First Published in the Tri-Town Transcript Oct 24, 2016
By Esther C. Baird
A long, long time ago, in a town far, far away (Beverly), I wrote about my brief fling as a soccer mom. Our eldest daughter, then 5, enrolled in the town league. She was little and cute and wore pink shin guards. Her hair wasn’t long enough for a ponytail, so she wore a little barrette. I knew nothing about the sport, but I was excited by her enthusiasm.
And then on the day of her first game, it poured. All her enthusiasm was doused, and she looked like a small, pink, drowned kitten. I wrote about how we pressed on and didn’t quit… I think I ended on a happy note. And that’s true, but we also never signed up for soccer again.
Until now. Now that cute 5-year-old is a middle schooler, still with pink shin guards, but nothing else is the same. Her hair is long and flowing, she’s taller than me, and if it rains, she thinks the mud is fun and wild (and thankfully she has this laundry fairy — it’s so super convenient!)
So I became, for the second time, a soccer mom. Sort of. I still don’t understand the game. But I had learned enough to bring lawn chairs to the crisp autumnal fields and of course a flotilla of snacks. And it’s been really fun this go round. Many of my friends are there watching their kids and we hang out and chat and… oh right, and of course watch the game.
I mean obviously. Obviously we watch the game. For example, I realized my daughter had subbed into the game.
“She’s in!” I yelled for all to hear. “She’s playing, you know, like on the upper side of the field — that position,” I said proudly.
A nearby mom whispered, “That’s the forward wing.” I nodded. Yes. Yes it was. Good for her! Way to be a wing!
She came charging across the field in a gaggle of girls, and then she kicked the ball! I cheered and whooped as the ball went directly to a girl who was wide open… on the other team.
“Whoops! Wrong person! Wrong team!” my daughter yelled and kept running.
The parents laughed graciously and one mom called over, “Oh Esther, she sounds just like you!“
I laughed. It’s true: The older she gets, the more her voice sounds like mine. She looks like me too, only (sigh) taller. So I laughed along. Except, wait, did she mean she sounded like me audibly, or more like she sounded confused on the rules of soccer like me? Nah. She meant voice tone for sure. Or pretty sure. Almost for sure.
I kept watching while also, naturally, chatting. Whose husband was traveling where, what had happened when that kid came to school obviously sick, where did my friend get her super cute throw that matched her boots, etc.
And, oh look, our team had the ball again. And my daughter had the ball! Then she passed it, to the right person, hurray! A herd of girls descended and headed towards the goal!
I began to cheer. “This is it! You’re almost there! Keep going, get a goal!!“
My friends looked at me. This time a bit less graciously. More like one of them was making a mental note to bring a muzzle to the next game.
“What?” I said. Then I looked with my actual eyes and paid attention. Sigh. I’m just saying, the uniforms are so similar. “Right,” I sighed. “Wrong end of the field. That’s the other team with the ball.“
I tried to rally. “Don’t go that way!! Get the ball back!” But it was too late.
And I understood that possibly my daughter sounded like me not only in tone.
So I’ve worked on it. Sort of. I get easily distracted there on the sidelines. Thankfully my daughter doesn’t, and has managed to learn the real rules and positions. They just won their first game and I believe she kicked, (and I cheered,) in all the right directions.
Still, I may not qualify as a soccer mom yet. But I’m a mom. And sometimes I watch soccer. Snack, anyone?