Soccer?

One of the great mistakes I’ve made in the Fathering Arts is assuming my sons are just miniature versions of me. I made ½ of them, so of course they will only like Star Wars and video games and engage in a lifelong struggle with hair that sticks up in the back. Why would they be independent and unique kids when I can simply think of them as tiny Ricks?

Imagine my surprise when Luca wanted to play soccer this year. What? No. Hamanns don’t play soccer. One of my defining jokes around the office is, “Hamanns have yet to meet a ball they couldn’t drop.” We don’t play sports. We’re brainy. We’re funny. We’re nerds. Sports. Sports are for doofuses.

In the weeks leading up to the first practice and game, I could see the appeal. There were cool, European style uniforms to wear. There were cool, brightly colored cleats to clomp around in. Luca went so far as to learn how to tie his shoes on his own to capitalize on the new shoes. There were also cool weird socks and shin guards. But no jockstraps. Yet.

When it finally came to the first practice and first game, we ran into the Luca nerves. Luca hates not knowing what to do. He needs to know every single detail and get it straight in his head before he can participate in anything, including board games, school, eating and especially sports.

It didn’t help that, through some weird soccer birthday math, Luca was on a team with a bunch of kids who were two years older. These 9 year olds had been playing for years and walked around with that easy gait of David Beckham.

Diana tried to explain Luca’s situation to his coach. “Hey. Luca has never done this. So he needs a little extra help.”

The coach, not looking up from his phone, simply told Luca, “Get on out there.”

On the day of his first game, Luca was not happy. What was he supposed to do? Where does he go? What’s defense? What’s off sides? Do you dump Gatorade on the coach’s head before or after the game?

By the time we got to the field, Luca was in full anxiety mode. It didn’t help that the opposing team was filled with glandular giants they bussed in from the nearby penitentiary.

Diana again approached the coach. “Hey Coach, I think you gotta, you know, coach Luca.”

The coach said, “Get on out there.”

Luca burst into tears and Diana wanted to strangle the coach with his lanyard. The coach finally understood his job and knelt down to explain to Luca what he needed to do. Exactly. Which was basically, “Get on out there and kick the ball.”

And that is what he did. Luca ran harder than anyone on the field. It didn’t help that he was half the size of everyone. But it was amazing to see him race around, flopping on the ground and bouncing off the giants. He had this wonderful look on his face. Determined joy.

Diana and I screamed our support. “Go Silver Lightening! Go Silver Lightening!”

One of the nearby moms said, “Um. The team name is Silver Fire.”

“Go Silver Fire!”

Luca’s team got crushed. Even though you don’t keep score in AYSO, it was 13-0. But Luca didn’t care. He had fun and was so exhausted when he got home he was an absolute nightmare the rest of the evening.

I am proud of my little jock.