It was 1999 at the beginning of another school year. As all three of my boys have September birthdays, Gabriel was almost 7; Ariel was almost 4; and Joel was almost 1. I was as overwhelmed as I could ever imagine to be, and about to become a soccer mom.
Starting out on a recreational league, Gabriel was quick to learn the game and played to win every time. His preschooler brother, Ariel, could become interested in a dandelion, and sit down in the middle of the soccer field to examine it. As Gabriel would help to guide his team to victory, Ariel may decide to walk off the field if something seemed more interesting elsewhere. And though we tried to keep baby Joel strapped in the stroller for his own safety, he would often insist on getting out and doing the most obvious thing: kick a soccer ball.
As they grew to love the game we continued to take them, season after season, year after year, to their practices and games. By the time Joel was 4 he officially joined his brothers in their soccer way of life, going from recreational leagues to club soccer, as well as from the middle school to the high school teams.
With competition becoming more fierce, there were more opportunities for injury. Some of their injuries were even related to soccer. Ariel learned to play goal keeper while nursing a hurt shoulder while Joel played quite effectively with a cast on his foot. (Joel's toes were not broken while playing soccer, however, but after the rope his brothers were holding broke and he was sent flying into a tree on a swing. Ariel almost lost a toe but that had to do with running around barefoot and not with soccer either.) Gabriel broke his finger during a high school game and had to leave the field momentarily but finished out the game with a big smile on his face.
The worst injury happened during an end-of-season playoff game in which Gabriel was kneed in the chest by a goal keeper intent on not letting him receive the ball and score. The foul was called, the crowd went wild, but Gabriel did not get up. I could feel eyes watching me to see my reaction as I had already prepared myself in knowing that I could do nothing but pray. After an eternity in soccer time, which was probably about 5 minutes, he was helped off the field and then at the end of the game I could hear the trainer saying he was going to be fine, but I knew he was not. He would spend four days hospitalized with blunt force trauma to the pancreatic duct which the doctor said was consistent with a car accident. But he did not require surgery and would in time recover fully, to play more soccer.
And yet, soccer is a great game. It is great when a dad keeps yelling out, "Good idea" while another dad echoes, "Unlucky." It is great in the midst of wind and freezing rain that is coming down sideways and making us all wonder why we continue to stand on the sidelines. It is great in wind that is propelling the ball in every direction but toward the goal. It is great even if the soccer mom with the loudest voice thinks she should keep on trying to express herself. In fact, maybe there should be an award at the end of every season for the most obnoxious soccer parent based on how many times that person argued with the ref, screamed at his or her child to "win the ball," "gotta want it," "BOOT IT," or any other variation of what their unlucky offspring is desperately attempting to accomplish, though I remain uncertain as to who would be the judge for this type of contest. For there are times when we all find ourselves getting sucked into the drama of the bad call, the catcalls from unfriendly members of the visitor section, or worse yet, when parents make threats toward each other or the players. IT IS ONLY A GAME, PEOPLE!
I have been a soccer mom long enough to see all manner of strangeness played out before me, and yet I can still say that soccer is a great game. It is great even if the ref actually does need someone's glasses, as is usually suggested by some helpful spectator, or if he just plain does not see the opposing player intentionally trip our guy, in the box. It is great if red cards eject rowdy players or better yet if the boys can find it within themselves to act like gentlemen for a few minutes and play with class.
I have wondered about those who are naturally better at cheering, since they seem to need this vicarious outlet for their emotions. Known to be a quiet person for the most part, it may surprise some to know that my voice can be very loud at times if need be. I was even a cheerleader back in 7th and 8th grades and not because I knew anything about gymnastics. I prefer not to yell but to savor the moments and hope to be looking in the direction of one of my boys when they somehow pick me out of the crowd and make eye contact. Sometimes their eyes seem to say, "Why can't you do something about this miserable game?" while at other times it is more of a, "Did you see me do that?!" Whatever our sign language and eye contact communicates to each other, my boys know that win or lose I am there to cheer them on. Always.
Starting out on a recreational league, Gabriel was quick to learn the game and played to win every time. His preschooler brother, Ariel, could become interested in a dandelion, and sit down in the middle of the soccer field to examine it. As Gabriel would help to guide his team to victory, Ariel may decide to walk off the field if something seemed more interesting elsewhere. And though we tried to keep baby Joel strapped in the stroller for his own safety, he would often insist on getting out and doing the most obvious thing: kick a soccer ball.
As they grew to love the game we continued to take them, season after season, year after year, to their practices and games. By the time Joel was 4 he officially joined his brothers in their soccer way of life, going from recreational leagues to club soccer, as well as from the middle school to the high school teams.
With competition becoming more fierce, there were more opportunities for injury. Some of their injuries were even related to soccer. Ariel learned to play goal keeper while nursing a hurt shoulder while Joel played quite effectively with a cast on his foot. (Joel's toes were not broken while playing soccer, however, but after the rope his brothers were holding broke and he was sent flying into a tree on a swing. Ariel almost lost a toe but that had to do with running around barefoot and not with soccer either.) Gabriel broke his finger during a high school game and had to leave the field momentarily but finished out the game with a big smile on his face.
The worst injury happened during an end-of-season playoff game in which Gabriel was kneed in the chest by a goal keeper intent on not letting him receive the ball and score. The foul was called, the crowd went wild, but Gabriel did not get up. I could feel eyes watching me to see my reaction as I had already prepared myself in knowing that I could do nothing but pray. After an eternity in soccer time, which was probably about 5 minutes, he was helped off the field and then at the end of the game I could hear the trainer saying he was going to be fine, but I knew he was not. He would spend four days hospitalized with blunt force trauma to the pancreatic duct which the doctor said was consistent with a car accident. But he did not require surgery and would in time recover fully, to play more soccer.
And yet, soccer is a great game. It is great when a dad keeps yelling out, "Good idea" while another dad echoes, "Unlucky." It is great in the midst of wind and freezing rain that is coming down sideways and making us all wonder why we continue to stand on the sidelines. It is great in wind that is propelling the ball in every direction but toward the goal. It is great even if the soccer mom with the loudest voice thinks she should keep on trying to express herself. In fact, maybe there should be an award at the end of every season for the most obnoxious soccer parent based on how many times that person argued with the ref, screamed at his or her child to "win the ball," "gotta want it," "BOOT IT," or any other variation of what their unlucky offspring is desperately attempting to accomplish, though I remain uncertain as to who would be the judge for this type of contest. For there are times when we all find ourselves getting sucked into the drama of the bad call, the catcalls from unfriendly members of the visitor section, or worse yet, when parents make threats toward each other or the players. IT IS ONLY A GAME, PEOPLE!
I have been a soccer mom long enough to see all manner of strangeness played out before me, and yet I can still say that soccer is a great game. It is great even if the ref actually does need someone's glasses, as is usually suggested by some helpful spectator, or if he just plain does not see the opposing player intentionally trip our guy, in the box. It is great if red cards eject rowdy players or better yet if the boys can find it within themselves to act like gentlemen for a few minutes and play with class.
I have wondered about those who are naturally better at cheering, since they seem to need this vicarious outlet for their emotions. Known to be a quiet person for the most part, it may surprise some to know that my voice can be very loud at times if need be. I was even a cheerleader back in 7th and 8th grades and not because I knew anything about gymnastics. I prefer not to yell but to savor the moments and hope to be looking in the direction of one of my boys when they somehow pick me out of the crowd and make eye contact. Sometimes their eyes seem to say, "Why can't you do something about this miserable game?" while at other times it is more of a, "Did you see me do that?!" Whatever our sign language and eye contact communicates to each other, my boys know that win or lose I am there to cheer them on. Always.
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