|When a soccer ball comes along . . .|
Last night, at my eldest son’s insistence request, I played scrimmage soccer with his team at their last practice. Many parents did.
Spoiler: We lost.
I found it interesting to step back onto a field after so many years of just watching my sons play. It’s one thing to yell, “Pass!” “Take the shot!” or “Clear it!” and quite another to actually be asked to do the same.
I do have a slight edge in that I played Utah AYSO and was on my high school soccer team. A few of the other parents had also played, and those that didn’t quickly found that they had the advantage of both height and weight when compared to a 10-year-old.
To that point, while I had never intended to play all-out-aggressive soccer, I learned two things. First, even at a quarter level, I’m a big guy. Second, I’m waaaaayyyy out of shape to play soccer. Running a few miles every day is nothing compared to the sprint-sprint-sprint and quick footwork required for playing soccer.
To compensate, accidentally of course, I ended up taking out two players.
One of them was my son.
I’m sure I’ve felt worse in my life. But when you double-fake and spin into a forward pass, only to find a ten-year-old girl catching the ball full in the face, then dropping like a stone to the ground with painful thud . . . well, yeah.
Fortunately, no one was permanently injured or maimed. The kids “won” with a last second goal, and everyone was pleased . . . except my lungs, who are still protesting.