My daughter LOVES soccer. I mean, it is her passion. I’m often jealous... how nice must it be to know your passion at seven instead of just beginning to uncover it at forty? Being one the year her brother began his soccer career, she waited for three and a half years on the sidelines. That equates to five seasons, fifty games and approximately seventy-five practices that she (and I) had to endure before being given her chance to play. (Not that she didn’t try the occasional toddler foray onto the field in the middle of a goal kick, mind you.) The night her coach called to introduce himself and inform us of the first practice, I hung up the phone and said, “Baby, your first soccer practice is tomorrow.” She looked up from Blue’s Clues, pumped her fist in the air and said, “Finally!”
I have to say, from the second she hit the soccer field she has not disappointed. Her very first game when most of the other girls were trying to decide if they were going to cry because they thought the coach was “yelling” at them or join the herd chasing the ball, I actually lost track of how many goals my daughter scored. At one point her coach turned around and said, “Could you have mentioned she could play?” We, of course, didn’t know she could. I don’t know where the soccer gene came from, but somehow she got it and she knows it. Therefore, we have to walk the tightrope that is stretched between too much and not enough praise. My husband and I are usually content to let her coach and other parents discuss her natural ability. We try to work on teaching her that she does NOT have to play every quarter and it’s more important for her to learn to be a gracious winner than a gloating ball hog. I refuse to be one of those braggart parents that derive their sense of self worth from the accomplishments of their children. I mean really, I’ve never aspired to be a soccer player so how much sense would it make for me to become the equivalent of a stage mom on the sidelines? The answer: About as much sense as it makes for the suburb I live in to actually have an ADULT cheer squad. Oh wait... A COED ADULT cheer squad. Yes, you heard me—grown men and women who cheer, in UNIFORMS, in competition, on the weekends, for FUN. I’m serious... PROFESSIONALS with bumper sticker megaphones containing their names on their SUV’s—bankers, lawyers, doctors... cheering, chanting, flipping, donkey kicks, hurkeys (who named that anyway?)! Yes, hand clapping... ready, ooooookaaay!
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