The Scrimmage

I stood on the sidelines of my kid’s Capitol Hill Under 4s soccer practice and assessed the various 2 and 3 year olds’ abilities to dribble or focus. Austin was CLEARLY the best out there. No roaming to the nearby playground mid-drill for this kid. No picking up the ball or picking flowers (or noses). He listened to every word from Coach Arthur and executed like a pro. Feigning humility, I smiled sympathetically at Sawyer’s mom when Sawyer wandered into the middle of the circle before the whistle blew.

“Aw, she’s adorable,” I cooed (like a badger).

About 23 minutes in, my superstar’s sparkle dimmed a bit.

“Mommy, can I have some apple sauce?”

“Austin, you need to wait until the water break.”

“But I want it noooow”

“Austin, listen to Coach Arthur!”

“No!”

“Ok, here’s some apple sauce. Now get back out there, kid!”

Noted, by Sawyer’s mom.

Coach Arthur blew the whistle to start the scrimmage. Austin got the ball and had a breakaway. He shot, he scored! With equal parts irony and pride, I started screaming “that’s my kid, that’s my kid!” It was an homage to my mom’s unironic cry at my soccer games growing up and even when I was 21 and played in college. She had no shame on the sidelines and the force of her cries always spurred me into action.

Now it was my turn, I thought. Then I thought, relax, he’s three. And then I thought, but he’s so good. Don’t be crazy.

He celebrated his goal as the opposing team ate animal crackers or hugged their mommies or picked up sticks. He went after the ball again. Another kid got it. He got grumpy and came over to me.

“Get back out there!”

He went charging back in and got the ball. Another kid took it. He got grumpy and came over again.

“Get back out there!”

“No!”

“C’mon, you’ve got to help your team!”

He ran back out, got the ball and got knocked over. While physically fine, he launched a meltdown like I had never seen. He was inconsolable and had to be carried off the field…and all the way to the car. He was done with soccer, possibly forever. He did not want to cheer in a huddle at the end with Arthur. Even the playground was dead to him.

No amount of cajoling could coax him out of meltdown. Finally, the back-up reserve, break in case of emergency candy gummies bribed him out of tears. My little Lionel Messi needs work on his mental game. And, perhaps I do too!