The soccer experience

Eagerly, I scrambled out of the Ford Bronco; inhaling the fresh, clean scent of the morning, as Seth—four at the time—tugged on my arm like frisky colt. Dew sparkled like polished glass on the grasses, while the sun, a glowing yellow orb in the pale blue autumn sky, warmed the Earth.

“C’mon Mommy. Let’s go, everybody is there,” he urged, pulling me toward the soccer field.

“We have plenty of time,” I replied, “we need to wait for Daddy.”

My calmness was a façade. I had been involved in sports for as long as I could remember, and now I was fluctuating between wanting to play the entire soccer game by myself, and looking for a quiet place to puke. Neither was an option; I had to coach my son’s team in our final game. We were a young and inexperienced team, and despite all our efforts that season, we were playing for the bragging rights of fourth place in a six-team division.

“Gee, thanks,” John quipped, grunting as he lifted a cooler from the rear of the vehicle. “You could help me carry this.”

“I’m watching our child,” I said, “and besides, you’re so much stronger than I am,” I replied, batting my eyelashes and lapsing into my “I’m just a poor helpless girl” routine.

“Good call, Coach,” a soccer parent chuckled, patting my back as she walked past.

“Yeah, right,” her husband retorted, rolling his eyes. “Here, I’ll help ya,” he told John, grabbing the other end of the loaded cooler.

“Come on Seth, let’s go,” their son and Seth’s teammate, Dexter, chimed. We let the boys run ahead to the fields, and walking at a more leisurely pace, we joined them a couple of minutes later.

My teams’ shin guards were too big, almost reaching their knobby knees, but donned in their uniforms, they looked like shrunken versions of the soccer players seen on TV. My heart soared as I watched them skillfully pass the ball to each other; they had come so far in the short amount of time we had.

“Hey, who do we play?” Dexter’s mom asked.

“The Angels,” John replied.

Just the mention of that team brought a hush over the parents standing on the sidelines. We had played them twice that season, and each time they trounced us soundly. “More like “Hell’s Angels,” one dad said, causing a ripple of laughter.

“Maybe they’ll forget and not show up,” another offered.

“Oh no, they’ll show up. They’re playing for first place.” I said. I shook my head, still not understanding how it could be fair to get first place by beating a weaker team; but the Angels were almost undefeated, and if their nemesis, The Raccoons lost, the Angels won the division.

A few minutes before game time, the opposing team arrived; clad in sky-blue colored uniforms, they were the pictures of confidence. “Ready to get beaten again?” My stomach lurched at the sound of the obnoxious voice behind me. Turning, I faced Brandi, a mountain of a woman, and who, perhaps if I could have found a ladder, would have received a swift kick in the kneecaps from me. A sharp glance from John reminded me there were children present, and a normal smart remark from me would not be a good idea.

Instead, I gathered my team around me. “They’ve beaten us every time, and they think this will be easy,” I remember saying, fire in my every word. “But they’re not gonna score one goal are they?”

“No!” retorted the team.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“No!” screamed the kids, boiling out onto the field as the whistle to begin play sounded.

All through the first half, I walked the sidelines, yelling instructions and encouragement to my players. “Stay with them! NO ONE GETS PAST!”

“Gee, Coach,” said the ref, pausing a couple of seconds beside me. “Why don’t you just give ‘em helmets and pads and let ‘em go after it.”

‘If you think it’ll help,” I retorted with mock innocence. My tiny players were determined, and not one goal was scored on them the first half. During the juice break, I raved to them on how well they were playing; it was obvious they were tired, but they still has “the eye of the tiger.”

In the last few minutes of the game, our opponents had the ball and were driving to our goal. Suddenly their player lost control of the ball, and there was a mad flurry of legs as both teams sought possession. Then, out of the dust, emerged Seth, my baby, driving toward the opponent’s goal, the ball well under his control, no one in front of him.

I felt like I was in a dream as I raced down the sidelines, hurdling coolers and chairs, while calling to encouragement to my son. Not only were we going to win, but also my baby was going to score the winning goal!

Then it happened. I watched in dismay as Seth stopped abruptly and bent over. Was it an injury, a cramp? I couldn’t believe what I saw next. Plucking a flower from the field, he abandoned the ball, and trotted over to the sidelines towards me, the plant clutched tightly in his sweaty hand. I felt like a deflating balloon as I watched the other team kick take the ball back down the field and score.

That’s the game,” the ref called, glancing at his watch. I couldn’t block out the jubilant cries of the Angels, and I hate to say it, I felt ill. It’s not so much we lost; it was the fact we lost to Brandi.

“Mooommmmy,” Seth yelled, pulling at my sleeve. I picked this flower just for you ‘cause I love you. It’s so pretty, don’t you think?”

I took the slightly smashed dandelion he offered me, thankful I had such a loving, considerate child. The other team may have taken home the trophy, but I, I had the real prize.