Screw Soccer Moms. This is a Mannish-Boy Blood Sport.

Some fellow Suburban Sperm Donors and I recently filled the void left by a misguided local ban on cockfighting. All it took was a half dozen hopped-up 6-year-old boys, a muddy park, some soccer balls and the fact our wives didn't expect us home for at least another hour.

It started innocently. A midday rain scared off half the league's players (OK, it scared off their parents and -- yes -- I AM staring through this flat screen right at you, Manager Mom). A bunch of the coaches got together, combined their pitiful lot of attendees into one game, and started early in hopes of getting us out of the rainstorm and into a six of Sam Adams as soon possible. And I had doubted there was strategy involved in this game.

Halfway into the match, it stopped raining. The sun came out. Girls, their summer frocks rippling in the breeze, began serving highballs and canapés while we hearty Sperm Donors cracked bons mots about the Dow (bathroom cleaners), our sporty foreign cars (Japanese minivans) and our palatial estates in the tropics (wormy rentals on the Jersey shore).

When the "real" game ended, half the group dispersed. But some of the (6-year-old) boys decided they had enough Gatorade and PowerBars in their systems to play some more. Thing 2 was one of the them.

Who am I to deny him the chance to fit in before he starts his inevitable, long journey to the middle?

What ensued, friends, was magical, hysterical and frightening all at once. See, soccer for the post-Barney, pre-Snoop Dog crowd normally goes like this:

Ball goes left.

Swarm-of-children-go-left-and-kick-each-other-until-ball-squirts-out.

Ball squirts rights.

Swarm-of-children-go-left-and-kick-each-other-until-ball-squirts-out.

But this … this was steel-cage, death match 3-on-3. Actual passing. Dekeing. Elbows flying. Simulated leather smacking into runny noses. Boys in black knee socks doing bicycle kicks while signing autographs in mid-air. That last part was a lie. I'm not sure any of them can spell.

But there was lots of shouting. From the dads.

"Take him, Doug*, take the ball from him!"

"Be aggressive, Prescott*! Don’t let him pass you!"

"Stop crying, get up and go after the ball, Bruce*. Just shake it off."

"Go for his throat, Berton*, or so help me you will be back with the babies in pre-K on Monday!"

Thing 2, meanwhile, decided be goalie. His game plan was screaming in the most guttural but annoying tone possible any time the ball came near him.

"HAAAAAAAW!! HAAAAAAW! WHOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO!!"

"Hey, buddy," I said to him. "Why don't you get out of the goal and see what you can do upfield?"

"HAAAAAAAW!! HAAAAAAW!! WHOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO!!"

"Dear Lord, my son is an idiot," I told Berton's dad.

Or is he?

The other kids scored only two goals on him. Thing 2's team scored seven. Plus, he walked away without a bloody nose (Doug) or a short-term future back with the Pampers set (sorry, Berton).

Maybe he understands that life is all about knowing where you best fit into the game.

HAAAAAAAW!! HAAAAAAW! WHOOOOO-HOOOOO-HOOOOO!! The little freak may beat his destiny yet.

* Names changed to match those of the members of The Knack for no apparent reason other than I felt like giving the band a shout. Plus, can you think of four worse names for blood-thirsty boys in florescent jerseys?
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