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Soccer reveals life's secrets
By Mark W. Mayfield
Youth soccer season is here again, and that means your neighborhood playground is the setting for lots of running, kicking, tripping, heading and illegal use of hands. And those are just the tactics you'll see during the parents' post-game brawl. I can hardly wait for Saturday.
Like many fortysomething dads who grew up before soccer gained widespread acceptance in the U.S., I once believed that a sport that doesn't include the likelihood of severe spinal cord injuries isn't worth watching. But now I've seen The Light. Soccer transcends debilitating nerve damage. It's a metaphor for our own fleeting existence. As adults, we frantically race up and down the playing field of life, always trying to score more goals than the other guy (earn more money, buy bigger houses, etc.). Sometimes a distracted rookie unintentionally runs out of bounds and collides with the coach (a co-worker accidentally backs into the boss's new Jaguar in the company parking lot). The team pauses for a timeout while an injured player is removed from the field (a co-worker is fired for accidentally backing into the boss's new Jaguar). Some players are penalized for unsportsmanlike conduct (a co-worker is arrested for scrawling threats and obscenities in the employee restrooms after being fired for accidentally backing into the boss's new Jaguar). We often encounter bigger, faster, stronger opponents (like the burly janitor who decides to clean the commodes while a co-worker is scrawling threats and obscenities in the employee restrooms after being fired for accidentally backing into the boss's new Jaguar).
Other players can't endure the intense pressure of competition and voluntarily leave the game (quit their jobs, sell their possessions and move to the hills). And when the final whistle blows (we unexpectedly die), we eagerly rush to the sidelines (the Pearly Gates) for our long-awaited reward of glazed donuts and chocolate milk (Heaven).
OK, so it's not the world's best metaphor, but you get the idea. Soccer isn't just a game; it's a game that makes some parents act really stupid. To illustrate this point, I will share with you an actual pre-game conversation between an actual father and his actual 10-year-old son. It's a deeply disturbing exchange that reveals all that's wrong with youth sports in our country. Parents like this actual father must be stopped.
Me: You'll easily beat this team, son. They're weak in front, vulnerable in the middle and slow in back.
My boy: But, dad, No. 24 is the league's top scorer. He's gonna kill us.
Me: (with a sinister chuckle) Don't worry about No. 24. I gave him all of your most valuable Pokémon cards, a new Smash Mouth CD and the first three digits of Britney Spears' home phone number. If he follows my instructions, I'll give him the rest of the phone number after the game.
My boy: (very excited) YOU HAVE BRITNEY SPEARS' HOME PHONE NUMBER!?
Me: Of course not. And even if I did, I wouldn't stoop low enough to give it to somebody who would misuse it. I'd sell it on the Internet instead. The phone number I'm giving to Mr. Hey-Now-You're-An-All-Star actually belongs to his bloodthirsty, sports-hating school principal, Maniacal Ms. Muttonfanny, who divorced her first husband simply because she despised his undying devotion to the wonderful game you're about to play. She'll undoubtedly be less than cordial when one of her school's "insidious little jocks" calls her and suggestively whispers, "Hey, baby, wanna date the world's greatest soccer player?" If my hunch is right, son, No. 24 will never compete again.
My boy: This sounds like cheating, dad.
Me: Never mind, son, it's game time.
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Sunnyvale, California Since 1994
