It is September and that means we are playing travel soccer. And I do mean “we” in its collective sense. Anyone pretending not to be caught up in their kids' sports is a bald-faced liar.
I try to remain neutral about it all because I really don’t want to be one of those people who live vicariously through my children. I have two jobs plus motherhood so my “personal fulfillment” cup pretty much runneth over. And my standards are pretty low. I consider it a grand personal achievement that both children have finally been taught to tie their own shoes.
Yet it is hard not to become invested in your child’s sports endeavors, or at least to hide it during game time. My husband told me last weekend that I MUST lower my voice on the sidelines. Apparently, what I intend as encouraging accolades came across as the officious tirades of a raving banshee! From now on, it’s silent sidelines for me!
I just want my kid to have fun. And to win. And to be better than everyone else. Just kidding. Well, sort of. Let’s face it: the thought of a scholarship is particularly compelling after the great investment toilet flush of 2008.
I’m not really sure what exactly the difference between “travel” soccer and “recreational” soccer is, except that one costs me nearly $1,000 and the other a mere $150. Travel involves thousands of e-mails and tournaments and rosters that must be handed to officials. And of course the monogrammed backpack for $40. (I drew the line at the $80 warm up suit. To me, warm up suits should never be seen outside of a nursing home, where they must always be velour. If my son gets chilly on the soccer field he can do some jumping jacks or put on his $10 sweats from Target.)
In Hypercompetitiveville where I live, we import our soccer coaches. Literally. Every year our soccer clinics are run by a group of attractive British twenty-somethings who share a flat and date the local au pairs. They are a great bunch of guys. I’m hoping they’ll teach my son how to sound like a gentleman, even if he never learns to behave like one.
In the future, as I sit quietly on the sidelines, I will remind myself that this is travel soccer, not the world cup, and that my son is an 8-year old third grader, not Landon Donovan. He is no different than the multitude of global 8 year olds who are playing soccer without fancy uniforms, without a turn field, and without professional coaches. And I will remind myself that there are a multitude of mothers who sit silently while it happens and I ought to be one of them.
