The mighty Rainbows had their second game of the season on Saturday, but since I missed the first game it was my first official coaching experience. And I’m playing fast and loose with the words “official” and “coaching”.
The game was at 9:15 a.m. so I told P to wake me up around 8:00. Caroline had spent the night at Mimi and Bops’ house and I figured an 8:00 wake up call would give me all the time I’d need to map out our game plan and plot our team strategy or at least enough time to eat a bowl of yogurt with granola and berries because the yogurt and I have reunited and it feels so good.
While I ate my yogurt and checked email, I asked P, “Is there someplace to sit or do I need to bring a chair or a blanket?”
He looked at me for a minute and said, “There are bleachers, but it doesn’t matter because you won’t be sitting. You’re a coach, remember?”
“Of course I remember. I was just asking for Mimi and Bops.”
Also, I totally forgot that I was a coach. And that coaching requires you to stand on the sidelines and, um, coach people.
In my defense, we didn’t have practice last week because of all the rain so it’s totally understandable that it slipped my mind that I’d volunteered for P and I to co-coach the team. I feel like Michael Scott, “I was promoted to co-coach. We will be co-coaches together.”
I went into the bedroom to get dressed and lamented to P that I didn’t have any Nike shorts trimmed in royal blue with a matching royal blue t-shirt because I wanted to look coach-like and wear our team colors in the hopes that the right outfit would totally take away from the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. It’s a strategy that has worked well for me throughout much of my life. Especially from 1994-1996.
Without that black double-breasted suit jacket from Harold’s paired with a snappy houndstooth skirt and sensible pumps, I wouldn’t have convinced nearly as many people that a 22-year-old recent college graduate (with a degree in Speech Communications and a D in Personal Finance) knew exactly which mutual funds were the best and they should ABSOLUTELY let me help them invest their retirement money.
P said I was more than welcome to dress in team colors, but that I should know I’d be the only coach out there who did so. He might have also alluded that he might decide to ignore me if I did, but I may have blown that out of proportion. Not that I ever blow things out of proportion.
We arrived at the fields about thirty minutes early which allowed us plenty of time to get completely overheated before the game ever began. Apparently the sun didn’t get the memo that it’s the end of September and time to turn it down a notch. We get it, you’re the sun and you’re very bright and hot.
Caroline showed up with Mimi and Bops. She had her shirt tucked into her shorts (I’m still on the fence about the shirt tucked in versus worn out) and had her royal blue socks pulled up past her knees to somewhere around mid-thigh. I felt like I was about to have a heat stroke just looking at her with those wool socks covering her entire leg. But she insisted that’s how she wanted to wear them and insinuated that what I don’t know about being a cool soccer player is enough to fill a book. Which, granted, is true.
The other team showed up and I began to get a little concerned because they looked bigger than our girls. Then I met their coach and she was wearing track pants with a stripe down the side. I don’t know if anything is more legitimate than a coach wearing track pants. Not to mention that her team seemed to have several assistant coaches also wearing track pants and they all seemed to know a lot of soccer-type chants. All we had in our arsenal was “GO RAINBOWS!” and no track pants.
Also, I don’t think she had a child on the team. Which means she coaches soccer for fun or because she enjoys destroying six-year-olds. In her free time.
We had an umpire with all the enthusiasm of a corpse who didn’t really seem to understand that these were six- year-old girls and not professional soccer players who knew what he meant when he grunted “Corner kick” at them when the ball went out of bounds. And it started to get on my nerves just a little bit when the other team scored their tenth goal on us and their coach still insisted on jumping up and down and screaming every time it happened. I wanted to politely remind her that they are six and we don’t even play with goalies, but I was waiting to see if she was going to rip off her t-shirt and show us her sports bra at the end of the game.
Our girls gave it their best effort even though they all knew enough to know we were getting beat. BADLY. All these people can say what they want about everyone being a winner, but kids know when they’re losing. There’s no sense in lying to them about it. At halftime, P just told them to give it their best shot, play as hard as they could and leave their guts on the field. I passed out grapes and Gatorade and refrained from making any speeches about guts. But that’s why we’re a good match.
They played a lot better the second half and, in a stunning turn of events, Caroline even (accidentally) took a ball to the head. I was totally prepared for the meltdown I knew was about to happen but she just kept on running down the field like a mighty Rainbow should.
All in all, I have to say I’m a fan of soccer. I love that the girls love it. I love that it caused Caroline to burn energy to the point that she laid on our couch for two hours after she got home. I love that one of the moms brought delicious snacks for the whole team. Most of all, I loved seeing Caroline run down the field and score a goal.
This coming Saturday I’ll be on my own. P has a prior commitment so I’ll be coaching solo.
And you better believe I’ll be wearing my track pants.