Tales from the soccer pitch

I had my first experience of attending a girls’ Under 8 soccer match tonight. Husband has been more involved in 7-yo’s soccer exploits to date, and has even got himself appointed Assistant Coach to the team. But tonight he was at a meeting, so it fell to me to take her.

This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.

Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.

1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.

2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)

3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)

4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)

5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.

6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.

7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.

I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.

Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?

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