I couldn't possibly make this sh*t up.

Soccer Saturday

I finally became a soccer mom this year! I always wanted to be a soccer mom. Ever since the Halloween that I dressed in a soccer uniform (my actual college uniform) and strapped on a fake pregnancy belly, and thought I was so clever as everyone asked what I was dressed as. Oh I’m clever alright. Ha.

Considering I’ve been playing soccer since I was probably 10… Or younger… I could not wait to have a son or daughter that wanted to play MY sport. Oh I could teach them everything I learned over the years!!! I could practice with them! Sigh…

Two years ago I saw a summer soccer clinic hosted at my actual college which was probably managed by actual people that actually were there when I played at that school… And I signed Jack up without hesitation.

When I told Jack how very lucky he was, he flung himself on the ground in a tantrum the likes of which I had never seen. And, as you know, I’ve seen some doozies at my house. 

So, I let him calm down and waited a few weeks hoping he might come around. I emailed the camp to make sure he was registered and confirmed the start time. 

On the day of the camp I asked Jack if he wanted to play soccer, and he said yes! Until… He found out it wasn’t in the driveway with a nerf ball. He again flung himself on the floor and screamed that I was ruining his life! He was 7. Or 8. Did he even have a life to ruin yet? Geez.

I called the camp, defeated, and asked for a refund. 😦

So this year when all of Jack’s friends fell in love with soccer, so did he. And I became cautiously hopeful. Again. I wish I was still playing soccer. Really. And I guess I could, but the injuries and the lack of time, what with my martial arts classes like 4 times a week, make it kind of hard. Ugh. And it’s not easy to bounce back (when you’re above the age of 20) from a dislocated jaw (I was behind a guy as he flung his arms out to kick the ball in front of us), or a sprained ankle, (they put me against a guy with no arms, true story, and I was afraid to knock him down, so he knocked me down, having not been very afraid at all of my two working arms — and ovaries… Helloooo!), or the bloody swollen tops of my feet (from trying to get the ball away from 20-year-old Brazilian boys who clearly in their minds were in the World Cup at this very moment)… I could go on. But luckily for you I won’t.

I found myself at 7:30 am out on a chilly and wet, but beautiful, soccer field watching the boys on Jack’s team arrive, waiting for their 20-something coaches to show up. I organized the boys into a line and I jumped into the goal to let them take shots on me, and warm up. My sneakers got wet and dirty, and my hair frizzed out but I loved it!

We lost the game 8-5 or something very close to a football score. I yelled encouragement and pointers from the sidelines and I paced back and forth while the other parents huddled in their camp chairs. It was great!

me: Jack! You can move up a little but stay on that guy! That was a nice kick! 

Jack: Quiet wannabee coach!!!!! 

me: Sigh…

    
 

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