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Winning the game wasn't the goal of my son's team
By Debbie Farmer
After two weeks of watching my son's soccer practice from the sidelines, sitting in a beach chair short enough for me to lick my knees, I couldn't wait to see his first game.
I was pleased that my son showed an interest in sports. He came from a long line of people who were never-picked-first-for-teams-without-intervention-by-a-teacher.
In fact, the last time I played any kind of sport was in high school gym class. I'm not sure what game it was, since I never got close enough to touch the ball. All I remember is that it took exactly 40 minutes to play and my friends were in charge of things like pitching and hitting. I was in charge of the deep outfield because, as the teacher put it, "you never know when a ball could accidentally go over there."
But when my son walked out onto the soccer field to join his four-year-old teammates, I hoped that the family image would change. I imagined my son running across the field in his bright orange jersey and kicking the ball into the goal. He would be the first Farmer in five generations, possibly more, to score a point during a competitive game. I settled back in my lawn chair to watch my son create family history.
Just as I expected, his team did great. The boys were kicking goal after goal, showing team spirit, giving each other high fives. Then the other team showed up and we were ready to start the game.
Now, at first I didn't notice anything wrong with this team, other than they were tall, wiry and well-coordinated. But, as they got closer I noticed a few were wearing earrings, the goalie looked as if he was growing a mustache, and I think (although I could be wrong) one of them had a tattoo.
"Just do your best," I called to my son weakly. "And remember--I love you."
By the end of the first quarter, it was obvious by the score (32 to 0) that my son's team, which was made up of average four-year-old boys, was competing with a team of midget, thirty-year-old, professional soccer champions.
"Remember to use the side of your foot to fake out the goalie and do a sideways kick with your heel into the goal!" the opposing coach shouted.
"For goshsakes, just kick the ball to someone wearing an orange shirt!" my son's coach pleaded.
During most of the game my son and his friends stampeded around the field in a confused pack trying to find the ball, while the other team took turns standing in front of our goal casually lobbing it in.
I tried to encourage them by shouting things like "BUBBLE GUM AND TOOTIE FRUITY WE GOT THE POWER TO WHOOP YOUR BOOTIE! YEE HAW!" from the sidelines. But, my son's team was concerned with more important things--like trains passing by on the track behind the field.
For most of the game I sat pinned to my chair, fighting the urge to stand up, charge into the field and kick the ball into the goal myself. I imagined a riot starting and the referee blowing his high-pitched whistle until someone came onto the field to drag me away by my elbows, with my heels digging into the grass.
By the end of the game, my fantasy of winning was gone. But my son had a great time running around the field with his friends. And I bet he would've even made a point if the opposing team had let the ball stay out of the goal long enough for him to kick it.
But deep down, I know that preschool sports isn't about winning. It's about sportsmanship, cooperation and developing self-esteem. So what if they lost 54 to 0? The important thing is that they all got a chance to get out there and feel good about themselves.
I just hope that next week they'd play against a team of three-year-old girls.
Debbie Farmer can be contacted at familydaze@home.com
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Sunnyvale, California Since 1994
