Being a Soccer Mom…(Pic)

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

So here I am sitting at my son’s soccer game today. Surrounded by all of the people that generally come to these types of things — supportive moms and dads, geriatric grandparents they can barely make it to the field, coaches that have their jock straps onto tight, and the occasional homeless person driving a cart filled with all kinds of crap dating back to the 1980s.

So like I said, I’m sitting at my son’s soccer game and I am screaming the normal hoots and hollers like any ex-University cheerleader with do — a cheerleading history spanning from Junior High, High School, and then the varsity line at University of Arizona. That’s fricking true, goddammit.

Needless to say (but I will say it if I want to . . .) that I am the loudest one on the sidelines.

No biggie.

People are used to me.

They have learned to bring their earplugs by now.

If not, they certainly will remember them by the next game . . .

I have been coming to the soccer games for longer than I can remember.

Let’s think back . . . I remember going to my sons soccer game and my daughter’s soccer games my daughter is now 17 so I went to 10 or 11 years of soccer games for her and I’ve been to… I think this is the eighth season for my son. This means so I have been doing this for at least 13 years.

Lucky 13.

As I said, we parents of the soccer cloth have to sit on the sidelines.

The boys have gotten to the age now that they require three referees per game.  The “on the field” ref (don’t you love my technical terminology?), and two sideline flag refs.

You also have to understand that soccer in Southern California is nothing like soccer in Pennsylvania, for the mere fact that our “grasses” are generally a greenish brown and barely even resemble grass at all.  They are sort of a ragged scattering of carpet-like growth that barely makes it to the end of the field. 

None of this greenish-grass-like stuff is wasted on the sidelines.

None of it.

So, we, the parents. The supporting and instigating portion of this whole scenario, get to sit in dirt. Loose, nasty, non-grassed dirt.

It’s not the lush beautiful green grass that you have on the East Coast, the South or even in the Midwest. 

This crap is dry, man.

Therefore, it’s dryness is magnified by it’s nearness to this rabid ground growth that we Californians call “grass.”  Said “grass” is not to be confused with any type of recreational grass that might be being sold by Joe, the homeless man over there, or by Jose in the Ice Cream truck.

No. Those are completely different kinds of grasses.

So, these are the sidelines and the backdrop for our Saturdays and Sundays, where we get to watch our children kick the “soccer crap” out of other children’s butts on the field. 

Just a little weekend fun, kids . . . hey, no one is getting hur—“Hey Ref that kid just kicked my son in the mouth — Yellow card, yellow card — where the freaking yellow card on that, you blind SOB.” The other parents support me with a unified “Boooooooooo.”

Yeah.

Just a little Saturday . . . Sunday fun out in the ball park.

Sucking dust.

Gotta love just a little live action team bonding.

So we sit in our folding chairs, eating chocolate croissants, and drinking our double decaf Starbucks cappuccinos (lite). Yeah, just shoving all that caloric crap in our mouths while we shout out orders to our kids on the field — AS IF we could do even half of what our kids are mastering — yes, we continue to shout out our orders and our advanced expertise.

But . . . do they listen?

No. They just keep listening to their coach.

They just keep sticking to the game plan.

Why do I waste my breath, right?

So we sit there watching our kids work off a few calories combined with the divine enjoyment of seeing them inhale vast amounts Los Angeles fluorocarbons, general city pollutants and dried dust mites that reside in this ground dust.

By the end of the season, parents are bringing margarita’s and get toasted at a mere 9 o’clock in the morning.

Now, I am not one to turn down a margarita, don’t get me wrong. I just have my standards and those include not having margarita until at least 930 in the morning.  You know, it’s important to set guidelines.

And, while I sit in the sort of the dust bowl of sticks and dried flour-like dirt that clouds itself around me — even if I am sitting still — I hope that I won’t get a choking attack and thoroughly embarrass my dear, precious son. I happen to set my purse down on the ground and this airy-dirt immediately clings to the outside of my purse and a before I know it my white outfit has now turned a light shade of brown.

I really wanted it to stay white.

So I’m sitting here and the excitement of the game as always, almost causes me to have a coronary. I want so badly for my son to do well, and he is an extraordinary soccer player. So it is very fun to watch him run that ball up and down the field despite the other players the get in the way.

Fuck ’em.

I want my kid to win.

As I sit here in this Linus-like dust cloud am reminded of Charlie Brown in so much that the sideline flag referee comments on my excitement when my son cakes in a beautiful goal and scores a point for our team.

Needless to say I am jumping up and down and up and down and hurling in the hooting and hollering like a crazed lunatic, but really it mostly resembles an excited mom that has this perfected and has been doing this for like I said, 13 years.

So, I have the jumping-up-and-down-thing the twirling-thing the kicking-thing, and the saying-and-screaming-thing . . . down.

Like I could be a professional-jumper-twirler-kicker-screamer.

Alas, at this point I don’t see much of a market for professional jumper- twirler-kicker-screamers, so I confine my talents to the amateur high school age soccer arena. Of which, I am sure, all of the other parents are “thrilled” that I am there to be the resident jumper-twirler-kicker-screamer.

So, what.

I am not here to embarrass them.

I am here to embarrass my kid.

And, have done so for more that 13 years.

I HAVE IT DOWN.

Sometimes, they giggled quietly among themselves.

I think I am an amusement to them.

They certainly know when I am in attendance.

But, like I said my son kicked the goal into the soccer netting, and I flew out of my seat with such an intensity that’s a I think it would’ve scored a 9.8 for the Americans on the Olympic scale of the great Nadia Comaneci status.

Yes, I flew out of my chair a with a sidekick arched twirling and spinning and screaming and hooting and hollering at this sideline referee made the very opinionated comment, “My, my, my… it seems like someone is excited here.”

No shit, Sherlock.

That’s my fricking boy out there that just scored the winning goal.  What do you expect me to do, crochet?

And then I happened to look in his red rounded face as he is saying that this delightful commentary about my exuberance, I am looking at him and when I notice him saying this, that his shorts have now crept up to such a bundle in his crotch, that I don’t even know how he’s able to walk this way and that to perform his little flag waves for the sideline.

His thighs are so tightly scraping together that if it weren’t for the noisy excitement on the field combined with my hoots and hollers in the occasional guffaws of the other parents, I am sure that I would hear a sandpaper sound with every stride that he made.

Of course I am excited, jerk-off — get your panties out of a wad. Crap, that I cannot say what I am thinking.

Please . . . stop walking . . . stop running.

I can almost see some pubes, I don’t want to see “your holy mother of god apricot sack” if your shorts crawl up to certain height.

Step. Step. “White Ball,”  he screams.

Each step he takes . . . and his shorts go up a little further.

STOP WALKING FOR GOD’S SAKE — THIS IS NOT AN ANATOMY LESSON!

Just know, that it you take one more step sir, I and all the people with 20/20 vision may become blind.

Finally, I am jolted out of this revolting observation due to the fact that my son scores another goal.

Once again — leap-fly-swirl-scream-jump! Yay!!!!!

Whistle. “Off-sides.”

Traitor.

Asshole.

Bad call, you mo-fo.

We try to keep the language clean . . . for the kids, you know.

My son is angry. His second goal — which honestly should have been good — even the coach was upset . . .

But, alas . . . WE WON . . .  We, as if I had anything to do with it.

My son scored the winning goal!

Life is great.

They all clap hands with the other team. “Good game” each kid says one to the other. It’s a good sport.

We pack up the chairs, the Gatorade, the empty Starbucks cups, notebooks, charts, water bottles, umbrellas, hats, sunscreen, and what’s left of our pride, and waddle toward the car.

Yeah, soccer is a great game.

Even if you get your shorts in a bind . . .

The Winning Goal!
The Winning Goal!

Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
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About SheriBelle

Award-Winning Author & Screenwriter

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