No Talking, Just Soccer

Dan and I read earlier this year that starting your kids in organized team sports before they’re 5 years old for the sake of learning to play that sport is just a waste of time (said, of course, more eloquently).  The article suggested that taking your kid to the back yard to bat a ball around a bit or take him to the park to kick a soccer ball around is perhaps more productive and easier on the pocketbook.  This is why I didn’t sign Cal up for tee-ball this summer – seems like we were better off just sticking with our backyard for a little while longer.  Besides, I don’t think I started in organized sports until I was 8 or 9; so waiting a year to get Cal started, he’s still ahead of my schedule, which seemed to have worked pretty well for me.

That I signed him up for this soccer camp this summer probably contradicts my conclusions from that article.  I really only did so because Cal repeatedly expressed an interest in it and because I wanted him to be a part of something organized, social and different than daycare.  I had no expectations around skill development.  That was, until last night.

Getting dressed and into the car to head to soccer was a breeze.  I have the weather to thank for part of that.  Afterall, it wasn’t hot, so I was comfortable giving in and compromising on the types of clothes he would wear to soccer – short sleeves (my wish) but long pants (Cal’s).  As he got dressed, I planted several seeds about the future – he would not ALWAYS be able to wear long pants, that it’s going to get hot and he’ll have to wear short pants soon… the usual song and dance.  They say it’s best to prepare your kid for change, so I am constantly preparing Cal for shorts with the hopes that when the time comes to actually wear them, he’ll either do so on his own accord or he won’t fight me too much on it.  Yeah, right.  I think this approach just spreads out the pain instead of having to suffer in the moment itself – the mere suggestion of shorts usually gets him pretty fired up.

“First day of soccer today, Baby Bear,” I had said repeatedly throughout the day.  “You excited?”  With every question, he indicated he was excited.  That was, until we actually got to soccer and it came time for him to walk to the field from the parking lot.  ”Actually, I don’t want to play soccer,” he said.

“Yes, you do.  C’mon – it’ll be a lot of fun!” I told him, lying a bit because is soccer actually fun?

“NOOOO!” and then he stepped in front of me and said, “Carry me.”

“No, I’m not carrying you to the field.  You can walk.”

“NOOOO! I don’t want to play soccer,” he said sternly and stopped walking.

I kept walking and coaxing him to join me – I was ready for the battle, which fizzled out pretty quickly, I have no idea why.  I had used this approach in other instances only to have to backtrack, fight and figure out a different way to move forward.

So we were at the field, and camp was just getting ready to start when Cal announced, “I have to go potty.”  What?  No you don’t.

“You went right before we left, Cal.  You have to go potty again?”

“Yes,” he responded.  We were in an unfamiliar, open field.  What do I do now?  My problem-solving skills kicked in.  He’s a boy – I could just take him off in the distance and have him pee on the grass.  Is that okay?  Wait.  Is that a porta potty I see over there?  It is! “Okay, Cal, let’s go!” I grabbed his hand, and we started running to the porta potty in the distance, giggling all the way there for some reason.

When we got there, Cal stepped in and naturally looked into the “toilet.”  I always do, too, I don’t know why.  “Ew, gross!” he exclaimed.

“I know.  Don’t look at it and DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING,” I insisted.  “You can go here instead,” I said, pointing at the urinal just to the left of the toilet.  If I were a boy, I’d prefer that.

“I want to go here,” he responded, pointing at the toilet.

“Okay, just DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING,” I repeated.

He peed his 3 drops of urine and was finished; and we darted out and ran back to the field, just in time for the start of camp.

There were 11 kids, all supposedly four years old.  Cal was certainly one of the bigger kids, if not the biggest.  Of these 11 kids, 9 had shin guards buried beneath long soccer socks, and a couple of them even had cleats.  Now, I watched these kids – remember, they’re supposedly 4 years old – for an hour, and I didn’t see any movement out of them that really justifies a need for cleats.  They prance and wander; they don’t cut and run with much of a purpose.  So my kid was one of two without shin guards or cleats, and he wasn’t the wiser.

Coach Bobby is the guy who runs the camp.  A nice guy with a lot of enthusiasm and patience, Coach Bobby, seems perfect for the job.  He introduced himself to the kids, some of whom appeared to already know him.  Must be because they took one of those classes at daycare or maybe even the 3-year-old camp last summer.  And then he asked the kids to introduce themselves.  Each kid was to state his name and his favorite movie.  About halfway through the introductions, it was Cal’s turn.  Say “Les Mis”… say “Les Mis," I thought.

“What’s your name?” Coach Bobby asked.

“Cal.”

“And what’s your favorite movie, Cal?”

“Cars 3.” Cars 3?  Is there a Cars 3? I mean, Cars 2, maybe, but Cars 3?

With the introductions finished, camp officially started with some warm ups and a couple of little games with the goal to instill in these kids that they should not use their hands on the ball and should only use their feet.  This is the first Cal heard of this rule, and I think it’s going to take a while to sink in.

Then the drills started, with a little instruction just before each.  The kids learned about pull-backs and dribbling and did many drills centered on practicing those sets of skills.  There were one-skill drills, as in “do two pull-backs.”  There were some combo-skill drills, as in “do two pull-backs and kick the ball toward the net.” One drill had the kids dribbling in place (back and forth between their feet), and another had them dribbling around a circle of cones, avoiding the inside of the circle where the alligators were.  Yet another drill had a limited number of balls, each to be dribbled by one while another tried to take it away – the one with the ball was to do a pull-back when the steal was attempted.  He even had them play a little game of red shirts vs. yellow shirts.

Cal doing a pull-back -- he looks good!

Coach Bobby’s instructions before each drill were pretty clear to me; however, what I saw rarely matched what was requested.  I saw many a kid touch the ball with his hands.  I cringed as I watched kids nearly roll their ankles as they attempted the pull-back; in a few cases, I saw the ball go forward with a pull-back attempt.  Some didn’t even try the pull-back.  I saw kids run well beyond the confines of the field, kicking the ball uncontrollably the whole way; and I saw kids run crying to their parents because something hurt.  All the kids were eaten by alligators on more than one occasion, running inside the circle instead of outside.  And a couple of them thought it was fun to knock the soccer net over.  Exactly what we read in that article, I thought.

Cal loved it all and excitedly participated in every drill.

In the middle of one of the drills, Cal just stopped and called to Coach Bobby, “Coach Bobby!  Coach BobbyI  I have something to tell you.”  Coach Bobby responded, “No talking, just soccer.”  Classic.  And Cal got back at the drill.  What it was Cal wanted to tell him, I don’t know.  Heck, he probably didn't even know.

During the steal-the-ball drill, Cal and another kid were chasing the same ball.  In their hustle to get to the ball, the kid tripped over Cal and fell to the ground.  He started crying.  Cal stopped in his tracks and, concerned and clearly feeling bad about this, he turned to the kid and said he was sorry, that it was just an accident.  The kid kept crying and eventually cried his way to this mom on the sideline, and Cal still stood still and repeated that he was sorry.  Proud of him but not wanting him to dwell on it too much, I said to him, “it’s okay, Cal -- go get the ball now.  He’ll be okay.”  And so he did.

Anyway, over the course of the hour, I made mental notes of things to work on with Cal before the next camp day.  Don’t touch the ball.  Pull-back.  Dribble the ball with your feet.  The whole concept of offense and defense.  The notion that it’s okay to try to “steal” the ball from the friend with it when stealing is part of the drill or the game.  All of a sudden, I had expectations around soccer skill development for my sub-5-year-old.

It was with about 10 minutes left that Coach Bobby herded up the kids and handed out the red and yellow pinnies for a team game.  One after another, I saw Coach Bobby hand a kid a pinny, a little distracted as he did so – kids struggled to put them on as they got them, and he had to jump in and help the kids with arms poking through neckholes or not in any holes at all.  He handed them out until only my kid was left without one, just sitting their patiently.  Hand him the pinny… hand him the pinny already... JUST HAND HIM THE PINNY ALREADY, I thought.   Coach Bobby assessed the colors, I’m assuming to make sure 5 of each had been distributed, and then finally handed Cal a pinny, which he grabbed and put on himself.  He didn’t care that he was last and had to wait so long, which was the right mindset.  I, on the other hand, was bothered by the delay in my kid getting a stinkin’ pinny, which I don’t fully understand since he was okay with it.  Oh, oh... I'm screwed. I'm going to hurt more for my kid than my kid actually hurts.

Overall, Day 1 of soccer was a success.  Cal capped it off well with this from the middle of the soccer field after most of the kids had headed to the sidelines, "See, Mom - when I first got here, I was shy and didn't want to play. But I did and had fun!"

He helped Coach Bobby pick up some balls, and then we both left with smiles on our faces, smiles that continued all the way to Wendy's for a couple of Frosties to celebrate a good soccer day.  Good soccer day?  Did I say that?