Move over, Péle. There’s another soccer player in town.
(Okay, I’m pretty sure Péle doesn’t play soccer anymore, but I can’t think of another male soccer player and am too lazy to take two seconds to google one. So there ya go. “Péle” it is.)
So I officially got sworn in as a “soccer mom” this weekend. Speaking of swearing, I swore I would never get caught up in the suburban mania known as “club soccer.” Those kids with the funny long socks and the parents wearing their team parkas screaming from the sidelines of one of the many “mini” fields swimming in a sea of green at our local sports complex.
Well, in this case, I guess “never” means “at least until my middle son begs me for three years to play, buys a soccer training system with his own money, and tells everyone that he’s going to be a soccer player when he grows up.”
In other words, “until I am overcome with guilt.”
I guess that IF Boy #2 is going to be a soccer player when he grows up (AND a police officer), he MIGHT need some actual INSTRUCTION in the game. And possibly some PRACTICE. Maybe a TEAM to play with. *Sigh.*
So we bit the bullet and signed him up, feeling we may have just sold a piece of our souls.
I’m happy to announce, however, that so far, so good. He’s got an excellent coach who seems to be an amazing player in his own right and a great bunch of boys to play with. Boy #2 seems really excited to learn new skills and be part of the team.
After his first practice, Husband told Boy #2, “You did pretty well tonight!” And how do you think Mr. Humble responded?
“Well, you know, I’ve pretty much been playing my whole life!” said as matter-of-factly as a six-and-a-half-year-old can. (And, I’m guessing, with a Napoleon Dynamite accent.) (“Like anyone can even know that, Napoleon!”)
Trying to suppress a smile, Husband said, “You have, huh?”
“Well, at least since I was four-and-a-half,” Boy #2 added.
Saturday was the first game, and with only two practices under his belt, Boy #2 was struggling with the learning curve a bit at first. You know, straggling along at the back of the pack, unsure which way to run or kick the ball. However, he quickly caught on and gained some confidence, speeding up and even getting a smidgen aggressive! Here he is “in action.” (He’s the one in the back of the pack of maroon jerseys.)
Here he is kicking in the ball from the corner. (There is probably some term for this, some “technical soccer term,” but since I am a soccer newbie, I’m clueless.)
Here is what he spent the majority of the game doing while he waited for the ball to come to him.
I guess he has a loose tooth or something?? I’m assuming that since he didn’t think it was cool for soccer players to suck their thumbs, which is his usual oral fixation of choice, he went with wiggling his tooth. NONSTOP.
He did manage, however, to remove his fingers from his mouth long enough to break away with the ball (I think it’s called “dribbling”?) and actually make a goal! I stood up and screamed “GOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!!!!!” like the announcers do during the World Cup.
Okay, just kidding about that. I’m pretty sure it’s against some soccer club regulation to embarrass your kid like that. But I really wanted to.
So there you have it. We’ve paid the club dues. We’ve bought the Size 3 ball. We’ve purchased the shin guards, socks, shoes, and uniform. Next purchase? One of those little decals to put in the back window of my van that says “Soccer Mom.”
Man, I am SUCH a cliché!