A Salute to Crazy Soccer Parents

So, I cleaned out the back of my Traverse last week. I put away four coats, two sweatshirts, one pair of mittens, two sets of gloves, two stocking caps and two baseball caps. The high school soccer season has come to an end. Not only will groceries fit in my car, but we'll "have our lives back" as parents like to say, but don't really mean.

What parent would deny the joy of "game night"? Knowing we'll likely be dining on extra salty popcorn and pizza and Tootsie pops. Knowing our kids will be competing their hearts out while insane parents coach from the bleachers. Knowing we'll endure the brutalist of cold not to miss one second of the game in case that almighty goal is scored.

There are basically two types of soccer parents. There's the certified crazy. These people have been told their kids have talent – usually when the kid was six-years-old and consistently score nine goals against a goalie who was smart enough to step aside when the herd approached. But no matter the age, the word talent almost immediately translates to likeliness of college scholarships and thoughts of playing in the MLS. These parents:

1. will ask their child if they have practiced enough if they don't score a hat trick. 
2. will grunt about a missed passed.
3. will tear the referees a new one if their kid falls on the ground, as soccer players often do.
4. will try really hard not to talk about their own kid. Too much.
5. will never, ever really understand offsides.

Most of us fall within this category. (I'm sure there a a few parents ranting, "I understand offsides!" My apologies.) But there is a small sub-set of soccer parents are are just plain cool. They never seem to get angry or upset. They offer only positive encouragement to every player on the team that no one can hear because of their mild demeanor. These are typically the grandparents. 

All kidding aside, there are two things all parents have in common: the love for our kids and a need for connection. We want our kids to perform well, because it will obviously make them happy. But as Doug often says, what Cole will remember most about soccer are the bus trips or the chatter in the huddles or the movie nights with his team. It's a similar notion for the parents. It won't be that one goal or interception. It will be the sharing of the salty popcorn. It will be the cool pics Denise took. It will be the stories of our boys' unbearably, aromatic cleats and lost jerseys. It will be the hugs we shared after a PK shootout.

We all seek camaraderie. I'll miss it. Not as much as I'll miss my son when he graduates next year, but I'll miss every single parent. Crazy or not.

In my Traverse, there still are four blankets, two stadium chairs and two soccer chairs. Summer league has started. Cole has mentioned more than a few times, we don't have to attend. We know we don't have to. But we kinda want to. We crazies need to connect.

Soccer Mom Machina

Full Disclosure: I classify myself as a soccer mom. But something happened this past weekend that made me step back and say, "Perhaps I need to regroup."

We had been looking forward to the tournament in Kansas City. Nothing quite revives the winter blearies than a weekend of watching soccer, outside, in a cold-region midwestern city, right? Right! Forget Cancun. Hello Overland Park.

There was a bit of anxiety hovering in our household when I came down with a nasty stomach flu the Wednesday before taking off. But we double-downed on the Lysol and anti-bacterial gel. By Friday everyone seemed good to go. Cole was especially excited – what's more fun for a 16-year-old boy to play ball all weekend and terrorize hotel occupants with a cadre of other 16-year-old boys? In a place that also hosted girl soccer teams?

The night we arrived the team met at Buffalo Wild Wings for some camaraderie. The boys set up banquet-style while the parents hunkered around the tall bar tables. With my stomach still touchy, I opted for Sprite over Bud-Lite. As I sipped my bubbly-sugar drink, I found myself listening to my parental peers. Really listening. Olympic-style training regimens. Incredible achievements in just every sport or activity ever invented by the age of six. And smart? Oh-my-goodness. Albert Einstein holds no candle.

Monsters. All of us.

Now, I'm a huge proponent of working hard to achieve your dreams. But when I heard one of the mothers criticizing a kid (not hers) who was wasting his talent by spending too much time with friends, I spoke up. "Well, good for him. You're only young once." Not the response she was looking for. I got a stink-eye and a switch in topic. State bowling, I think.

It's hard not to boast about your kids. We're all proud of our own creations. But I do think we've created an environment that places undue stress on our kids for the slight chance they become rock stars on ESPN. And the entire mentality has made us off-putting in a social setting. Doug and I have agreed to keep ourselves in check. It's become somewhat of a contest. Try not to bring up our kids at all. If someone cares about our amazing kids, they'll ask! (Sorry, didn't mean to brag about their amazingness! I couldn't help myself.)

Anyway, back to my story. As I was listening to a story about one kid's decision to give up his award-winning wrestling career, I was also glancing at Cole who was power eating burgers, wings... and cleaning the plates of his buddies. A voice in my head said, "That might not be good."

It wasn't.

At 1:00 AM we found our son emptying the contents of B-Dubs into the hotel-room toilet. It went on and on. All through the night. Obviously, my first concern was his health. I had spotted a hospital close by earlier in the evening in case we would need some urgent care. (Call it a maternal premonition.) Then I felt sad that Cole was going to miss the college showcase tournament! What if he was going to miss his chance to get noticed! Buggers.

There will be more tournaments!

Then I remembered my observations earlier in the evening. I love my son. I love to watch him play soccer. But so what if he misses a tournament? What's really important here? That my kid quits puking. Period. And he did, eventually. But he was trashed for the weekend. We left Kansas City without stepping foot on a soccer field. As we drove north, Cole splayed in the backseat, in a deep rest without paying any sort of attention to his phone, I felt unusually at peace.

Later that night, his coach called me to check on him. I wondered if he was going to say how disappointed he was that he didn't play. And he did say that. But he also said he respected our decision to not let him play. It was the right thing to do. The right thing to do.

I'm pretty darn sure I won't be shedding my soccer mom persona overnight. When we got a text today about open gym, I wondered if he should go to get some touches on the ball. Then I figuratively slapped myself. He needed to rest another day. Perhaps, just perhaps this soccer mom persona has grown some perspective.