Pressdog.com

I Smell Hardware

By Bill Zahren
(Posted 10/03/01)

This whole suburban 9-year-old girls youth soccer thing is all very convivial and wholesome and “good exercise and sportsmanship” and all — until they start playing for hardware.

Then our friendly sideline inter-parent banter shifts from the economy, lawn care and the merits of minivan power doors to how to maim and kill the other team. Because when you’re playing for the under-10-year-old-group championship of the Johnston (Iowa) Fall Soccerfest 2001, it’s right there next to playing for the World Cup.

So you can understand why we had visions of Queen’s Freddie Mercury, back from the grave, standing at midfield in his customary silk, sequins and tights (striking) kickin’ it with the appropriate anger for the West Des Moines homeys:

Buddy you're a young girl hard girl
Shouting in the street gonna take on the world some day
You got blood on yo' face
You big disgrace
Wavin' your banner all over the place

Cut to a sideline full of parents in Land’s End lawn chairs doing the rhythmic stomp-stomp-clap, stomp-stomp-clap that all real Americans know how to do to Queen’s We Will Rock You:

WE WILL WE WILL rock you
Sing it!
WE WILL WE WILL rock you
Ev-ery-body
WE WILL WE WILL rock you
WE WILL WE WILL rock you
All right!

Cut to Queen’s Brian May cranking out his killer guitar riff in the south penalty area. Feel free to make a guitar face. Last weekend my 9-year-old daughter, Haley, and her West Des Moines Blue Jays team participated in their first tournament ever, this one just up the road in tony Johnston, Iowa. They won three games and advanced to The Championship against the scrappy Altoona (Iowa) Lions Sunday afternoon.

Haley most often plays right back, also called “full back” or “defender,” a position kind of like strong safety in football. The linebackers (midfielders) take care of defensive business in the middle of the field (hence the clever name) and the backs are the last line of defense before the goalkeeper. Backs need to do whatever they need to do (within the rules of the game, of course) to prevent the other team from getting a good shot on goal.

After a scoreless first half we got a goal from goalkeeper-turned-forward Katie H. (Our team has multiple Katies, so you must affix the proper last initial.) She busted a move to the center and sent a rocket into the right corner of the net.

We fathers wiped manly tears and did subdued-yet-heartfelt little jigs on the sidelines. Nothing approaching unsportmanlike booty shaking, of course. We gave props and mental shout outs to Katie’s Dad. We had visions of our daughters getting their Olympic medals and the Star-Spangled Banner playing while we fathers held each other and wept unashamedly -- striking.

So, right on cue, I, Mr. Sportsmanship Above All, Mr. Just Play for Fun, started talking smack to my fellow fathers. “1-0 is enough,” I said, chest puffed up so far I couldn’t see my shoes. I mentally continued: “ ‘Cause we got the killer D, Homes. We got numma 2-9 (Haley) in the back row. They’ll be no scoring this half. Numma 2-9 pick them cleaner than Iowa cornfields in October, knowwhatimsayin? We got the shields up, G.”

I did have certain underwear-related events minutes later when an Altoona forward thundered a shot toward the net. I may or may not have said to myself: “Oh (rhymes with “truck”)” and then gave a shout out to the Almighty went wide right.

Checking with goalkeeper Emma’s parents: “Any strokes over here?” Emma’s Mom looked catatonic. “Not yet,” she murmured. I can see why goalkeepers’ parents eat blood pressure meds like candy.

From then on, Katie F’s Dad and I kept looking at Leah’s Dad, whose stopwatch feature on his wristwatch made him unofficial game timekeeper for the parents. Leah’s Dad held up four fingers, signifying four minutes remaining. I responded with the NFL official “run the clock” signal. Much agreement nodding from Leah and Katie F’s Dads. Meanwhile, Leah’s Mom, who had been all “Have fun girls!” “Have a good time girls!” as they went onto the field to start the game transformed into “GET IT. KICK IT. GET IT OUT OF THERE. KICK. THE. BALL. HARD.”

With about three minutes left, Emergency Medical Technicians showed up to sit with goalkeeper Emma’s Mom, who experienced angina and respiratory distress every time the ball crossed midfield. EMS woman powered and greased the defib paddles just in case she had to jolt Emma’s Mom back to life. Medical helicopter standing by. I wondered if Haley knew lives were at stake if she let anyone get a shot on goal.

Then Katie H. scored again, this time a thunderous blast from 30 feet out that frightened several small children in the crowd. Katie H’s Dad did a good job of not exploding into proud father shrapnel.

Two-oh is definitely good enough, home slices. Word is bond. Even Emma’s Mom was regaining her color. A minute later it was over, and the fathers in the crowd did the two-handed victory salute. For a second I thought we were going to group hug and tear down the goal posts (The resulting injuries to our puffy, well-insured late-30s bodies would put many orthopedic surgeons’ children through college.) But cooler heads prevailed.

Of course the girls who had just won The Championship were most excited about, as you can imagine, the post-game treats. One player always brings treats for after every game. There’s an official treat schedule. If they had to decide between treats and hardware, they’d have to know what kind of treats and if they had to share with their sisters. The parents couldn’t hear them rummaging through the treat pile though. We were too busy locking arms and singing with Freddie:

We are the champions, my friends
And we'll keep on fighting till the end
We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions — of the worlddddddddd

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