A brief history of soccer

If you're like me, you have problems watching soccer. Though empirically, the men playing soccer are better looking than men participating in any other sport, it is still with great difficulty that I observe any sporting event where both teams may end a game having scored one or two goals. Riveting, it is not. I am a sports fan who likes goals and baskets - and lots of them. Needless to say, when Jenna came home from school in the fall and informed us that she wanted to play soccer, I was nonplussed. I thought of leisurely Saturday mornings replaced with hours and hours of watching children run around in no organized fashion (it has been said that I have a touch of psychic ability) and also, I thought of grass stains and broken bones (not necessarily in that order).

I vacillated somewhat between dread and anticipation prior to the season's start. But then I thought of purchasing tiny little cleats, and the world seemed bright again...

After volunteering my husband to be the Head Coach of Jenna's soccer team, and after he started speaking to me again, the team started practicing for their first big game. Coach Daddy would come home after practice and get straight into the bourbon in hopes of erasing all of the memories of said practice. After a week or so, I learned to have the bourbon waiting for him at the front door, not unlike a dysfunctional June Cleaver. As the weeks wore on, it became increasingly evident that Coach Daddy was unlikely to turn this group of girls into a well oiled soccer machine. His breaking point came before the first game when practice had to be halted for a full twenty minutes when one of the girls spotted a rainbow.

Though lacking in the competitive spirit, Jenna's team (and, specifically, Jenna) had flair. The verve and panache of which I spoke in a previous entry would prove integral to both this team's lack of success as well as its inability to operate as a cohesive unit. Interestingly enough, my biggest fear of being bored with a lack of scoring would prove to be unfounded. These soccer games contained more points than many NFL games that I have witnessed.

Unfortunately, the points were scored against us rather than by any of our own team members - unless you count the goals that we scored for the opposing teams (which, in retrospect, I do - in order to stave off the flashbacks).

Our first game was very exciting. We lost 6-0; however, we scored two of their goals for them, so technically we lost 4-0. That said, one of the girls on the opposing team was clearly brought in from a Junior High School on the other side of the tracks. She was nine feet tall and she scored their only 4 goals. If we look at this game mathematically, it looks like this:

Goals scored - Ineligble player/Witness Protection Program Participant/Ringer - Inability to locate goal = 0

Technically, I like to think of this game as a 0-0 tie leading me back to my original assessment that soccer does not have enough scoring. That said, it was the most exciting game I had seen up until that point in the soccer world...even if the reality in which I choose to live resulted in a game where there were no net goals scored.

Jenna's contribution to this game was palpable - her very domineering presence on the field was enough to give the other team pause. She played for approximately 15 minutes total, in increments of 4-5 minute stretches. We lost her at one point when she wandered off to the swingsets near the field and the sheer volume of Gatorade the child consumed was impressive. After her first break, she asked if she could have a hot dog. She was denied her request, took her place on the bench and when asked to rotate in for the final 6 minutes she informed us that she was tired and that she did not like to run.

I must admit, however, with regard my initial worries about the soccer experience, it not only came as quite the relief when I found that my daughter would come home with the cleanest uniform on the team, but also once I realized that the liklihood of a broken bone was low due to her proximity to the action on the field. My fears were allayed after the first game; however, they were to be replaced with other emotions.

Obviously, it was going to be a long season. We were optimistic after the first game as the other team had not truly, in our somewhat misguided opinion, beaten us. Very soon, however, we would find that optimism to be replaced with dread and a season long nausea akin to one associated with Norwalk Virus.

It was always in the cards...

Jenna was just one of those kids who never, ever did anything that she wasn't told to do (physically speaking - verbally she says things that she shouldn't say a lot). She never climbed out of the crib, never attempted to scale a baby gate, never went where she wasn't supposed to go. When my youngest was about a year old, I realized that where one excelled verbally, the other would excel physically. And, holy wow, that is a complete understatement.

The Hannimal (whose name was earned, not ascribed lightly, mind you) taught Jenna (3 years her senior) how to climb over a gate. The Hannimal taught Jenna all kinds of things that never entered Jenna's realm of thought to try.

Unfortunately, Jenna's ambition was found almost immediately to exceed her ability.

Herein lies the problem.

When I had to teach Jenna how to jump, I knew that we weren't looking at a future WNBA player, future Women's World Cup competitor, or even a worthy table tennis adversary. As far as I can tell, though we keep trying, sports and all things athletic fit Jenna about as well as period pieces fit Tom Cruise. That is to say, not well and with much nausea.

As we ready ourselves for the third try in a series of athletic related endeavors, we must ask ourselves why? Why does my lovely daughter insist on being completely pumped for basketball season even though I know that she is going to draw fouls with the same ability that Georgia O'Keefe has of making flowers look downright dirty. Because once we draw the foul, we get the opportunity to put the ball through the hoop - while everyone is watching...

I woke up in a cold sweat this morning with the realization that my daughter could, very well, ruin one of my greatest pleasures in life - the sport of basketball. It's possible that after stomaching an entire season of 6 year olds playing this sport that I might never recover. I may never be able to enjoy the sound of the swoosh again. Could it be?

Part of me thinks that I must stop this from happening. I must sign her up for singing lessons, or tap dancing lessons, or art class instead. However, I cannot.

For I know, deep down inside, that I will always be able to enjoy the sound of the swoosh. The swoosh will always bring me back to the empirical love for the sport.

And, of course, the good news is if Jenna's basketball team is anything like her soccer team from last fall, I won't have to worry about getting tired of hearing the swoosh.

In order to fully understand the level of disinterest that my child has for all things athletic, it would be important to note that while she was writing her letter to Santa, I asked her to check with her little sister and add her requests to the letter as well. The younger daughter said that she wanted a baseball bat and a glove. When she came back to report her findings, it went like this:

Jenna: She said she wanted a baseball hat and a glove.
Me: I think she said "bat."
Jenna: No, she said "hat."
Me: Why don't you go ask her again, just to be sure...

*Cue Jenna entering the room, head hanging in complete and total dejection*

Jenna: You were right. She said "bat."
Me: I kind of thought so.
Jenna: (shaking head in disbelief) I just don't understand why anyone would want a bat when they could have a hat.

Herein lies the difference between my oldest and my youngest. They are night and day, oil and water, Nancy Pelosi and good skin care practices...

In the Autumn of 2008, Jenna wanted to join the gymnastics program at her school. Though a mature 5, she wasn't quite physically gifted enough to hang with the other 5 year olds and immediately got demoted to the "baby class." She was not happy. She did, however, continue to go to the lessons and my assumption was that she would excel when compared to the 3 and 4 year olds. I mean, she was the oldest child in that particular class, and it stands to reason that she could handle the material, right?

Not so much.

Her Christmas Gymnastics program was absolutely one of the worst car wrecks I have ever had the privelege of attending. It was as uncomfortable as an episode of "I Love Lucy" with the added benefit of watching 3 year olds that completely surpassed my beautiful daughter in both skill and coordination. If you add to that the fact that my Jenna has absolutely zero concept of how goofy she allows herself to be and how very proud of that goofiness that she is? You have all of the makings of a complete parental cringeworthy nightmare.

It. was. fabulous.

Jenna is uncanny in her sense of self. She does not give two shits about what you think of her. She is absolutely solid with regard to self-esteem. That said, there are occasions when she should not be. This was one of those occasions.

A brief history...

One would have to know my oldest daughter to truly appreciate the intent of this blog; it is not to insult, belittle, or disparage, but to record, treasure, and have a great deal of amusement at the expense of my little athlete. If you view athletes as something of a personality as opposed to something of an honest to goodness machine that produces baskets, goals, and runs - you will find yourself in the right place. For my daughter is loaded with personality, you see. She is funny, smart, and about as girly as they come.

What the child lacks in skills of the motor variety, she makes up for in verve and panache.

The purpose of these entries will not be to highlight the verve, but rather to cohesively examine how the verve is so very intertwined with the clumsiness. The purpose is to come to a basic understanding of why I sit and watch my beautiful six year old daughter participate in sporting events of all varieties when I know, beyond all doubt, that her future in sports would be limited to being a line judge a Wimbledon as opposed to an actual threat on any court, field, or diamond.

I love her dearly, but her skills are and most likely always will be better suited to the skills needed by shoppers, ticketholders, and snack vendors. I say these things empirically, for they are undeniable. I say these things out of love.

And I say these things because my daughter is funny.