Though your dreams be tossed and blown . . . walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

Hey, Megs.

A little outside reading for this post, with commentary after the column. This is from a column called "Suburban Turmoil", featured each week in the Nashville Scene. This week, the author (Lindsay Ferrier) talks about her daughter's soccer team, which is coached by her husband, a newscaster for our local NBC affiliate.

How Soccer Parents Get Their Kicks

by Lindsay Ferrier

“I’m sick of watching this!” a man is yelling from the sidelines at my husband, who’s coaching a game out on the field. “Win at any cost, eh? That girl shouldn’t be playing!”

I look over at the heckler in disbelief as he continues his rant, waving a go-cup of coffee for emphasis. All around him, parents are staring. “Shut up!” one father yells. The girl the heckler’s referring to is all of 5 years old, playing soccer for the second time in her life. She looks at the man uncertainly and then over at her mom, frowning. I can feel my head beginning to explode.

Welcome to the world of preschool soccer.

When we signed up my 3-year-old daughter for the under-6 soccer league, I imagined I was giving her a chance to get some exercise and learn about teamwork while I got in some gossip time with my friends on the sidelines. I was wrong.

“Get your head in the game!” a father shouts at his little girl during one match-up as she wanders aimlessly around the field. “Focus on the ball!” a mother screams repeatedly at another game, in what seems like a total waste of a strain on her vocal chords. I mean, how many 3-year-olds even understand what “focus” means?

“We are here to play!” I overhear a mom hiss more than once through gritted teeth, jerking up a preschooler who (yet again) has collapsed in tears on the sidelines behind me. Several times, I’ve tried smiling at parents on the other team, only to be met with scowls in return. Fraternizing with the enemy—even in a league where the only criterion to play is that your kid has to be out of diapers—is apparently not allowed.

We receive an email forwarded to us from a friend. Sent by The Heckler to the league officials and all of the other parents on his team, he accuses my husband of recruiting our assigned 5-year-old team member as a “ringer.” He has included my husband’s online work bio, which mentions that Hubs has coached girls’ soccer for seven seasons. From that, The Heckler has concluded that Hubs “has obviously been around the block a few times” and “knows every trick in the book.” We laugh, imagining Hubs casing preschool playgrounds for a mini-Mia, but honestly, the email is unsettling. When I guest-coach a game a few weeks later, our 5-year-old player eyes the sidelines warily. “I’m glad that man isn’t here to make me feel bad again,” she confides to me. I feel the tiniest crack begin to inch its way across my heart.

What is it about soccer for the small set that makes parents lose their minds? For answers, I check in with Dr. Gregg Steinberg, a professor of sport psychology at Austin Peay, who recently wrote a book called Flying Lessons (myflyinglessons.com), about teaching children to respond like champions in every aspect of their lives. What he has to say about my experiences on the preschool soccer field makes sense. “Parents live vicariously through their children, regardless of age,” he explains. “Their children are a reflection of themselves, and parents are protecting their ego. That makes everyone act crazy.”

I think about the mom I saw at the last game. A former soccer player herself, she clearly had been working with her 3-year-old, who scored one goal after another. I looked over at her as she watched her daughter, expecting to see her face aglow with pride. Instead, her brow was knitted, her mouth turned into a frown as she whispered fiercely to herself, completely oblivious to anyone or anything except for her child out on the field.

It’s not like I’m some kind of soccer mom saint, either. I spent the first few games humiliated after my own daughter refused to go out on the field for more than five minutes, opting instead to play ring-around-the-rosie on the sidelines or sit in my lap. I tried bribes and threats and even made excuses for my daughter to the other parents. It became clear to me after a couple of games that I needed a figurative slap across the face. All I was doing was giving my daughter a chance to experience soccer for herself. What she decided to do with that opportunity had to be entirely up to her. We both enjoyed ourselves a whole lot more after my little epiphany. By the end of the season, without my “help,” she was playing most of every game, occasionally even taking a break from socializing on the field to actually kick the ball. Victory!

Some of my friends have had little sympathy for my predicament, saying 3-year-olds are too young to be playing competitive soccer, anyway. Dr. Steinberg agrees. “Children need to focus on mastery until they understand morals, ethics, how to handle winning and losing,” he says. “This usually occurs around age 10 to 12.” Ten to 12? In recreational soccer, that’s the time when kids start leaving the sport—in droves.

I think I just figured out why.


Here begins Molly's commentary . . .

Okay, first off, I have no doubts that the guy described in the beginning of the column was a serious asshole. (One of Ella's classmates plays on Ferrier's team, and her mother mentioned what a jerk they had on the sideline during one game.) I would even be unsurprised if the other parents mentioned were as bad as she states, though having watched Ella for seven weeks I never saw displayed any such behavior--or anything close, for that matter. Most parents are too busy trying to slap themselves awake (9 am games) or shed the blanket of heat and humidity that has been cast upon them by the weather gods (10:30 am games, until about November).

Do these look like bitter parents who yell at their kids and live vicariously through 3- and 4-year olds?

Now, for the meat of the matter. That "5-year old" was HUGE!!!! She was a total ringer, and she totally dominated the games. I feel really sorry for her that she had to be subjected to the heckling, and the hecklers should be ashamed of themselves. But her parents need a good talking to.

Every time we went to the fields, Ella hoped that we weren't playing the Blue Goo. The second time we played them, Ella was on the verge of tears after the eighth time that the girl took the ball away from her (of course, this was when Ella was actually playing soccer and not playing ring-aound-the-rosies with her classmate on the other team [oh my God, do you think it was me yelling "focus on the ball"?!?]). And she wasn't alone. You could see the same look of defeatism on the faces of all of Ella's teammates--not to mention the girl's own teammates. Plus, the first time we played them, she was playing goalie! There are no goalies in this age group!!! And she took up a good two-thirds of the goal. I'm not exaggerating.

Yes, this was an under-6 league. But the teams were broken out into 3- and 4-year olds, and 5-year olds. The ringer had a little sister on the team and their parents just didn't want to deal with having them on separate teams. We had a girl on our team with a 5-year old sister and she played on a different team. As you do. I'm sure it was all well and good for the Ferriers to have a ringer on the team, because it wasn't their kids getting pushed around by a ginormo.

I understand that there are asshole parents out there and that there are miserable parents out there and that there are asshole, miserable parents out there trying to re-live their youth through their children. I didn't see any of it during Ella's season, but maybe I was just too busy yelling at her to focus on the ball or something. I just cannot stand the self-satisfied tone of this column.

It's just another attack on good, old-fashioned American values by the liberal media. (Did you like that? That was for you.)

I'd think about writing a letter to the editor, but they'd just print it with a title that made me look stupid. Something like, "Bitter much?" Rargh.

And that is that. I've decided that I probably won't go to the Bare Jr. concert, as much as I want to. I don't feel like hanging out at Exit/In by myself, and Evan can't come because his parents will be in town. Oh, well. I'll just have to rock out to Boo-Tay on my computer. Pisser.

Alrighty, then. Peace out. And Happy Thanksgiving! Hugs and kisses to the dogs and the 'Roni. (That's Todd-eronious.)

love, molly

previous post title source: "You Blew Me Off," Bare Jr.