Some people call this time of year summer.
Gosh the word ‘summer’ has a lovely ring to it. It warms me up just thinking about breezy days, backyard bbq’s and firefly-filled evenings under a starry sky. Mmmmm.
We don’t call this time of year summer in our house. We call it Soccer Season.
May kicks off four months of sweat soaked nylon socks, muddy cleats, injuries, arguments, road trips and folding lawn chairs.
From the satiny black shorts to the shiny jerseys and rain suits – we turn into a slippery bunch!
We also become a team of play running conversationalists:
“Pass the empty Dorito’s bag to your brother. He’ll take it up the wing to the garbage.”
“Clean up this room or you’re getting a red card and a two meal suspension.”
“You were off-side. Stay in our backyard.”
And if we’re not penalizing each other with a corner kick, we’re peppering each other with soccer related questions:
“Where is your soccer uniform?”
“Is your soccer bag packed?”
“What time is the soccer game?”
“What city are we playing in?”
My golden tan sure doesn’t come from stretching out by a pool. It’s the product of sitting, on purpose, in the middle of a field under a scorching sun on a collapsible chair. I’m a soccer mom.
Game schedules, quick dinners and running late make up my daily routine. Looking for me? I’m in Reverse, backing out of the driveway and heading to a game.
Achey is shameless when he scores a goal. His mighty fists rise over his head, he jumps up and down and then ultimately drops to the ground in a 5 year old puddle of exhilaration. Ah, sorry, Other Teams Goalie, we’re working on toning it down.
Itchy needs to get a little meaner. He’s the gentle giant so while he looks like he’d be hard to get by, I’m sure if you said “Hey, could I scoot around you and go score a goal on your net because it would make me feel good”, he would gladly step aside.
Drewpy plays on an outstanding Rep team of scrappy 11 year olds. My sideline coaching is really starting to pay off!
And let us not forget the man who introduced me to the Soccer Season --– Mickey D, the ultimate sports enthusiast.
Dear old Dad is bucking for his own entry in the New England Journal of Medicine. Thanks to soccer, he has ripped his knee apart many times and holds a permanent position on the MRI waiting list.
As far as I can tell, there is only one difference between soccer for the young and soccer for the, ah, ‘mature’, as in Mickey D.
And it’s not the skill level – it’s the equipment needs.
Eleven year olds wear a jersey, shorts, socks, shin pads and cleats.
Forty-something’s get their equipment (and their anti-inflammatory’s) delivered to the field on a flatbed truck about an hour before the game: knee braces, chest protectors, inhalers, elbow pads, sun block, helmets, mouth guards, soft casts, orthodics, neck aligners, bug repellent, hip belts, prescription goggles, ankle splints, tensors, shoulder padding and lycra leggings.
Oh, and young kids all dye their hair green on tournament day. Old kids get their health card numbers and emergency contact names tattooed across their chests.