Not so much a soccer mom…or am I?
February 28, 2005
Soccer season is well underway now. So far I have been able to experience the thrill of freezing my ass of at an 8:00am game. Had to practically hog tie a 9 year old to get him to settle down at 10:00pm after a LATE weeknight game. And, yes, I have even had to lay some serious rubber on the pavement to get him to a game ontime after I “misread” the schedule. (And by misread, I mean I never looked at the schedule until that day and realized we had to be at a game 20 minutes from that time.) Oh yes, the neverending joy of being a soccer mom.
But don’t get me wrong. I may be a mom who has a son playing soccer, but I am not a “soccer mom.” I don’t look like I am about to head to the country club after the game. I don’t own a shirt that says “World’s Greatest Soccer Mom.” And I have never owned a scrunchi that is decorated with cute little soccer balls and is color co-ordinated with the team colors . In fact, I would probably have to smack anyone on our team that did have one of those. Just a warning, people.
By the same token, I am not a soccer mom who “sideline coaches” her son. I don’t berate him or scream that he could do better. I don’t kick the ground in disgust when my kid does something less than stellar.
That being said, I will confess to this: I apparently have a condition known as Soccer Game Tour**ettes Syndrome. Apparently, I tend to tense up and spew vulgarities during games. Certainly not where anyone can hear me - except of course, the few other parents that I hang out with on sidelines. They have the same condition, so we fit together just fine. Our team has been together for 5 years. We have become like a family, so we accept the good and the bad of each other. Even the 4 letter words.
When this team first started, we were the Bad News Bears of soccer. It was seriously sad. We totally cheered if any one single player on our team kicked the ball in the right direction. It was just that sad. Today, we are in second place in the top division and are seriously closing in on the first place team. Honestly, it is hard to beleive that it is the same team. Or the same parents.
We used to gossip and share our weeks with each other during the games. We would occasionally shout out a “Go team” or “That’s okay! Don’t quit now!” It was a social event with a soccer game in the background. Now, we actually watch the game. We pace the sidelines. We mumble obscenities under our breath at stupid plays or bad calls. We understand the calls! The plays! The rules! Amazing.
Oh good lord, I think I may be turning into a soccer mom.
Forgive me. I’ll seek help as soon as possible.
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