I’m going to steal a line from the very worst installment of “The Godfather”: Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in.
OK, it wasn’t much of a pull, and what I had gotten out of wasn’t nearly as ominous as the Mob, though there are many mob-like qualities. Little m, not big M. But more on that later.
It seems I found myself at a youth soccer game the other day.
A word of preface: This particular match wasn’t my first rodeo. The Lovely Mrs. Smith and I have a number of children that indexes more toward “Amish” and a lot less toward “Well, we had one just to see if we liked it and decided that was enough.”
As a result, we’ve spent a lot of time at fields and courts and tracks and other such places during our children’s formative years. And we spent a lot of time in various stores, outfitting them for those activities.
A quote attributed to Mark Twain instructs that you should never engage in an activity that requires special shoes. He should have included “You should also never let your children do it because they’re going to outgrow them on the way to the car, promptly lose one of them and the previously friendly salesperson helping you is not going to like it when your significant other asks what the difference between baseball and soccer cleats is and you share, “Just before a season starts, about $4o.’”
But, we’re Southerners. We love our sports, especially those that involve a ball and potential bodily contact (even if those sports don’t seem to love us back here lately). And we love our children, and now, grandchildren participating. And if they’re going to do it, we’ve gotta watch. And cheer. And bring orange slices.
So when our oldest daughter signed the Little Princess up for youth soccer, well, we got signed up to attend at least most of the games.
I will offer this: We were part of the first wave of youth soccer in the area, which meant that as parents, players and coaches, we had literally no idea what we were doing and were relying on people from other parts of the country or other countries.
We were also new parents, so this was not an atypical state. But with regard to soccer, it did create a general feeling that we had no idea what was going on, but it sure was a nice day for it and everyone seemed happy, so, yea! Also, you really can’t use your hands? Ever?
Today, it appears people actually know what they’re doing, and some of the “athletes” have benefited from either an innate understanding of angles and rudimentary physical skills or have older siblings who play. Maybe both.
Style still seems to be important but has moved on from large hair bows to actual athletic equipment (though one of our granddaughters’ teammates possesses both a real talent for cutting back against the flow to open up a breakaway and a sweet pair of florescent green sunglasses she absolutely rocks).
And equipment seems to have improved dramatically. Not sure if that translates to the field (though there do appear to be shin guards that are actually part of the sock, which means your child can lose two pieces of equipment at once, thereby saving time). However, cool pop-up tents, multi-seat bag chairs and collapsible wagons are definitely an improvement over standing around in wet grass wondering out loud exactly what we’re doing.
Also, as a grandparent, I’m no longer responsible for raising good citizens and imparting valuable lessons. So when our granddaughter’s mother has to instruct her that we don’t swing our elbows around like that, I get to share, “but it did seem to create space and No. 7 isn’t crowding you like she was.”
Soccer at this age still largely consists of tightly-formed packs of children in brightly colored jerseys kicking at a ball until someone falls down and it winds up in the net. The ball, not the person. Though, sometimes …
So, some things haven’t changed.
Some have, though. Mid-morning isn’t nearly as early as it used to be; the need to find and transport equipment isn’t nearly as urgent and tear-inducing as it was; and the whole event is just a little less earth-shattering (“You lost? Well, hard to tell sometimes. Snow cone, anyone?”).
It’s still fun. It’s still silly. It still makes memories. So, getting pulled back in? Maybe it’s not that bad after all.
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Gary Smith is a recovering journalist living in Rogers.