I’m A Failure As A Soccer Mom
â€œWhy are there so many soccer games?â€ I moaned to my fiancÃ©. I moan this about every two weeks, because every two weeks his answer is, â€œItâ€™s almost over.â€ But let me tell you this: If you have two bonus children and a fiancÃ© who all play soccer, soccer is never over. Ever. My fiancÃ© is gone at least three nights a week for his daughterâ€™s soccer game nights. And on the nights they donâ€™t play an actual game, they still have soccer practice. After he announced he, too, was joining a soccer team (ages 35 and up), I told him, â€œOkay, Iâ€™ll see you never!â€
Iâ€™m pissed at soccer. Here in Canada, where our national sport is supposed to be hockey, Iâ€™ve read statistics that the number of parents signing their children up for soccer is overtaking the number of kids now playing hockey. So whatâ€™s it like to be a soccer widow? Frankly, it sucks.
It can also be hilarious. Last season, my fiancÃ©â€™s daughterâ€™s team lost all 24 games. So my fiancÃ© took over the role of coach. In my house, I hear the word â€œsoccerâ€ every single fucking day at least eight times. In fact, I hear the word â€œsoccerâ€ more than I hear the words â€œI love you.â€ Do I sound bitter? Well, I am. Thatâ€™s because last year I actually attended my fiancÃ©â€™s soccer daughterâ€™s soccer game because I wanted to know what it was all about. Plus, I wanted to show my support. What I didnâ€™t know is that Iâ€™d get into a fight.
Because my fiancÃ© told me I could sit with the players, thatâ€™s where I sat. Most of the kids were actually taller than me, so I thought I fit in pretty well. That is until the teamâ€™s female manager told me I couldnâ€™t sit there because, well, she didnâ€™t say why. She just said that I couldnâ€™t. â€œYou can go sit with the other parents across the field,â€ she said in a not-so-friendly tone. My fiancÃ© was on the field warming up the kids so I had no back-up. Glares and words were exchanged. But I have backbone. So I finally just sat there, pretending I didnâ€™t hear her telling me, repeatedly, that I couldnâ€™t sit there.
Across the field, where the other parents were watching, it was pouring rain and they were all squished together under an umbrella. I didnâ€™t have an umbrella, plus I knew no one. So I decided my residency for this game is under the teams’ umbrella on a plastic chair. This woman, however, would not get off my ass. In fact, next thing I knew the referee of the game came up to me â€“ yes, Iâ€™m sure the team manager had told on me â€“ and said I could only be under the team tent if I had a game card.
What I wanted to say was, â€œAre you drunk?â€ Not to make a joke, but from the smell of his breath and his ridiculous referee outfit over his beer gut I kind of put two and two together and all I could think was that he was drunk! And thatâ€™s exactly how I wanted to be, too. Itâ€™s no fun sitting out in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain. (Did I also mention I had to drive more than an hour to get to this soccer game? Apparently, as Iâ€™ve learned, the teams travel to small towns everywhere to play each other.)