son towards trombone lessons in the future. For now, I'm just going to remain grateful that he's on a team of boys (with parents) who feel like we do --- a little fresh air, a little sunshine, play your best (preferably withOUT yellow cards) and have fun.
************************************************

I hate poor sports. Specifically, people who whine and complain and always have an excuse when their team loses. Even *more* specifically, people who whine and complain when their CHILD'S team loses.

The refs weren't fair.

The other team cheated.

Home-court advantage.

Discrepancies in the scorekeeping.

The sun was in my eyes.

Whatever.

I hate when the parents act like that because it's obnoxious. It's annoying. It gives out a bad representation; where do you think the kids learn it?

Of course it's more fun to win than to lose, that's not exactly ground-breaking news, but really, parents everywhere should set a better example.

Now, with that public service announcement out of the way, I'd like to commence with the bitching about Kellen's soccer tournament in Arkansas this weekend.

We had our first game Saturday morning at 8am and we lost, 5-0. I guess if I was going to throw excuses out there, it would be that the team we played was a local team, and the boys on our team had all driven four hours to get there on Friday evening and stayed in a hotel Friday night, so we probably weren't quite as well-rested. Not to mention the two players on our team who got up at 3am and drove to the fields Saturday morning. But I won't make those excuses because the other team, plain and simple, was better than our team. We hung in there fairly well, but they were just bigger and faster and worked better together. No excuses.

Our second game was Saturday afternoon and we tied, 4-4. If you ask the parents on *our* team, we actually won by one goal. A goal that the referee called back due to some funky tournament rule none of us had ever heard of .... my other excuse would be that the boys on the other team played rough. Rough to the point of dirty. Dirty enough that there were four yellow cards called in one game ... I don't think I've seen four yellow cards the entire year, and there were four in this game for shoving and pushing and intentional tripping. And that was only the four times it was blatant enough that they got caught. There was plenty more going on behind the scenes .... I know. I was there, with a camera. The other team wasn't necessarily bigger or better or faster, they were just more aggressive, and that's not how our boys are used to playing.

But the boys didn't seem too upset. We took them back to the hotel afterwards and they swam in the pool, played elevator tag, then we took them out to a matinee, then we had a pizza party, and then they all collapsed in bed at an early hour .... like the world's funnest slumber party, according to Kellen. This hotel, as per Kellen, is second in the world for fun ONLY to the Great Wolf Lodge. And of course the beauty in that was I only had ONE boy in my room, as opposed to all eleven of them.

This morning's 8am game had us matched against another team that was bigger ... faster .... better ..... we lost again, 4-1. And with that, we were officially out of the tournament. Hey, wait a second. Something seems suspicious here. Kellen's team, the U-11 "B" team in his league, seemed genuinely, truly outmatched the entire tournament. And the "A" team in our league won all three of their tournament games, 5-0, 8-0, and 10-0.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Does anyone else sense anything fishy here?

Yep, tournament officials confirmed it at our last game. They accidentally switched our "A" team and our "B" team at registration and we played each other's games the entire tournament.

Well, that pretty much sucks.

On the one hand, we can feel good about the fact we were in the wrong bracket and at least the games weren't total routs. Yeah, we got beat, but we didn't get creamed. We did a pretty decent job of keeping up and even managed to score in two of the games. It was a great learning experience, and let our coach get a good look at the areas where we need improvement. Most importantly the boys got to play a sport they love.

Blah, blah, end Susie Sunshine.

Is it wrong that a small part of me is annoyed? Not even that we drove eight hours round trip and paid for two nights in a hotel and tournament fees and all those meals out, and didn't win a single game, but because they never had a realistic chance to win a single game? And not even because they didn't win, because losing is part of life too, yadda yadda, that's not what bothered me. But a few of the boys on the "A" team were gloating about how much better they did, and how there was "no challenge" at this tournament (as if they were playing soccer and yawning at the same time) I just wanted to get down in their little eleven-year old faces and say, "You were playing OUR games, against "B" teams, you arrogant little brats" and honestly, an even smaller part of me just wanted to pinch them.

Because I'm a grown up like that.

For the record, I don't think there is a HUGE difference in the skill levels of the "A" team and "B" team in this league. It's more a difference in attitude. I certainly can't speak for sports teams everywhere ... but in this particular league, in this particular age group, our "A" team has more ego .... more drama .... more attitude. Truthfully, we "B" team parents have sat back this year and watched, commenting to one about how glad and relieved we are that our "B" team boys seem to genuinely like one another and enjoy spending time together, both on and off the field. Sure, they're always happy to win -- who isn't? -- but they also enjoy playing just for the fun of it. They encourage one another on the field, and are quick to congratulate a goal, and even quicker to "you'll get 'em next time!" when a goal is missed. Of course, that laid-back attitude comes through at practice, and games, and I think the "A" team players and parents look down on us a little bit for it. Which is ridiculous, because they're in the FIFTH GRADE for goodness' sake, and you'd think they'd be thrilled just that their boys are having fun, but as anyone who has kids, who play sports anywhere can probably tell you .......... some parents are living vicariously and are pretty pathetic about it, and it shows through in their attitude. And shit rolls downhill, if you know what I mean.

/end rant.

We went back to the hotel this morning after our game, knowing full well we didn't make the "A" bracket semi-finals, and the boys wanted to swim again before checking out. So we let them. And they made up this fun water/soccer/baseball/kickball type game, and were throwing and catching and leaping into the pool and squealing with happiness like little girls. Kellen came over to me at one point and when I asked if he was having fun he replied, "Yeah, this is the most awesome trip ever!" and at that moment, I was reminded of what mattered, and knew that win or lose, the trip was totally worth it.

They are a great group of boys, and a great group of parents, and we've truly enjoyed ourselves these past nine months. I'm not going to pout about a stupid registration mistake at a tournament.

After all, I'm a grown up. Who is a good sport.

Instead I preferred chortling when I heard our "A" team, who, **shockingly** (finger quotes) did make it into the semi-finals, had to play in the cold front that blew into Arkansas today, with temps in the high 30's and 30 mph north winds. Their game took place while we were eating left-over pizza by the indoor heated pool.

And the team that beat us 4-1? They beat our "A" team in the semi-finals ...... (wait for it, wait for it ....) 4-1.

Clearly, Kellen understands the value in enjoying time spent at an out-of-state tournament, whether you win or lose. It's all about the elevator tag.

His mother, on the other hand, is just shallow enough to gain a small sense of satisfaction in knowing our boys played just as well against the same team.

(small print) Because deep down, I am apparently a very poor sport.

Take Six

I was tagged by my new scrapbooking friend Alisa a few days ago but wanted to save the tag for today. It seemed fitting, considering we're on our way to Arkansas for a soccer tournament as I type this.

The tag was to take the sixth photo, from the sixth folder, on your computer, and post it.



This one is two years old, taken March of 2007, and still makes me laugh.

Sadly, I'm not sure his form has gotten much better.

Proof my son needs more culture

Kellen had a soccer tournament this weekend. The venue was a soccer club about forty minutes from our house, and his team had a game Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon ... then again Sunday morning (What the heck? Don't the people who schedule these games go to church? The tournament had games at 7:30 AM Sunday morning --- thank goodness it wasn't us, is all I'm saying) and Sunday afternoon.

There were two hours to kill each day between the morning and afternoon games. Not enough time to go home, but too much time to just sit at the fields and do nothing. So the entire team decided (both days) to go out and have lunch together. Nothing strikes fear in the heart of a Dennys employee like having a mob like us walk through the door, asking for a table for twenty-four people, twelve of whom are "children" .... "children" who are, in this scenario, ten and eleven year old boys; noisy, sweaty, stinky, rambunctious, loud. (And extremely sweet and precious, but probably the Dennys workers couldn't see past the soccer uniforms and cleats and hungry, hungry boys to realize that ..... whatever, that's not even the point to this post.)

Today Kellen asked where were we going for lunch, and I said "The other parents want to go to Poblanos."

He asked, "Poblanos? What's that?"

And I said, "It's Mexican."

His response? "Oh, good. I've been in the mood for egg rolls."

I totally repeated the story later, at the table, because Lord knows I'm not above exploiting my children if its good for a laugh.

What made it funnier, although proved to me that seriously, we need to get out more as a family, was when the Poblanos waitress came to the table and he ordered chicken strips.

Name That Celebrity

Does anyone besides me see the resemblence???



Anyone? Anyone at all???

I'll give you a second to think about it .....

really study the photo ......

dredge your brain for some long-forgotten memory .....




Still not getting it????

OK, maybe it's just me, but I think his hair makes him look just like Farrah Fawcett ... circa 1970's ... Charlie's Angels era.

Because amidst all the pity partying and drama and freaking out there is an actual life still going on ....

We spent our weekend:




Flailing our legs about on the soccer field.





Falling down. Because apparently that's what all the best players do. But did you know this is also considered an illegal kick? Because that is the foul Kellen had called on him for this play where he basically ..... was responding to that pesky gravity.




And celebrating with our team mates who thank heavens are more coordinated and actually scored enough points to win the game.

Why Don’t I Just Tattoo “DumbAss” Across My Forehead and Be Done With It??

So, Thursday night I was driving Kellen to his soccer practice and as we rounded the corner to the playing field, he pointed to a boy playing goalie and said, “That’s Omar. He’s a new boy on my team.”

Ok, let’s back up. When my kids went to school in Georgia, a large number of their classmates were black. Or Negro. Or African-American, or whatever is deemed “correct” these days. In Kindergarten, Brayden received an Barbie invitation to a birthday party for a classmate whose family we didn’t know. I was going to Target to buy a Barbie doll for the little girl when it occurred to me that there was a good chance this little girl might prefer a darker-skinned Barbie. So I called Brayden into the room and asked her, “Hey, is Monica black?” not realizing how literal children can take our comments. Brayden looked at me like I had grown another head and said, “Uh, no, she’s brown.” And so to this day, that’s what Blaine and the kids and I call brown people …. Brown. It’s not intended to be anything more than an identifier, just like my kids call people with blonde hair “Blondies”, or like they might identify a child by their height or freckles or if they wear glasses. No malice, no intent … just, “That’s Omar. He’s the new brown boy on my team.” Matter of fact, and end of discussion.

Kellen ran off to practice, and a gentleman with a heavy Spanish accent (which I later found out was Venezuelan) walked up to me a few minutes later and asked a question about the fields. While I’m not on a first-name basis with all the other parents yet, I do recognize most of them, and I knew I had never seen this gentleman before. Because I’m nosy as all get out friendly and inquisitive, I simply introduced myself and asked, “Are you Omar’s dad?” to which he paused, and then replied yes. It was obvious he was not Omar’s biological father. So I assumed he must be a step-dad. Doesn’t matter, really, I’m just curious about people like that.

I said, “Oh, Kellen told me they had a new boy named Omar on the team and that he’s a really good player …. He was so excited to have him try out.” And this dad and I started talking, and he was incredibly nice, and funny, and friendly. And I was thoroughly enjoying our conversation.

He asked me which boy was my son, and I pointed to Kellen and said, “Right there, the boy in the red shorts ….” And at exactly that moment, Kellen tripped over a blade of grass, with no-one anywhere near him, and fell flat on his face. And I burst out laughing and said, “The highly coordinated one who doesn’t understand gravity.” And he laughed too, in a kind way.

Then another gentleman, this guy a total whitey-tighty like me, walked up and introduced himself. And he was just as funny and friendly and nice as the first guy. And they were talking about “their” house and “their” business, and it took just a nano-second for the A-ha! light bulb to go on over my head.

I’ll admit, I was very curious about them. I mean, how do a Venezuelan guy and a white guy wind up as life partners in Oklahoma with a brown son named Omar? I mean, who *wouldn’t* be curious??

But more than that, I was acutely aware that I didn’t want to say anything stupid or offensive. I have no problem with gay people (Remember? Spent much of my twenties dancing in the local gay bars) and it goes without saying that I’m pro-adoption. So while I would have loved to have heard their story, I was determined not to give any indication that anything was out of the norm, or say or do anything to make them uncomfortable.

As the practice wore on, they were talking about how nervous their son was about the tryouts. So I started watching, and even though I know next to nothing about soccer, even I could tell the boy was very good. So I made several helpful comments about how well he was doing ….. “Oh, look, Omar just scored a goal!” … and “How long has Omar played soccer?” …. And “Omar seems like a really great defender!” Etc. And because I genuinely liked them and wanted to be friendly, I asked even more stuff, “Where does Omar go to school?” and “What other hobbies does Omar have?” I don’t know, maybe I was just so glad to have another newbie-parent there besides myself that I was pathetic in my attempts to be social, but it really did come from the heart.

At the end of the practice, the team manager came up and said to the dads, “Congratulations, we’re not sure if it will be the A team or B team, but the coach wants to offer Lamar a spot.” And the dads smiled and said thanks.

And I sat there a second and said, “Wait. Who? Lamar? Who’s Lamar?”

And the first dad said, “That’s our son …. Lamar.”

And I was all embarrassed and awkward, “Lamar? Lamar???? And I’ve been calling him OMAR this whole time??? Why didn’t either of you correct me???”
And they sort of smiled at one another, and then said to me, “You were being so nice, we didn’t have the heart.”

So basically, I sat there for an hour and a half, determined not to make them uncomfortable, or say anything stupid, but called their son by the wrong name the entire time. About a bazillion times. Clearly, I’m a moron.

But I’m totally blaming Kellen for this one --- I’m telling you, he SAID Omar!

First tournament

Kellen's new soccer team played in their first tournament this weekend. And in some kind of miracle, the weather cooperated for three of the four games, with temps *only* in the low 90's and overcast skies. The fourth game, well, we pretty much all melted on the sidelines, one kid got a bloody nose he was so hot (I didn't even know that was possible) and the poor head referee got overheated and just wandered off the field in a daze. We all thought he had called for a break that none of us heard ... only to watch him stumble to the water tent and basically collapse. When the game was over and we got back in our van, the inside thermostat was at 106 .... needless to say I perspired just a wee bit that afternoon, and I wasn't even running. I have NO idea how the kids did it.

I'm also realizing more and more that although this might be a "B" team, and the parents are indeed pretty laid-back, I'm definitely going to have to take the time to learn some of the ins and outs of soccer. The other parents were yelling encouraging things like, "Great diagonal!" and "Set up the cross!" and "Offsides!" while I sat in my chair and thought, "ooooh, I like the angle-y line on their new socks ... pretty!"

I also discovered this weekend that no matter the tips and techniques you might be learning in photography class .... no matter the nice, new camera you just purchased .... no matter how much you might *want* to take pictures of your son and his team mates, if it's an evening game, and the sun has gone down, and the stadium lights at your end of the field aren't working, well, your pictures are probably going to be lousy.




See? No amount of shutter speed in the world can overcome dismal lighting conditions like this.



Or, maybe it can, and I just haven't learned that trick in class yet. But in the meantime? My pictures? Laughable.



So you wait until the next day, when the team in playing in daylight, and you can get much better photos.



Maybe even some that make you laugh.


They won two of their first three games and made it into the semi-finals, where they were beat 5-2. Considering the semi-final team they played against had been together since they were six years old, and our team has only been together about a month, we all thought it was a pretty respectable finish. Best of all, Kellen had fun.

In the meantime, does anyone have a "Soccer for Dummies" book I can borrow?

Awkward Silence

So, I returned early from scrapbooking in Texas yesterday in order to attend the mandatory parents meeting with Kellen’s new soccer coach. The boys played in a 3v3 tournament on Saturday, while I was in Texas, and it liked to have killed me to miss it. However, sometimes in life, the need for weekends filled with chocolate and amaretto (although ironically, we forgot to drink the amaretto) and girlfriends is equally important to the need to be a good parent. Kellen was in perfectly capable hands with Blaine, so I relaxed about missing his first tournament (and him scoring his first goal in his first tournament, which I also missed, excuse me while the guilt creeps in again) but I didn’t want to miss the meeting as well, so I returned.

And discovered, the world of competitive soccer is a new one for us, indeed. Now, I realize they are only ten year old boys, and not a college team, or World Cup team, on the level of David Beckham, or whatever. It’s just ….. so much more intense than what we’re used to.

First the coach was talking about practices a minimum of twice a week and make up practices on weekends if need be and tournaments once a month the first three months, at least one of which will be out of state, so he’ll be getting hotel information to us, in addition to the regular games. And then how in the winter we’ll not only play indoor soccer but try to find an indoor practice field to play footsal or futsol or whatever the heck it is called, and how the dead ball really helps. And how we’ll “take down the walls” so the boys don’t get lazy. And how on the days they don’t have practice they’ll have conditioning exercises to do at home. And I looked around, and the other parents were nodding in agreement, and all I could think was, “What the heck is futsal???” Then he started talking about divisions and classes and different leagues and trading players and OPL and Rush teams, and how much our practice uniforms will be, and again, the other parents were interjecting intelligent comments and questions, and I’m all like, “Wait. Practice uniforms??? We have to buy practice uniforms??” Why yes, we do. A light and a dark, with their numbers on them in case they ever need to double as game uniforms. And let's not forget the game uniform, which by the way, cost more than my wedding dress. (I am not even kidding. I bought my wedding dress off an “As Is” rack at JC Penney and my 10-yr old son’s uniform, socks, cleats, and matching equipment bag cost more.)

Then the coach passed out the list of costs for this season … league fees and field maintenance fees and lights fees and coaching fees and trainer fees (let’s not confuse the two) and tournament fees and per diem fees and OPL fees (again, this mention of OPL … what the heck is it??) and talking about the fundraisers we will do to help offset costs. And of course the team treasurer will have all the player accounts in spreadsheet form to pass out monthly so everyone is totally accountable, but they will need a credit card on file for monthly fees and hotel reservations for the tournaments.

And seriously, my head is spinning. I’m thinking hopefully Kellen will become really, really, really good in soccer and get a college scholarship, because at this rate, we’ll have spent his entire college savings in fees.

And once more, the other parents are all asking intelligent questions about this and that, and acting as if they are completely familiar with everything that is being discussed, and they all seem to know the difference between various field sizes and league rules and playing time regulations, and they’re all talking about “remember that great Academy team we had last year?” and “How come Johnny wasn’t at tryouts? He’s the best keeper in the league” and blah blah blah. I felt so much like an outsider, and I so desperately wanted to make friends and let everyone know we’re committed and excited, just like them, even if I AM totally ignorant about what is being discussed. So I raised my hand, and offered, in my best, “I’m totally a team player” voice …. “I’ll be willing to bring snacks for that first tournament, or even get the snack list organized, if you need someone to do it.”

Awkward silence.

Then the coached smiled at me, in a “that’s nice, but you have no clue” sort of way, and said, “Well, thanks, but we don’t *do* snacks at this level. And if your kid forgets his water bottle, he doesn’t drink, either.” Then he turned to the rest of the group and said, “And this should be clear, but I’ll repeat it just in case …. I don’t want to see ANY of you carrying your kids’ equipment bag. It’s THEIR responsibility.”

And all I could think was, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

So I made some self-deprecating, trying-to-cover-my-embarrassment-that-I-obviously-still-treat-my-son-like-a-baby comment, about how I’m a stay-at-home mom and apparently have way too much time on my hands if I’m worried about snack.

So with all my free time, they made me team treasurer.

Geez. (roll-y eyes)

The next level

So, always before, my kids have played in the sort of sports leagues where you show up, pay a registration fee, and the kids are randomly assigned to a team, which is almost always coached by a volunteer dad or two. A little fresh air, a little exercise, snacks (which are the most important part of all, don’t you know that?) and if things go well, they learn a few things about whatever sport it is they’re playing.

For now, the sport of choice for my kids is soccer. This makes me a little bit sad, because soccer did not become immensely popular until AFTER I was young, which means I know nothing about the sport. I don’t know a sweeper from a keeper from a stopper from a striker, and I have no clue about the rules or regulations. I have no suggestions about how to help my kids get any better, and the one and only time I tried to practice outside with them I tripped while dribbling and fell flat on my face, in a style reminiscent of an America’s Funniest Home Videos moment. So pretty much, comic relief is all I’m good for.

I felt even more frustrated when we moved here and had to learn our way around a new soccer league. When Kellen wanted to sign up for spring soccer, I had no clue about the difference between a recreational team, traveling rec, academy, or competitive. I just sent in a registration form, and he wound up on a rec team with really great kids. We had casual, laid-back fun … just like we liked it. Except, they only won one game the entire season and he didn’t really learn anything or improve. But hey, snacks were good, so he was happy.

However, for this fall, I was told that he is too old to continue in that division and would have to move up. The coach I talked to at soccer camp a few weeks ago suggested he try out for a competitive team, simply because those teams are put together after a tryout, and he wouldn’t need to “find” a team to play on. As the mom of a “new” kid in the league, the prospect of cold-calling a bunch of volunteer dads and asking if they have a spot on their already put-together team for my son pretty much made me break out in hives …. So I suggested trying out for a competitive team to Kellen. Much to my relief, he agreed.

According to the league website, there would be two competitive tryouts. The first was last Thursday night, and we planned to go, but things just got hectic. We had been busy all week, and Kellen was tired, and he had piano and we barely had time to get across town, and we were meeting friends for dinner …… blah blah. Since there was a second tryout listed for Saturday morning, we decided to wait and go to that one instead.

Imagine my disappointment when I showed up with him Saturday morning, and found out that the tryout was actually two parts: Thursday evening AND Saturday morning. We had missed it. The coach suggested Kellen could try out just the one day, but unfortunately it was raining. As long as the lightening sensor rod-light-thingy at the complex center was blinking, which it was, no one would be allowed on the field. The coach told me both teams (Team A and Team B) had been pretty much put together on Thursday night, and the Saturday practice was just to put the finishing touches on the teams. He offered to take our name and number and let us come back to the first practice, so they could at least take a look at Kellen and see if they had any spots still left open.

I was bummed. Really bummed, on Kellen’s behalf. And a little annoyed, to be honest, that the two-part tryout wasn’t better explained on the website. Not that Kellen is some outstanding, shining star player … he’s not. Nobody points and laughs, either, but I’ll admit I was excited at the thought he might get selected for a competitive team, one with a paid coach, and trainer, and really start to improve in his skills. Now, he already had one strike against him by missing the first tryout, and it looked like thanks to the weather, he wouldn’t even get a chance.

Suddenly, the sun came out. The blink-y lightening rod thing stopped blinking, and the boys, most of who had already been placed on one of the two teams, took the field. And as I sat in my van and watched the boys, I knew we had blown our chance by missing the first day of tryouts. These boys were already comfortable together, and already knew what the coaches wanted them to do. And I got more and more upset, and discouraged, and annoyed, the longer I sat there. “It’s not fair!” I wanted to say. How are new league members supposed to know the ins and outs of how teams are formed? I can even admit that at that point, I was basically pouting. I could tell by watching that Kellen wasn’t as good as some of the other boys … better than several, but not all. And the other boys had a definite advantage in that they all seemed to know one another, and would shout a team-mates name before making a pass. And I sat there and just got crankier and crankier that we had missed out due to our “newbie” status. (still pouting at that point.)

Just then, a dad walked over to his son, who was playing goalie. And in front of all the other parents, he started berating his son for not doing his goal kicks properly, and not having a good form. And the dad was sort of gesturing with his arms, and getting upset, and finally said, really loudly, “You just need to remember how important these tryouts are if you want to get picked for a team!” And the boy took a defensive stance and sounded exasperated and frustrated when he said, “I know, Dad!”

And in that instant I realized how ugly I was acting, and stopped pouting. Who gives a shit if Kellen gets picked for a team? This is supposed to be FUN, no matter what age the kids are. Even if yes, the skill level is getting a little more competitive, I refuse to be one of those parents who wants it more than my kid does. More specifically, I don’t ever want to be *that* dad, and take it personally. If Kellen didn’t get picked, so be it. He could play for a church league, or we’d find some other recreational league. But in that instant, my attitude did a complete reversal. Whatever happened, would happen, and we were going to Sonic afterwards to buy a chocolate shake and celebrate the fact he tried out at all.

A few minutes later, the team assistant walked over to my van, smiling. “Coach wants to offer your son a spot on the “B” team”, she said. “You can think about it, because it’s a pretty big commitment. Fall soccer, spring soccer, indoor arena soccer in the winter, and trainer fees every month. That’s in addition to registration fees, practice uniforms, and game uniforms.”

“No need to think about it,” I said, smiling from ear to ear, “We’re in.”

“Good,” she replied, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “My son’s on the B team too, and we’ve got all the fun, laid back parents. It’s going to be a great year.” And I filled out the registration form, wrote her a check, and she walked off.

A few minutes later the tryouts ended. Kellen came to the van, noticeably dejected. He managed to wait until he got inside before starting to cry. Not big, puffy crybaby tears, but the kind of 10-year old boy tears that squeeze out from under tightly clenched eyelids … the “I’m trying really hard not to cry” kind of crying.

“What’s the matter, buddy? What’s wrong? Didn’t you have fun?” I asked.

“I didn’t get picked,” he said in a small voice, “Coach didn’t ask me to be on the team. He called me over to the bleachers, and asked if I wanted to be on his team, but then he never said anything else to me, so that means I didn’t get picked.”

“Kellen,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement, “You DID get picked! They came over and talked to me … you’re on one of the teams!”

Instead of being pleased, or surprised, he was still upset. “I don’t think I want to play with those boys,” he said, “they’re too rough, and they take it too seriously. They want to win no matter what.”

And I sat there for a second, and realized how very much alike my son and I are. He is not an aggressive, no-holds-barred, leave-it-all-on-the-field kind of kid. He likes the sport; he enjoys playing. And he'll be the first to tell you it's a lot more fun when you win. But if he accidentally knocks a competitor down, he wants to extend a hand to help them back up. If he accidentally falls down himself, he wants to be able to laugh about it before getting back up. He still wants the snacks after the game. Yes, there’s something to be admired about kids who are committed, determined, and competitive. But I also think there’s something to be admired about kids who still think having fun is a top priority.

And I took a few moments to explain to my son what it means to be on a “B” team --- how the boys are still good, and want to get better, and will work really hard to improve, but don’t have a win-at-all-costs mentality. And Kellen smiled, and seemed very relieved.

I think it’s going to be a perfect fit for our family. And I couldn’t be happier.