Not your Typical Soccer Mom, Part One

I kicked Andy in the balls tonight after sneaking out of my house before dinner to play soccer.

He bent over and held his groin.

"Sorry," I said as we all waited for him to stand up and let us know he was ok.

After a breath or two he stood and waved.

"Sorry," I said again.

Then we played on.

Me and the boys.

Men I've played soccer with a couple times a month for the past ten years. Good guys. Smart players. Sexist at times and rude but kind and thoughtful. A wide variety of occupations and political views. Ponytails and military men. Goverment workers and small business owners. Fathers of twins, of four adopted siblings, and fathers who would do anything for their kids.

The kind you trust with your own.

 

"Let's park in handicapped," Elias says as we pull into The Dome.

I open the compartment between the two front seats. "We can't," I say, "It's in the truck."

"No, I think its not in the truck."

I can hear the disapointment in his voice even before I peek at his face in the rearview mirror. "Yep, it's in the truck. We moved it there when we went to Seward. We can park here and walk."

I unbuckle Olive and say, "Unbuckle," to Elias. "Don't forget your canes." He climbs out of the car by himself, reaches down for his forerm crutches, and shuts the door.

A white SUV speeds across the  parking lot and pulls into the hadicapped spot closest to the doors.  

Well, she's sure in a hurry to get to soccer.

I hold Olive and a messenger bag that someone sewed a patch on with a picture of a bycicle and the words: "Put some fun between your legs".

My left hand shadows Elias,  ready to try to catch him if he falls.

He doesn't.

Out of the SUV steps a woman my age in a lepoard print dress with dyed blonde hair and four-inch heels. Ridiculous anywhere-- but especially in Alaska.

Two boys, young and athletic, climb out of the back seat.

She doesnt hang an accessible parking permit on her rearview mirror.

No wheel chair symbol graces her plates.

I stare at her back with my best fuck-you-lady-face in the paint-stained sweatpants I gardened in all day, and the same shirt I wore yesterday (and slept in last night), with my bushy eyebrows and uncombed ponytail.

Her boys hold the door for Elias and smile.

 

When I graduated from Colby, I taught English and coached soccer and ice hockey at the New Hampton school, a small boarding school in rural New Hampshire.

I hated coaching soccer.

I hated standing on the side-lines.

I hated hearing the girls complain about drills or running or receiving feedback during the game.

I wanted to play.

I wanted a coach and 90 minutes to defend my goal with everything I had.

Not a finesse player by any means, I earned MVP as captain my senior year of college because I'm the type of player who throws her whole body into the game and never stops sprinting until the whistle blows. I'm fast and aggressive which makes up for being 5'2" with limited coordination.

 

"I'm sorry," says a fellow sweatpants-clad woman standing a few feet away from me on the sidelines.

"It's Ok," I smile, "She's tough." Olive clings to my leg with a worried look on her face, scared by the six-year-old girl who keeps trying to put a pinny over her head. "If there's ever a place to let go of things, it's here, where all the kids have their quirks."

Tears come to her eyes. "I know. Its just been a really hard day. Some days she listens and some days its like she doesn't hear me at all."

"Oh, I know."

Her daughter flaps her arms and chases after another child with a handful of yellow mesh as I look around the soccer arena for Elias.

He stands alone in the corner, with his back to the field, talking to himself.

 

During tryouts my freshman year at the University of Vermont, for the B squad, the coach told us to juggle the ball across the width of the field. On a good day, I can actually connect with the ball three or four times when I attempt to juggle, which is rare because I feel embarrassed even thinking about it.

So lets just say I bombed the tryouts. I came to school out of shape after my first summer away from home, living in Lake Tahoe with Taft friends, drinking and well, drinking...

Not once during the three days of try-outs did I get a chance to slide-tackle. And that was my thing.

I played sweeper or right defense and I was the clean-up girl. The last line of defense before our goalie. I sucked at skill tests, but a one-on-one race where my opponent had to dribble the ball and I just had to keep her from getting past me, well I could do that.

The coach cut me and I went from a high-school State All Star to a soccer player without a team.

So I transferred schools.

 

The indoor turf field fills with families of children with Autism, Down's Syndrome, Cerebral palsy, SpinaBifida, and countless other conditions of the body and mind.

"When is soccer over?" Elias asks, ten minutes into the hour.

"When it's done."

 

When I miss a month or so, and the opportunity for Sunday (or the occasional Wednesday) soccer finally arises, I feel ten again. Like I could slip on my royal-blue WAYS jacket, covered in team patches, sewn on by my Mom, and run all the way back to the fields I grew up on.

I feel like I could play forever.

And I could.

 

(This is the start of an essay draft, hope to return to this topic soon.)

 

Comments

[Danielle]

Christy, I really like this jump back and forth technique and hope to try it myself someday. (I used it a bit in an essay about my mom that was published in Literary Mama, which is an online magazine that you were made for! Why haven't I thought earlier to tell you to submit? Or hacve you already, and I have notchecked it recently? But in that essay each bit was about my mom at a different point in time, there were fewer characters to deal with.) Anyway, I like where this is going but I had trouble with the bit that began " 'I'm sorry" the woman said" because I immediately thought it was the same woman who used the handicapped spot you did not take.
Did I really jsut write that? Well, you did say it was a draft for an essay and I am a bitchy English teacher who loves to write and loves to read what you write.
Can't wait to read the final copy. Your blog is consistently thoughtful, beautiful, and inspiring.

[Christy]

Danielle, I loooove that you wrote with feedback, as a former English teacher myself I appreciate good editing and I didn't even think about the fact that readers would assume i was talking about the same woman who parked illegally. I'll change that intro so the new woman is introduced before she speaks or so the setting is clear. Thank you , thank you, thank you Danielle!

[Christy]

Me again. So I just made a quick change for now b/c when I reread it this morning it bugged me too.

And Danielle, I have read Literary Mama when Vicki Forman use to write a monthly column for them called Special Needs Mama but need to check it out more now and think about submitting something to them. Thanks for the idea:)

[danielle in zurich]

Hi Christy,
Then you HAVE to read Vicki Forman's book. Order it from www.addall.com (they scan all online sellers to get the cheapest price and they include shipping when they do their comparison!) That book is amazing.
D

[Christy]

Read it and loved it-- even if it was hard to read as she put me right back into the NICU with her vivid descriptions.

[Stacey]

You remind me of Abby Wambach. Can't wait to see you!

[Louise]

This is a great piece Christy. I feel like I'm in the room with you. You've captured that core part of you - that rock solid, fierce confidence I remember so well, and interwoven it beautifully with your day to day mama challenges. I also really like the back and forth jumps into your history. I await the expanded version, as this seems like very fertile soil!

[Christy]

Thank you!!!!!!