Coach,You have been selected to coach in the Pre-Kindergarten league for Saratoga Springs, Spring Soccer League.
We will be having a mandatory coaches meeting on April 5th at 7pm at the City Offices. We will be going over rules, roster, schedules, handing out equipment and jerseys.
Please reply to this e-mail if you CANNOT attend, otherwise I will assume you will be there.
Thank you
Recreation Director
Discussion: Last week in my e-mail "inbox". Let's backtrack. I signed Caden, (the questionably sane mean as hell 4 year-old child) up for soccer so he could learn to "play well with others" before he starts preschool in the fall. I'm "concerned" he'll get the boot from preschool for his lack of "social prowess", if you will. HOWEVER, when signing him up for soccer I obviously assumed FAR TO MUCH of my fellow Saratogoan Springs, Utah parents. Like, they would CHECK THE BOX!
It started with a box. There was a box you could "check" on the online form if you were interested in "helping coach". I checked said box with this thought in mind, "he's my third kid, I've parented 4 year-olds two times before him, parents are predictably still super involved with their kids sports endeavors at this age praying for an athlete and some parent out there really loves soccer (gross) and wants to teach their "love of the game" to the next generation (sick) and they have been waiting all season long for their coaching debut to begin! I am for sure in "safe zone" checking this box as being assigned as designated snack mom. I can do snacks, I can organize parents and parties, I cannot coach soccer.
I suffer from what I think could probably pretty easily be diagnosed with little effort as a sort of PTSD (post traumatic stress syndrome) from playing assorted sports as a child. I was the first in the line up of four. My parents just did what every other parent does and follows the rest of the lemmings. This little lemming had to play soccer... and dodge freaking ball (the dumbest sport on the planet) with girls who's mommies didn't teach them that ladies don't throw the damn dodgeball so hard it renders other kids knocked on their ass as their feet fly out from underneath them just before the teacher blows their well meaning (albeit LATE!) whistle and screams, "Brittney, you are only allowed to throw with your LEFT hand!" Seriously, Brittney, you know who you are, and baby Jesus did not approve then or now. Dislike.
The freakishly large man paws and obvious overly testosteroned "Brittneys" of my childhood world made sports impossible. My mom thought since I was obviously a girl, perhaps I should be raised a lady? Ladies do not charge balls or each other and they sure as hell don't get physical with the whole mess. They do not grunt or huff or spit and knocking the BOYS feet out from underneath them during dodgeball is NOT going to get you to the prom anytime soon. This logic worked perfect in my world because I feared a) aggressive physical contact with questionable man children posing as lady children b) being hit by the ball.
Soccer ... rush the ball, kick the hell out of each other, rinse, repeat. Not okay. Stupid. My first soccer game? I was THRILLED to score a goal ... for the other team. It did seem a little to easy tottling down the field kicking away that ball with little or no defense getting in my way but rather keeping my own team away from me. I still, to this day, get a visible chill up my spine when we drive past "Shady Lane Park" when I go home to visit. Why did my mom allow me to continue to play past year 2 of "most improved player" in a row? It is literally translated, "you SUCK, but we have to give you something and it sure as hell isn't MVP ... soooo you didn't kick a goal for the other team this season, IMPROVED!" Why did I have to reach adulthood, albeit parenthood to realize my parents collosal mistake in making me compete against Brittneys would later cause PTSD? Obviously, I still have a few issues to work through.
I have coached basketball, loved it (that game makes some sense to me). Loved watching my son make his first basket, and admittedly even felt a testosterone Brittney moment or two even when the basketball team was so young they literally didn't keep score and "everyone was a winner" (um, my team actually won, they were not most improved players, they won, I kept score in my head). I checked the soccer coach box for oranges. I will do my part to prevent scuurvy (apparently a scourge of the soccer world because that can be the only reason for this universal orange wedge phenomenon gracing all soccer fields from 50 thousand years ago when I played until present day) and bring orange wedges. I will cut orange wedges until I am orange because I know there is a kid on that team who hates soccer and hates being there and only looks forward to orange wedges.
I checked the box ASSUMING far to much and now am left with ... facing my demons on a field of oranges. I don't even know the rules, my kid is questionably borderline (look it up in the DSM IV), and I will not be able to reign him in and might forget to benadryl him (of course, I'm kidding, sort of) because I am trying to remember what the hell a corner kick is for or why a full back is a full back (I loved being full back, it meant by my teams goal, fully back, AWAY from the opposing team lest I get kicked in the head or with the soccer ball) and why it's important everyone doesn't mob the ball.
Jon knows soccer. He refuses to coach, but if I am just inept enough I think he might step in. Way to go little town ... now we all suffer. Seriously, CHECK THE BOX!
