Confessions of a Soccer Mom

‘Tis the season for competitive soccer tryouts in San Diego. And if you’ve never played competitive soccer or spawned offspring that have, lucky you. You’ve been spared the occassional agony that is the competitive tryout.

One of my sons played recreational soccer before we went the competitive route, and, trust me, that’s no cakewalk either. During the one season of rec that I endured, a 13-year-old referree called off the game during the first half because a 40-year-old parent got all up in his face and wouldn’t get off the field. Nice job dad. Chalk one up for nobody.

Since we turned semi-pro, we’ve had a lot of great experiences and a few lousy ones. This season, we needed to move our kids to a team that practiced closer to their schools because, truth, we’re more concerned about their ability to get their homework done than we are about driving them 60 minutes roundtrip to play soccer for some club that’s all that and a bag of chips.

It’s taken a lot of work, but we’ve found a great situation for boy #1 and are at this minute waiting for the call for boy #2. However, after weeks and weeks of various kick arounds, callbacks, and full-on tryouts, unfortunately, the team boy #2 really wants to play on–the one his classmates, best friend and former teammates play on–indicated tonight that they might not have a place for him (I still hold out hope that they’ll come to their senses). And the team he has said he doesn’t want to play on has told us that they do have a place for him.

He’s just turned 10, so we’re mostly talking about his fragile little ego here and not whether he plays for the Galaxy some day.

But, wait a minute! At this age, his fragile little ego is exactly what this is all about. And as parents, it takes a lot for us to keep on our own game faces for him.

So, I think I’ll Blip an old Rolling Stones standby, sing along and hope it’s true that “You can’t always get what you want but if you try sometimes, you might find that you get what you need.”

Or, put a little less lyrically, that things have a funny way of working out for the best. Let’s hope so.

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