海角大神

Every Sunday in the fall, I find myself at the soccer fields, a mostly green piece of real estate nestled between the parkway and a defunct and crumbling state-run campus for developmentally disabled persons. (In rapidly developing suburbia, we have to set up our recreation fields in any available corner of land.)聽

I鈥檓 not the only one there, of course. Hundreds of moms and dads, siblings, friends, and grandparents stand hugging themselves against the early morning chill, chat with other onlookers, and occasionally cheer for the players kicking the ball around. Kids in blue and white uniforms pass to each other and shoot into practice nets, awaiting their start times.

鈥淭ake the ball away. Get him,鈥澛營 yell to my 5-year-old. 鈥淩un!鈥� my husband booms.

What has happened to us?

We spend nearly every breath, enforcing peace in our household of three boys. You鈥檒l get your turn, we say. Be patient, we implore. Stop taking the ball away from him. What?

My son lopes around on the field, following behind the cluster of forwards and middies, watching them race past after the ball. He examines his shadow on the grass, plays with it.聽

鈥淚 want to play nice soccer,鈥澛爃e tells me during a substitution. 鈥淎ll they want to do is take the ball away.鈥�

鈥淵es, of course. That鈥檚 what you鈥檙e supposed to do. Take the ball away.鈥�

鈥淣ah,鈥� he says and strolls back to the coach. He spends the rest of the game talking about Minecraft to another conscientious objector on the field and teaching a little blond girl on the other team to dance.

My husband heads to an open area and kicks the ball around with our 3-year-old, who shows some potential. 鈥淒on鈥檛 get your hopes up,鈥澛爃e tells me.

I鈥檝e known my husband since middle school; he was a star midfielder and defenseman, played nonstop for ten years until he burned out and quit in high school. I get it; he鈥檚 competitive, uber-competitive. The middle of the night arguments over a game of Risk with his family was an early indicator.

I played for only a year way back when, but I enjoy the game, any game, really. I enjoy having someone to cheer on to victory or soothe in defeat, give him the spirit to try just one more time.

My sister-in-law wanders over from her daughter鈥檚 game 鈥� two fields over, mind you 鈥� and says to me, 鈥淵ou know who you remind us of?鈥�

Not a conversation opener anyone relishes to hear, forcing me to consider was I that loud?

鈥淭he mom on 鈥標淭he Goldbergs.鈥欌��

I鈥檝e only seen clips, but I鈥檓 not sure this can be a good thing. Yes, I get excited and maybe my 鈥渃heers鈥� end up sounding a bit shrill. I鈥檓 only encouraging my baby to be the best he can be. And, yes, there are times that I debate the ref, but that number five is always 鈥� and I mean always 鈥� offside. 聽

鈥淚n a good way,鈥� she quickly tells me, balancing her 15-month old on her hip.

鈥淚鈥檒l have to check it out,鈥澛� I reply, wondering how I became a TV sitcom mom. But it can鈥檛 just be me.

I look at our boys among everyone else on the field and, frankly, it鈥檚 not just our boys; it鈥檚 not just me. Most of the parents standing around are grimacing in frustration, yelling out instructions to their children, kicking the air as if we have a robotic link to our child鈥檚 foot. I kick, you kick. Ball is cleared. Ball in net. Everyone happy.

鈥淚 know I don鈥檛 have to yell at Sam,鈥� one dad says. 鈥淐oach yells enough for all of us.鈥澛燱e joke about putting the coach鈥檚 voice on tape to persuade our kids to do homework or chores.

鈥淭ommy,鈥� the gravelly voice rumbles, 鈥淲hat is five plus two?鈥�

The fact is we 鈥� parents and educators 鈥� spend so much time teaching children to share and be 鈥渂ucket-fillers鈥澛爋nly to turn around and expect them to suddenly unleash on the playing fields the aggression we try so hard to redirect every other minute of the day.

I look back at my son, who waves to me as the ball rolls by him, the herd of first-graders stampeding after it. I know he鈥檒l find his place eventually, as long as my husband and I relax a little. My son actually asked to watch the US Open this year, much to my surprise. So, perhaps tennis will be more his speed -- that is until I hear, 鈥淲hy do they keep hitting the ball at me?鈥�