What Me, Blacklisted?

If you read my post at DadCentric Tuesday, you know that I overexerted myself a bit the other week at my kids' soccer practices. (If you didn't read it, click over to "Kids are a Pain" now. I'll wait.)

The irony of this is that I'm not supposed to be coaching soccer at all this season. I was blacklisted by the league.

My crime? Verbal abuse of the referees? Climbing into the stands to hit a parent? Putting steroids in the halftime juice boxes?

Nope. I had a few choice exchanges with the league's directors last year and I used some inappropriate words.

They were "50 percent refund."

Three of the seven games my daughter's team played one season were won by forfeit because the other team didn't have enough players show. The eighth game, for the championship, was canceled because the league assigned someone else to our field. So, being the accountant's son that I am, I asked the league to give my team's parents half their money back.

I e-mailed them three times with my request before someone finally responded. That was only after I might have casually mentioned calling the city parks department and team sponsors about reconsidering their support for the league.

Anyway, six minutes after I hit the "send" button on the third missive, my phone rang.

It was an enlightening discussion that went something like this:

LEAGUE BIGWIG: We don't refund money to players. They're children.

ME: Good thing. They'd probably spend it on cheap whiskey, angel dust and chicken nuggets. That's why I requested you refund my players' parents. It's in the e-mail. All three of them.

LEAGUE BIGWIG: You said your last game was a playoff. That age bracket isn't supposed to have playoffs.

ME: I don't care what you call it. It was a game on the schedule you gave us that wasn't played because of your scheduling mistake.

LEAGUE BIGWIG: But it wasn't a playoff. That league is not supposed to have playoffs.

ME: Whatever. I had one parent cut a weekend trip short to bring their kid to a game that didn't occur because a schedule you issued us three months ago was wrong.

LEAGUE BIGWIG: But it wasn't a playoff.

My favorite part of this whole conversation (apart from some inevitable cussing on my part because, alas, I can only stand so much stupid) was being lectured about this being a not-for-profit league run by volunteers and the importance of being involved, not just as a mere coach of two teams (as I was) but as a league commissioner, an executive director or eventually the head of ACORN.

This came right before Bigwig told me I was NOT invited to attend the board meeting at which my request was being discussed.

I volunteered to show up anyway. He couldn't see the irony past his iron fist.

As expected, my request was denied. So, I let it drop and moved on, coaching two teams for another season without incident.

Then, when the league issued its autumn rosters, the Things received their team assignments but I was not a coach for either team even though I volunteered (remember that word) to run one team and assist with the other.

I figured maybe they actually had enough coaches, though that would have been a first in my two years in the league. Call me skeptical. I made a few calls just to be sure.

"Man, I didn't want to tell you this," said my assistant from a previous season. "They called me and drafted me to run a team. I told them I was only planning on being your assistant again this year. Then they said you weren't being allowed to coach a team this year because of some incident you had over the winter."

My response to this. I volunteered. Directly -- to both my kids' coaches. They both welcomed the added help. In fact, I "officially" was promoted to co-coach of one team because the other coach travels for business frequently.

Part of my new coaching duties is to introduce myself to the refs before every game, make small talk with them and compliment their outstanding officiating skills. By doing this, they always come to me when the game ends and hand me a special slip of paper.

It's their pay sheet for the league.

I make certain I print and sign my name in very large, legible bold letters.

Soccer Suck-sess

My daughter's indoor soccer team recently reached the league finals, in all modesty, because of my superior communication skills.

I apparently was the only coach to e-mail his players' parents every week to remind them what time the game started.

This paid off in three of our five victories coming from the other team not having enough players show up.

"I think they fear your pink uniforms," the opposing coach said right after his team forfeited to us for the second time this season. To salt his wounds, it was the first round of the playoffs. He's also the league commissioner.

The downside of our persistence was a rematch against the one team we hadn't beaten in two seasons. We hadn't even scored on this team, not even when it inserted a goalie that would fail the minimum height requirement to be a member of the Lollipop Guild in a pygmy colony production of The Wizard of Oz.

Some of this dominance had to do with their coach. He is a former professional player from one of those European countries where parents think 9-and-under soccer is more than just a way to burn off their kid's week's worth of high frutose corn syrup consumption under some other sucker's watch. I, on the other hand, honed my coaching technique by thrice watching a shaky 17-minute VHS tape that I borrowed from my neighbor who kept said tape in a shoebox in his basement next to his beer. (And yes, I too was disappointed -- no, shocked! -- that it wasn't a mislabeled porno.)

The day of the big game arrived and I was ready with a clipboard full of player alignment diagrams and ball movement strategies. These, I thought, would perfectly complement my tried-and-true mantras of "kick the frickin' ball" (offense), "get up in their grill" (defense)" and "ARRRRR" (general purpose, used mostly when the first two mantras are not adhered to). Since these were girls, I unfortunately had to shelve use of the soccer version of the ball-into-your opponent's-groin move I learned in childhood from the Burt Reynolds' football classic The Longest Yard.

The adrenaline coursed through my being. My blood pressure raced several ticks past the red zone. I grabbed my bag of secondhand soccer balls from the minivan and barked at Thing 1 to stop playing Dancing with the Stars on her Nintendo and get her gad-dang gameface on!

"ARRRRR!!!" she roared.

"ARRRRR!!!" I roared ... shortly thereafter when I was told the championship game was canceled.

Apparently, the league never intended to have playoffs for our division, and they gave our gym time to another league.

"The weather is nice," said the opposing coach. "If your players want, we can have a scrimmage on the fields in back. The goals are still up back there."

We took our players down to the fields. While his gathered around in a quiet circle at his feet, mine spastically flayed their arms and scattered when they saw the carpet of Canada goose poop they were going to play upon.

The game lasted about half an hour in the open air, which seemed to make my players forget the few basics they knew, such as what color jerseys their teammates wore. We were down 3-0 in the last minute when I heard the other team's assistant (the pro coach, BTW, had left early presumably to scout potential recruits at a "Mommy and Me" playgroup) tell his players to ease up.

Our team responded quickly with a shot on goal!

It went wide by 10 yards.

"We tried to let them score but they wouldn't!" I heard one of the other team's players complain.

Not "couldn't."

But "wouldn't."

That's my team.

Unwilling to surrender to the slatternly beckon of on-field charity!

Or, more likely, just oblivious to the situation.

ARRRRR!

I'm Cheating on You

Last week I was overwhelmed taking care of the junk that had piled up during my four-day excursion West, and then with a couple days of labor.

(To be clear, mommybloggers, I don't mean the "squeezing a bowling ball out from between my legs" kind of labor. I know, I know. It was a beautiful yet painful and horrible experience for you that I -- a "man" -- can never truly comprehend. You're all awesome. Down there. And stuff. You humble me. I was only referring to the mentally draining kind of labor that comes with a pittance of a paycheck in the mail six weeks later. Sometimes it makes me wish I could opt for the bowing ball.)

This weekend, I was hard at work fulfilling contractual obligations -- as a blogger and as a youth soccer coach.

On the blogging front, you can read about the utter disappointment suffered by me and Thing 1 upon watching the 2009 version of The Electric Company over on DadCentric.com. Click the links in it. Lots and lots of great clips from the original show and, thankfully, none from the new one. Bleech!

Next, I contributed a little something about sex to a brand new spanking blog called "Hot Dads." (Hmm, there should have been hyphens in there somewhere. It is NOT a blog about spanking. Or Spanx. Do they make Manx? Maybe Reverse Manx for, um, date-night enhancement.)

In the soccer arena (really middle-school gymnasiums -- got that hyphen right), the Things' teams went 1 and 1. A little hollow because the one victory was notched when the other team didn't have enough players show up. So that day, we ended playing a practice game once I sent three of my players (including Thing 1) over to the other team for the afternoon.

Now, I said "practice game" because I was confident these 8- and 9-year-olds -- some of whom I have previously coached -- wouldn't understand the word "scrimmage." I learned they also didn't know the term "practice game."

"Who won?"

"Technically, we won the league game because the other team didn't have enough players. So, we played a practice game. That ended in a 1-1 tie."

"So did we win?"

Grrrrrr.

On the ride home, I told Thing 1 that she played OK but it didn't look like she was giving as much effort as she could.

"I didn't want to kick the ball too hard," she said, "because I didn't want the other team to beat you."

Oh, my precious Pumpkinhead (because that's what I called her as a baby), you're a keeper.

Just not a goalkeeper.

Soccer Coach? But I Hardly Know Him!

Upon the birth of my first child, I knew two things were my destiny:

1. I would be one of those father's who threatened (and, when needed, performed) bodily harm upon any boy who broke his little girl's heart; and,


2. I would coach youth sports.

The first destiny is not yet fulfilled (but I'm watching you closely, curly haired, mouth-breather in the third row of homeroom). The second happened earlier this week when I became head wrangler of a herd of 7- and 8-year-old girl soccer players.

I originally volunteered to be an assistant. You know, the guy who always has a needle for the ball pump and a chemical ice bag for a bruised shin. When you need a supporting cast, I'm your Lou Grant, Rhoda Morgenstern and Phyllis Lindestrom -- all in one. But when you give me my own show … well, you tend to wish I had stayed in the newsroom with Murray and Ted.

But I got a frantic e-mail from the league saying they were desperately short of head coaches and would I, pretty please, do it. I hesitated for bit because I always envisioned coaching my children in a sport I actually know something about. Like baseball. Or beer pong.

Then I thought back to Thing 1's last coach. Her wisdom in the sport boiled down to screaming "kick it the other way" for 48 minutes every Saturday morning. The team scored two goals in eight games.

My mission accepted, I immersed myself in every book with variations of the words "youth, " "soccer" and "coaching" in the title providing those words were modified by either "idiot," "dummy" or "ignorant, stupid-ass Dad."

Then it was off to Modell's to indulge in plastic orange cones, a whiteboard with an soccer field diagram on it, and, every youth sport coaches' ace in the hole, pepper spray. Unfortunately, on that last one, I had to settle for a whistle.

I read. I watched video. I drew up a detailed game plan … just for my practices. In fact, I did more work on this than on the presentations I did at my old corporate job. But then, most of those executives only acted like elementary school girls. This time, I was going head to head with the real thing.

When my team showed for its first practice, I repeatedly called every player by the wrong name, even Thing 1 because I didn't want her to get special treatment. I had them play a series of goofy games that I was told would trick them into learning important skills like ball control, passing and showboating so your highlight would make ESPN that night.

They laughed. They giggled. They fell an awful lot, too.

At the end, we played a 5-on-5, free-for-all match that gave me the epiphany I needed. My overarching coaching goal for this season would be simple: Perfect a dance that would bring frequent, violent lightning storms every Saturday morning so our games would be canceled.

Then, we had our second practice. At this one, my assistant coach showed up. He came bearing sheaves of diagrams and definitions. My shortcomings were about to be exposed.

Actually, it was a good balance. He knew something about soccer other than the team with the most goals when the whistle blows wins. He knew technique. He knew skills. He was also willing to play bad cop to my Barney Fife.

"Hey, listen to Coach Uncool or else you're going be taking a lap around the field," he told one hyperactive player. He had missed it early when this same player told me I could easily remember her name because it rhymed with "wacky."

This was unprecedented. No one ever recognizes my authority. Not My Love, not the Things, not the dog. This called for a testing of boundaries.

At the end of practice, I called everyone in.

"Now Coach Joe here really knows his stuff. If he tells you something that is completely different than what I tell you, chances are that he is probably right and I'm wrong," I told my giggly gaggle of girls. "But, since I'm the head coach, you'll still need to do what I say. That's the law."

Tittles of laughter.

"He's right," said Coach Joe. "He's the head coach. You do as he says."

I don't know about you, kids, but I smell … ah, victory.

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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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