Numerous sets of banged up knees running chaotically through a field of grass, the object of their one-track minded goal bouncing back and forth from ankle to ankle. The buzz of excitement over any potential contact with said object is palpable to those watching this familiar dance.
And then picture this:
On the edge of the field one set of banged up knees perches lazily atop his barely used object which, frankly, saw more action sliding across the cash register scanner than in all 60 minutes or so of practice.
It’s soccer, baby. Done OUR way.
We should have known what we were signing up for after experiencing our oldest in all her soccer glory. My hubby and I spent many a game mulling over several potential bribery tactics to employ in an attempt to convince Avery to run from one end of the soccer field to the other, repeatedly.
Fast forward a few years and substitute a slightly more willful, pigheaded, stubborn version and we’re dealing with more of the same.
When we first broached the subject of soccer to our youngest his response went as follows:
J: “I don’t know how to play.”
Me: “Um, that’s the whole purpose of soccer practice. They teach you.”
J: “O-o-okay. But do I have to run and stuff?”
Me: “Well…if you want to get the soccer ball into the goal then, yes. You will have to run.”
J: “Do I get a prize?”
Me: “Don’t you think having fun is a prize?”
M’kay. Here we go again.