c'est la vie: passion has a place .... it's called football

Now there are three types of soccer moms ...... those that never come to games, those that always come to games (and their sons wish that they didn't) and those that come to games and are welcome. I have still managed to remain in the last category successfully for 9 years so far between Nic's school league and club league soccer. I even survived the week long provincial tournament intact. I do bite my tongue often.

The moms in the middle category are easily identifiable. Firstly their sons take to calling other boy's mothers ... mom ..... in the hope that the other spectators will not think that the ranter is his mom. This mom can be found right on the line next to the field, very often one foot on the field. She follows the game step by step, by running alongside the pitch whilst shouting instructions at her son ..... this is followed by shouting instructions at other people's sons ..... even the opposition team. This can escalate to the level where the language used often causes people to close the ears of younger siblings of the players. This mom always knows way better than the ref and calls offside long before it even happens. She always asks the ref if he is blind, argues every call, disputes any bookings and coaches her son during half-time. If they lose, every boy on the opposite team is a moron, the ref is biased and her son gets a McDonalds meal en route home to console himself. (Ok my son sometimes gets a McDonalds meal after a game too, but this has nothing to do with losing a match and everything to do with me not wanting to be asked for 20 kms home, what and when are we eating?).

I too know the soccer rules, understand the ever illusive-to-women, offside rule (yes Nic did explain it to me the old fashioned way using the salt, pepper, Aromat, Maggis, cumin, cinnamon, nutmeg and vinegar bottles. And yes I kept forgetting whether Aromat and cumin were on the same team or Aromat and vinegar. But I get the offside rule). I wash kit, I confirm with the starting lineup 48 hrs before, I sort registration papers, I scold them, I cheer them and I threaten to leave the kit unwashed if they lose. But they love me to bits.

Don't even get me started on some of the fathers. There are dads who never played soccer and don't come to matches. There are dads who did play soccer and come to nearly all the matches and give constructive advice and cheering (Eug). And then ...... oh yes, the dads who played. In 1990. And know everything. About everything. And oh boy, when little Johnny does something on the field that the 1990 champion thinks is wrong, then the coaching from the sidelines starts ..... Actual coach: "Little Johnny pull back, pull back". Daddy coach: "Johnny, Johnny, what the hell are you doing, move forward, move forward". These dads make me more tense than the game. And then there is the mouthful if the team loses. Sad.

So soccer is a January to October thing in our house. 4 days a week training (sometimes for school and then club afterwards on same day), 1 match during the week, 1 match on Saturdays and now a cup match in the week as well. It is a life of shinpads, boots, long socks, tape for socks, pro-vests, beanies, deep heat, freeze spray, sweat, fitness training, grass burns, broken toes, wet kit, injuries, ice-packs, celebrations and competition.