So I watch a lot of soccer now
I grew up playing football in a school that, back in the day, was probably like a lot of other schools: We were indoctrinated not to like soccer.
Our coaches used it as a foil, calling it, to put it nicely, a gentleman’s sport compared to our violent, blood-and-guts endeavor.
As with most forms of indoctrination, this flew in the face of the empirical evidence in front of our faces. My school had one of the best boys teams in the area, a team that included several tough dudes who also were my wrestling teammates.
I never saw a high school game. In fact, I never watched a soccer game at all until I became the team reporter for the Rutgers-Camden student newspaper, The Gleaner, my frosh year at college. (And oh what heights I would climb at The Gleaner, only a year later becoming the woefully unprepared editor-in-chief.)
I became friends with several players, especially my boys the DeFeo brothers, and I began to develop an appreciation for the sport.
But even as late as the early aughts, I was still basically a block-headed American when it came to soccer.
Then dad-dom struck. Soccer is a big socializing event in my community, so early on we enrolled our five-year-old daughter as a way to meet folks. The league always needs coaches, so I volunteered for my first group: The Purple Lions. (I also coached Blue Thunder before settling into red teams, mostly because then I would always have spare red jerseys: The Red Hot Chili Peppers, The [incredible] Red Hot Lava Rocks, The Flaming Cardinals, among others. Every team had a talisman/good luck charm; I am especially proud of the spray-painted concrete chunk “lava rock”.)
I grew interested in the nuances of the game, and I paid attention to what any coach near me was doing; I collected drills by writing them on index cards and then a booklet.
But I was yet an outsider who didn’t appreciate the broader sport, even expressing annoyance at what I considered the overhyped World Cup (!).
I still didn’t get it.
My kids, though, kept playing. All three of them enjoyed the sport and had decent success, but it was also a communal activity that connected them with friends and some high-quality adults. I thought my boys would play football some day, just like their old man!, but it never happened. They didn’t even watch Eagles games, a ritual that remains a rare afternoon couch-surfing activity for me.
So I had a choice. Even if I was supportive–you know, giving rides, attending games–would I really embrace this thing they loved, or would I remain an outsider? I suppose it’s a bigger question, regardless of the activity or interest: You have these kids who become–and just as everyone said, this has happened in a blur–full-blown people with their own interests, and will the day come when you realize you have nothing in common?
For me, I basically had to stop being an idiot.
Sure, NFL mania still courses through my systema nervosum, but I watched soccer with my kids and their friends and began to understand.
Of course, now that I’m just getting it, my run as a soccer coach is at an end. Who will inherit my pile of index cards and notebooks?
The other day, I settled on the couch to watch Liverpool vs. Manchester City. I’m rooting Man City all the way–it’s my older son’s favorite team. I know most of both rosters, and I have a favorite player on each team: Virgil van Dijk–hey, my boys were both center backs!–and the sublime Kevin De Bruyne.
My youngest was visiting his siblings in Philly to get a taste of college life (that young’un returned home with pink hair is a tale for another time…). I was by myself, enjoying the two-hour sojourn just like an NFL game.
The kids arrived a few hours later for Sunday dinner, filling up the house with presence.
You know, I think we all have lots in common and always have lots to cover, but when the boys saw me, they both gave me a knowing nod: “How about that game?” And I knew exactly what they were talking about.
