Soccer Dad

Of all the parent-y things we do, attending the kid’s soccer games is one of the parenty-est.

We stand there on the sidelines with our fellow moms, dads, and other guardians. At Mimi’s age, the teams don’t officially keep score, but parents—and especially kids—alike always know exactly how many goals have been made by each side.

The grownups are polite; we cheer for both teams and don’t get too obnoxious in encouraging our little players to excel. This isn’t to say that we don’t mutter under our breaths or make unintentionally snide comments about kids on both sides of the ball.

Right now, I’m watching the Steelers on TV; I compare my attitude watching the boys in Black n’ Gold to the girls in Blue and White. So far, I’ve never sworn or pounded the table at anything that has gone on in one of Mimi’s games. Already, I’ve cussed half a dozen times and thrown the newspaper twice—and it’s only the second quarter, and the Steelers are winning.

Mimi asked me what’s my favorite sport to watch; I told her, of course, Pittsburgh Steelers football. She admonished me for not choosing Jackrabbits’ soccer.

I guess it’s because, in part, I don’t really consider her games a sport—not yet, anyway. If she’s still playing at fifteen or sixteen, though, when if they’re officially keeping score, maybe then, I’ll be painting my face and screaming at the field.

But maybe not; after all, they don’t serve beer at youth soccer games.

I’m always aghast when I read about parents who attack umpires or coaches; I can’t imagine ever turning into one of those dads. But then again, it wasn’t but a few years ago when I never could have imagined being a parent on the sideline of a kid’s soccer game.

All I ask, therefore, is that if you read about me wigging out someday on the junior soccer pitch, don’t blame the Steelers.