The Beautiful Game

It took one match. That was it.

My son was six. The World Cup had just started. The United States was playing Ghana.

I wasn’t much of a soccer fan but I knew enough to teach him the rules and explain what was going on. So, I turned on the match and asked my son if he wanted to watch with me.

For the next two hours, he sat next to me absolutely transfixed.

A six-year old, engrossed for two straight hours? That just isn’t a thing that happens.

A toddler, mind you, will snuggle up next to you and watch a whole movie. They’ll burrow into the space under your arm and up against your chest and watch an entire Toy Story without moving other than to occasionally look up and make sure you’re watching too.

Six-year olds though, they could absolutely love the thing you’re watching and even so, within 10 minutes, they’ll be down off the sofa and stretched out on the floor.

Within 15, they’ll be back up on the sofa. Within 20, they’ll be hungry, thirsty, and will need to go to the bathroom all at once — and then again one by one every fifteen minutes.

And yet, my son had spent two full hours absolutely locked in on a game he had never seen before or played.

It was a rainbow: a beautiful rarity you don’t see coming.

In the match, the US scored early and led until the final minutes when Ghana scored to pull even.

After leading almost the entire match, it looked as if the US would be left with nothing more than a disappointing draw. But then, in the dying embers, John Brooks, an American defender only brought in to replace an injured player, put in a header to win the match for the US.

What. A. Match.

By the time it was over, it was well past my son’s bedtime.

He had been so rapt, he hadn’t realized he had missed all of his playtime. And now that he realized how late it was, he was NOT happy.

“You tricked me!” he said “I didn’t want to watch soccer!”

Sigh. So much for watching the rest of the World Cup together.

The next afternoon at pickup though, before he had even had his seatbelt on, he had a question…

“Dad, did you tape the Russia-Korea match?”

That little rainbow from the night before, it was still bright.

A spark had been lit. That’s all it took. Watching one match together.

We watched the rest of the World Cup – as many matches as we could – regardless of who was playing.

Within a week, we were kicking around a soccer ball together.

Within a couple weeks of that, he was carrying his first cleats up to the cash register shining like a new dime.

Within a month, he was signed up for the town’s recreational league.

And then it was off to his first team and his first practice and then his first match.

In between each of those, we played together on whatever field we could sneak onto.

Throughout the absolute dead of summer, we played every chance we got. I’d teach him some basics and then play goalie. He’d took shots on net from close enough to be able to score on me fair and square sometimes while I earnestly tried to stop him. He was maybe five feet away the first few times… and then a little farther and a little farther as he got better.

We’d walk off the field just soaked with sweat and then we’d go get slurpees or ice cream somewhere.

Man, I absolutely loved every awful, blistering, humid day we played together those first few summers.

My son had found his thing.

It hadn’t been T-ball or tennis or swimming.

It was soccer.

He had found his passion. Or his passion had found him.

When we weren’t playing together, we were watching. As fans of the sport but without favorite teams per se, we would just watch whoever was playing. On weekends, we’d get up early and watch every English Premier League match on TV… and then we’d get up Sunday morning and do it again… and then we’d watch Spanish La Liga in the afternoon.

And when we weren’t watching, we were playing FIFA together on the iPad.

Silly as it may sound, that video game (and all of that time spent watching matches and talking about them together) taught him more about soccer than being on a rec team ever could. He understood formations and tactics and strategies. He understand managing styles and chemistry. He was a student of the game. He loved it… and so did I but for different reasons maybe.

I loved the teachable moments it afforded me.

As I have told my son since he was little, my mantra as a parent is “ABT”.

Always Be Teaching.

As parents, whether we know it or not, whether we accept it, embrace it, or don’t, we are always teaching. Our kids are always learning from us.

What we care about; what we model; what we say and show; it is all an endless lesson.

As a parent, you can be mindful of what you’re teaching or not but either way, you’re always teaching.

I happen to love that. I happen to love teaching my son.

So, anyway, the first September after the World Cup rolled around and my son’s first team began practice.

Now, I should interject here that we Hoarse men are not blessed with physiques ideal for competitive sports.

We come from skinny stock.

We run a bit on the short side for our age while other kids are springing up. We aren’t particularly strong. We aren’t particularly fast. We spend adolescence trailing the field on the growth curve… and then puberty comes along and we just spring up into gangly beanpoles that are all arms and legs. This is the way of Hoarse men. It’s just our genes.

However, what we lack in physical size and speed, we make up for by caring a whole damn lot and by being super competitive. We are a fiery breed. We burn hot.

These traits did not skip my son. A little undersized, not the most athletic kid on the team, a bit short maybe… but the kid had moxie for days.

So, practices began and things went just fine until the second or third session.

By then, it had become clear that one of the other kids on the team was a bit of a problem. He was a full head taller than my son; was among the biggest kids on the team; and was a bit of a bully. He pushed other kids around, messed with kids on purpose, and just generally acted like a jerk. This wouldn’t end well.

As the team was lining up for some drill, the bully saw my son standing there with a soccer ball with his back turned. So, he came up behind my son and kicked it away. My son went chasing after it, got it and got back in line.

Bully ran up behind him and kicked it away again. And again, my son went chasing after it, came back, and got back in line.

Same thing happened a third time: The bully ran up and kicked it away; my son, chased after it, came back, and got back in line.

Now, I knew my son and knew he could handle his own business just fine, so I just watched this whole thing unfold from the sidelines.

Sure enough, the bully came running up a FOURTH TIME prepared to kick the ball away again when my son just absolutely dropped him with an elbow to the jaw.

Cleaned him out. Dropped him like a sack of hammers. Went down in a heap.

I stifled a smile, and the walked over to help the kid up and send them both on their way.

In the car, my son said “DAD! You came over at JUST the right time! That kid was—”

“…kicking your ball away. Yeah, I saw.”

“You SAW?! Why didn’t you do something??” he asked.

I said “Because if I had stepped in, he wouldn’t mess with you when I’m around. Now, he won’t mess with you at all.”

And he didn’t.

ABT.

Always be teaching.

Sometimes it wasn’t even about soccer. Sometimes it was about letting your kid handle his own business because you know he can not because you weren’t watching.

Oh, I have loved soccer for the million ABT moments it has provided.

I have loved it from that very first season to this last one.

The game got more competitive. The lessons got harder - and harder to take - but sometimes, the things you most need to learn are wrapped in moments you wish you could change.

But that’s a story for another time...

(Part II to follow tomorrow)