Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)
Soccer Moms Unite!
By Bob Wire, 4-22-08
 |
|
 | |
| Hey, I have nothing against soccer, but they need to stay the HELL off the golf course! | |
|
Every Sunday afternoon for the next several weeks, hundreds of intrepid parents and grandparents will converge on the muddy fields of Fort Missoula, folding camp chairs slung over their shoulders, backpacks and coolers clutched at their sides. They set up camp, regardless of the weather, and spend up to five hours shivering in the cold or baking in the sun, watching their charges run up and down the field chasing a black and white ball and learning valuable lessons about sportsmanship, life, and personal chafing.
YMCA spring soccer is upon us.
Twice a year the Fort is overrun for six Sundays (and one Saturday), where dozens of teams with kids age 5 to 13 fly around the field in their brightly colored, Y-issued nylon jerseys. By the time the kids hit adolescence, they’ve either moved on to Strikers soccer (the semi-pro money- and time-suck league in Missoula), or have lost interest in the sport altogether, taking up activities like hanging out at the mall or car prowling.
Our kids Rusty and Speaker have both been playing since their kindergarten days, when they were first introduced to the weird European sport that came out of nowhere to be the most popular outdoor activity among school-age children of this generation. Hell, soccer has created its own demographic in this country. You don’t see Obama and Hillary going for the Lemonade Stand Mom vote or the Pants-Messer Mom vote. It’s the Soccer Moms who wield the political clout among parents of elementary-age kids.
So where was soccer when I was a kid? I’ll tell you where it was: in Europe, where it belongs. This is America, damn it, where we like to touch the ball with our hands. Especially politicians and Catholic priests. Yet the sport has enough appeal throughout the world that it inspires rabid devotion and bloodthirsty pack behavior in otherwise normal individuals. Well, normal for people who can’t speak English and keep goats in the house.
I see this behavior creeping into our culture, though, when I watch the other parents who are watching their kids run their asses off up and down the sodden fields in the driving rain of a Montana spring. Part of being a soccer mom or dad is keeping up a constant string of hollered encouragement—or admonishment—to your kids. It’s amazing how all these people who previously wouldn’t know a shin guard from a colostomy bag suddenly know every rule and strategy attached to the game.
“You’re supposed to be a forward, Tommy! Get up there!”
“What the hell are you doing up there, Tommy? Get back to midfield and wait for the pass!”
“Hey! Get over there, you guys, and help Tommy out! He’s got no one to pass to!”
“Hey! You guys are all bunched up! Spread out!”
The constant yelling occasionally causes a kid to snap, and he’ll actually yell at his mom or dad to shut up. This is quite embarrassing to the mom or dad, and they might keep their yap shut for up to five minutes. But sooner or later they’ll spot some deficiency on the field and won’t hesitate to point it out to the players or the coach.
The coaches themselves deserve a wheelbarrow full of gratitude for having the patience to work with the kids and to fend off the never-ending suggestions and complaints from the parents. They also have to officiate the games, which means they have to know the rules. I know some of the rules, like you can’t kick someone square in the face, but most of the subtleties escape me.
This past Sunday was a typical springtime afternoon in Missoula: 30 mph winds pushing sleet and rain across a muddy, semi-frozen tundra, with the windshield factor pushing an otherwise-balmy 36 degrees down to the single digits. The kids had so much mud in their cleats it looked like they had a pair of Chacos strapped to their shoes. It can be difficult to differentiate the teams, what with all the Carhartt coats, ski hats, mittens and layers of pants the kids wear to survive the arctic conditions. Mufflers flying, they hurled their young bodies around the slick field and slammed into each other in ways that will guarantee a close relationship with a chiropractor by the time they hit 30.
Rusty had a double-header this week, and both games were very physical, with play being halted every two or three minutes to tend to some poor boy who caught a free kick flush in the puss, or had his junk stomped on by a muddy shoe with inch-long cleats. Bodies were being dragged off the field like a Baghdad farmer’s market after a car bombing, and there were more tears than in the bottom three of American Idol. Kids were sliding into other kids like a base runner breaking up a double play. Full-speed collisions that knocked both kids silly were happening with frightening regularity. Goalies were flinging themselves at the ball, covering it up with their bruised bodies while opponents tried to kick their kidneys loose.
By the time the YMCA horn sounded at the top of the hour, both teams were decimated. The players were covered with ice and mud, turf and blood. They gathered on the sidelines and stood sipping their juice bags with a vacant look in their eyes, like a cashier at Kmart. The parents offered consoling words and praise for their great play while they folded up the chairs and broke camp. Coaches announced the where and when for the next practice, and everyone headed for the parking lot as a new wave of parents and players swept in, setting up camp for the next game.
“You know,” said Rusty through chattering teeth. “I think maybe soccer is getting a little too rough for me. I’m just tired of getting beaten up every Sunday.”
I put my arm around him as we continued walking toward the car, and told him that he was free to try whatever sport he liked.
“Thanks, Dad. I’m thinking maybe rugby.”
The search for a chiropractor starts tomorrow.
[Bookmark NewWest.net/BobWire today, and watch your brain activity begin to increase immediately!]
http://www.top-blogs.com/cgi-bin/rankem.cgi?id=ednor59
Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.
Comments
And some for fancy dress
But when they're held for pleasure
They're the balls that I like best.
My balls are always bouncing
To the left and to the right
It's my belief that my big balls
Should be held every night.
Oh I've got big balls...
Drives SUV, wears black leather jacket and tight jeans, boob job not optional.
A famous American philosopher from Canada once said, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away”.
Here’s my prediction. We are two or three weeks away from a story about Flomax.
Last call for self-dignity.
Tabby
There are some serious SMILF's in this town! Maybe between games they can sling wings at Hooter's and bestow all of their glorious SMILFiness upon us?
I'm "outta the blue and into the black."
I have stayed up at 3 in the AM to watch the New Zealand All Blacks play Fronce in world cup action because he thought it was important. You just have to love a country with fewer people than the State of Washington as they take on the world with behemoths lacking meaningful teeth, with flimsy little ear protectors, blood streaming from every limb, as they go on to a win. Or Fijians and Samoans making the Chicago Bears look like midgets in comparison. Ya just gotta love rugby. Watching it. At the world cup level. They pan to the stands and you see all the old time rugby greats, guys the size of small states in giant blue blazers with flat noses and fat question mark ears. World class rugby is as hard hitting as the NFL playoffs but without pads. You really do need leather balls to play rugby.
Hope your lad takes it up. Rugby has a wonderful post game celebration history that any Dad will enjoy if his son invites him. Girls play, also. It gives hefty lassies a viable sports outlet. And those of diverse gender associations. I clearly remember the mirth of my seeing the SF woman's rugby team "Dykes with Spikes." And the Bears would do well to stay away from them, too.