......finding a new home for lutefisk lovers.

(ok we don't love it. or even like it. but we're supposed to.)

16 November 2011

Oh My God, I Hate Gym.....part 2


Fast forward to last Wednesday night.   When Liam plays his first soccer game ever. 

When we show up on the first day of soccer,  it's clear that every kid on his team has been playing professional soccer since infancy.   Oh my god,  why didn't I make him play soccer when he was in diapers?   I was so busy taking things out of his mouth that it just didn't occur to me.

I naively thought that soccer for 9 year olds would still be about learning how to dribble.   But it appears that that ship sailed long ago,   back when Liam was begging me to  "unsign"  him from T-ball (aka "drawing-in-the-dirt-ball").   When we arrive,  I assume there will be some warm-ups or drills or skill review before the game starts, some happy clappy game of "kick the ball like this"........and I'm hoping Liam will pay attention instead of doing air guitar to some song only he can hear.   But instead the kids are immediately put into "positions" like "defense"  and  "some other thing I don't remember"  and sent out onto the field to compete.   I watch Liam run around aimlessly until another kid points to a place on the ground - like "stand there, new kid".   I suddenly panic.........does he know he's not supposed to use his hands?

Had I known that the soccer window would close by 3rd grade,  I would've forced him to try it at age 3 like everyone else.   Had I known that this little recreational outlet would give me a stress headache as I watch my child try to figure out what he's supposed to be doing,  I may have considered recreation-by-coercion.  But I wasn't planning ahead (should I be saving for college?).  Plus, he was so busy with his training for drawing-in-the-dirt-ball.

BUT WAIT!!   It's not like I was negligent in not exposing him to soccer!   He specifically, repeatedly, year after year, said the word "NO" each time I asked if he'd like to sign up for soccer.

And I thought I should respect that.

But now, as I watch him on the field, a child among wee men,  I think to myself  "It looks like we should play some soccer in the backyard after school."   Followed by......

.......oh my god, I hate gym.

1 comment:

Laura said...

When I was in third or fourth grade, my dad talked to a neighbor dad and discovered that some other kids in the neighborhood were playing soccer. So he drove me down to the field one night when there was a practice scheduled, and informed the coach that I was now on the team. The season was well underway, and I hadn't even seen a soccer ball before. The coach was an alcoholic who got off on screaming and swearing at eight year-olds. I never gained any notion of where the positions on the field were ("half-back" sounds like half-way back, but what about full-back?) so each game I would just run around on the field while the coach screamed at me, sometimes with tears streaming down my face. When I begged to quit the team, my father told me that quitting was not an option. Someday I will sort this all out in therapy. But I think some happy clappy kicking games would have been awesome.