Well it’s soccer season again. Time for us parents to sit in our fold-out chairs and eat popcorn or chips and pretend like we know what we’re talking about when we call out to our kids on the field. Time for us to yell things at them like “Just kick the ball!” or “Pay attention here it comes!” or “Wrong goal! Wrong goal!” in an attempt to confuse them as much as possible.
Okay, that’s not the intention but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t happen every game. In truth, though, Logan is finally learning the fundamentals. He’s eight years old and has played since he was four, and you can see the wheels turning when he plays now. He’s scored a few times, he hustles more, he knows how to pass and what the difference is between offense and defense. He plays with a little confidence now. He and his age group have also gotten pretty good at kicking the ball, too.
Kicking it hard.
Which is where my fatherly instincts come in. I sit in my red folding throne like an emperor watching a battle in the colosseum. I nod approvingly when my team scores. I say things like "They're not getting back on defense fast enough," or "They've got to shoot before they get too close to the goal or the goalie will pick it up every time." followed by, ten seconds later, “See? Every time...” (for more on my soccer knowledge credentials, see footnote #1)
I’m already flexing some dad muscles here. Specifically the one I like to call The Commentator, wherein from the comfort of my chair I not only understand the fundamentals and the strategics of the game I’m watching, I magically know how to impart that knowledge onto a player from the far sidelines by barking commands to a kid who in all likelihood can’t even hear me. It’s quite a skill to have.
So I’m lounging there, analyzing the game while my white knees are burning in the brutal Autumn sun, when the capacity for my dad powers are tested. A soccer ball flies toward us, courtesy of an errant kick (kid probably kicked with his toes and not the side of his foot, but that’s beside the point). It bounces once but shows no sign of slowing down.
My daughter is standing in the ball’s path.
I have maybe two seconds. Without even leaving my lounge chair, I lean forward and kick my leg out in front of my daughter like a traffic barricade arm in a parking deck. I have a split second to gauge the height of the ball. I shift my leg up a couple of centimeters.
The wind brushes the hairs on my legs. It’s a southeasterly. I adjust for windage.
At the last second the ball strikes my calf a few inches above my sandal and bounces harmlessly away. A chorus of nearby parents praise my heroism. I smile and nod, wave at a couple of them. “Dad reflexes,” I reply. “Just the dad reflexes.” (see footnote 2. Or just ignore it. No need to read it really. LET ME HAVE THIS!)
After all the ooh’s and aaah’s we settle back down in our chairs. I bask in the reverence for only an instant. The boys have played on, and I return my attention to the field. With my daughter sitting safely beside me, it seems I still have a soccer game to analyze….
Moral of the Story: Know your surroundings. Be vigilant. You never know when your child will need you to instantly transfer dad powers from The Commentator to The Bodyguard in the blink of an eye.
Oh, and second moral: Don’t read footnotes.
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Footnote #1: I've never played a game of soccer in my life, except for on a school playground.
Footnote #2: Okay, so the ball wasn’t really going that fast. If anything it would have glanced off my daughter’s chest and maybe caused her to take a step back. She’d whine for about five seconds and she’d be fine. And really it wasn’t like I reacted with the speed of a striking snake. In fact I’m fairly certain I grunted when I lifted my leg up to block it.
