Into the Abyss
April 14, 2005
The occasion of my oldest son's birthday and first soccer game have caused me to take an inventory of life, and pause and stare into the abyss that is organized soccer and sports and all things grown up, and I just have to ask a series of questions; how they hell did I get to be a soccer parent? What the hell are the rules of soccer? Am I going to be asked to riot at some point? Who is driving this train and how do I get off?
Now nothing against soccer...although I jokingly rant and rave against it, and maybe it's more of a mini mid-life crisis that was triggered by my son's kindergarten round up a month ago, but the soccer thing has me confused. I think it was the kindergarten round up. I walked into school for the orientation for kindergarten parents thinking, "Didn't I JUST graduate from kindergarten? How can I be a parent of a kindergartener? So maybe that freaked me out.
When you live in suburban America your kid signs up for soccer. I saw it coming a few months ago so I did a pre-emptive strike and volunteered to coach my son's tee-ball league this summer. It's like I'm USA and soccer is Russia and we're in an arms race. If my kid is going to play a European sport I'm going to do my darndest to counter it with America's pastime. Now you have to understand, where I grew up in the 80's there WAS NO SOCCER. We played baseball. Like Americans. But it's 2005 and baby, your kid is playing soccer and he's going to like it.
Of course my son is just dying for the day of his first game to come. He's been carrying around his yellow YMCA shirt all week. Game day finally does come Sunday. My parents are visiting and we all head down to the "soccer complex". It's lightly raining and I'm thinking maybe it'll be rained out and the other 5 games in the season will also get rained out and we'll move onto baseball. We get to the "soccer complex". I look to the fields. It looks like the half time show at the Super Bowl. It's all a chaotic sea of colored YMCA shirts and kids of all sizes running around in the rain. All that was missing was Paul McCartney, J-Lo, 50 Cent and Arosmith. We head for field 10 where my son is suppose to play, he and I leading the way ahead of my wife and my parents.
Well I don't know where the hell I'm going, there are 10 million fields and I don't know anybody from my son's team. I'm listening for the incredibly annoying "ole, ole, ole, ole...Ole..Ole" European song, but nobody's chanting it so I get a little more comfortable. We finally find my son's field and see some other kids and parents standing around. He and a buddy are eyeing the empty field and itching to get out there so I tell him, "Go ahead, go out there and play and wait for your coach." His perma-grin makes me feel a little guilty about hoping for a rain out.
His coach shows up and the team has a little practice before the game. Kids are running all over the place with little red cones on the ground and I'm thinking, "I have no freaking idea what's going on." This is micro soccer which is 3-on-3, and anything goes. The game starts and the two coaches referee and try to keep the kids within the boundaries of the field. It's wet and a parent asks us if my son has cleats. Cleats? He wipes out on the slick grass. Of course, cleats! I have a flash back to 1989 when Kurt Kanne and I beat his brother Scott and J.D. Feilmeier in one of the greatest upsets in backyard snow football history. I was the worst athlete on the field but I had on snow boots so I had traction while the other guys where spinning their wheels. I scored on several deep touchdowns. Kurt and I killed them and it was all due to the snow boots. Cleats! Mental note to buy cleats.
Then the breakaway goal happened. My son burst out of the pack of 6 and streaked to the goal and scored the first goal of the season. He was pumped and I was too. A short kid on the other team with no neck gets blasted in the face with a line drive shot. Nosebleed. Mental note to bring first aid.
The game goes on and he ends up scoring another goal. Then it really starts to rain. The coaches ask the parents, "Do you guys wanna keep going?" A resounding "NO" from the parents calls the game. The coach passes out treats to the team as the rain picks up and we hustle back to the car. The parking lot is full of minivans with their automatic doors beeping and lights flashing. It's a miracle we find our van. We say good-by to grandpa and grandma. He is soaked in the backseat and grinning ear to ear.
So for the next five weekends we'll be watching Europe's favorite pastime and 5-6 year olds race all over a short little field with reckless abandon. I'm still not a big soccer fan. But after my son said, "Dad I had so much fun, I just wish our team could play every day, all the day long!" I stop myself and smile. Into the Abyss. With both feet. And cleats.
The occasion of my oldest son's birthday and first soccer game have caused me to take an inventory of life, and pause and stare into the abyss that is organized soccer and sports and all things grown up, and I just have to ask a series of questions; how they hell did I get to be a soccer parent? What the hell are the rules of soccer? Am I going to be asked to riot at some point? Who is driving this train and how do I get off?
Now nothing against soccer...although I jokingly rant and rave against it, and maybe it's more of a mini mid-life crisis that was triggered by my son's kindergarten round up a month ago, but the soccer thing has me confused. I think it was the kindergarten round up. I walked into school for the orientation for kindergarten parents thinking, "Didn't I JUST graduate from kindergarten? How can I be a parent of a kindergartener? So maybe that freaked me out.
When you live in suburban America your kid signs up for soccer. I saw it coming a few months ago so I did a pre-emptive strike and volunteered to coach my son's tee-ball league this summer. It's like I'm USA and soccer is Russia and we're in an arms race. If my kid is going to play a European sport I'm going to do my darndest to counter it with America's pastime. Now you have to understand, where I grew up in the 80's there WAS NO SOCCER. We played baseball. Like Americans. But it's 2005 and baby, your kid is playing soccer and he's going to like it.
Of course my son is just dying for the day of his first game to come. He's been carrying around his yellow YMCA shirt all week. Game day finally does come Sunday. My parents are visiting and we all head down to the "soccer complex". It's lightly raining and I'm thinking maybe it'll be rained out and the other 5 games in the season will also get rained out and we'll move onto baseball. We get to the "soccer complex". I look to the fields. It looks like the half time show at the Super Bowl. It's all a chaotic sea of colored YMCA shirts and kids of all sizes running around in the rain. All that was missing was Paul McCartney, J-Lo, 50 Cent and Arosmith. We head for field 10 where my son is suppose to play, he and I leading the way ahead of my wife and my parents.
Well I don't know where the hell I'm going, there are 10 million fields and I don't know anybody from my son's team. I'm listening for the incredibly annoying "ole, ole, ole, ole...Ole..Ole" European song, but nobody's chanting it so I get a little more comfortable. We finally find my son's field and see some other kids and parents standing around. He and a buddy are eyeing the empty field and itching to get out there so I tell him, "Go ahead, go out there and play and wait for your coach." His perma-grin makes me feel a little guilty about hoping for a rain out.
His coach shows up and the team has a little practice before the game. Kids are running all over the place with little red cones on the ground and I'm thinking, "I have no freaking idea what's going on." This is micro soccer which is 3-on-3, and anything goes. The game starts and the two coaches referee and try to keep the kids within the boundaries of the field. It's wet and a parent asks us if my son has cleats. Cleats? He wipes out on the slick grass. Of course, cleats! I have a flash back to 1989 when Kurt Kanne and I beat his brother Scott and J.D. Feilmeier in one of the greatest upsets in backyard snow football history. I was the worst athlete on the field but I had on snow boots so I had traction while the other guys where spinning their wheels. I scored on several deep touchdowns. Kurt and I killed them and it was all due to the snow boots. Cleats! Mental note to buy cleats.
Then the breakaway goal happened. My son burst out of the pack of 6 and streaked to the goal and scored the first goal of the season. He was pumped and I was too. A short kid on the other team with no neck gets blasted in the face with a line drive shot. Nosebleed. Mental note to bring first aid.
The game goes on and he ends up scoring another goal. Then it really starts to rain. The coaches ask the parents, "Do you guys wanna keep going?" A resounding "NO" from the parents calls the game. The coach passes out treats to the team as the rain picks up and we hustle back to the car. The parking lot is full of minivans with their automatic doors beeping and lights flashing. It's a miracle we find our van. We say good-by to grandpa and grandma. He is soaked in the backseat and grinning ear to ear.
So for the next five weekends we'll be watching Europe's favorite pastime and 5-6 year olds race all over a short little field with reckless abandon. I'm still not a big soccer fan. But after my son said, "Dad I had so much fun, I just wish our team could play every day, all the day long!" I stop myself and smile. Into the Abyss. With both feet. And cleats.
posted by Hank Louis Tierney at 7:49 PM
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