Newly Retired Soccer Mom
I was never a big fan of the term Soccer Mom. Nor am I sure why my son's sport of choice was targeted for that 'honor'. I feel that the name was often used sarcastically or perhaps for marketing purposes.
I surely never fit the profile. But I have – for many years now – in the literal sense of the phrase, been a Soccer Mom.
Until last Friday.
That is when my 17-year-old High School senior played his final game.
The boys spent the evening before the playoffs preparing themselves for the Big Game Psych. Most of the team ran out for mohawks, our school district's unwritten tradition to mark the soccer team in playoff season. This year, after a particularly rough season of injuries, some of the boys went a step further and bleached their hair blonde as well.
This ritual is the ultimate demonstration of what being a team means to these young men. Unified by their passion for the sport, driven to be the best that they can be, wanting so badly to end their run on a high note; they take to the hallways on game day wearing their jerseys and wild hair as a symbol of solidarity and pride. Of all the lessons my son has learned in his short life, what it means to be part of a team holds the most value. And I can honestly say, watching this has been one of the most rewarding aspects of parenting him.
The morning started like so many others. "M-o-o-o-m, where are my soccer shorts?" As soon as those were located the white socks were missing, then the shin guards. "Hey hon, could you give me the full list of what's missing at one time so I do not have to keep running up and down the stairs like a lunatic?", I said, with a slightly agitated tone. Later that afternoon, with the disappointing loss that knocked us out of the playoffs, I realized that was the last time that scene would be played out in my house. Ok, so maybe I won't miss the frenzied search for missing uniform parts minutes before the school day begins, but humor me with the gravity of the moment.
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