I refuse to to be one of those moms pacing the sidelines, chewing her nails, and shouting at a bunch of eight year olds kicking a ball.
And I will never, not ever, drive a minivan.
It's funny where life takes you.
We first set foot on the YMCA soccer fields five years ago. RJ's jersey encouraged him to do more, be more. That first game, we forgot his ball.
Today, there are at least six soccer balls in my garage (2 are pink). A set of chairs seasonly resides in the back of the van. Yeah, I said it. The van. As in minivan. As in soccer mom. Every Saturday.
I still refuse to be one of those moms pacing the sidelines, chewing her nails, and shouting at a bunch of eight year olds kicking a ball. Or, rather, I refused until last weekend.
"Mom," RJ piped from his booster seat, "We have to win today--we're undefeatable!" He was right. His YMCA soccer team was undefeated. The season hadn't presented a lot of competition; but our boys worked hard nonetheless and found themselves in an enviable position. Our team consists of about 10 boys. Some are eight, some are seven, and some are nine. Some are tall. Some are tiny. A few have played together for years; and those few welcomed newcomers, including one who had never set foot on a field before.
The opposition was tough. Their coaches yelled. Their parents cheered when our stronger player hit the ground--a show of poor sportsmanship that drove me to the opposite side of the field where I paced. I yelled, "Get it RyRy!" I chewed my nails. I looked away and looked back again.
Realistically, I knew it was only an eight year old's soccer game in a local YMCA league. There will be so many more games, so many more important games. This one was important too. I didn't want to admit it, but it was likely the last time RJ would start a game, "Win or lose, I pledge before God to play the game as well as I know how."
Warning: Mom brag ahead.
RJ is good. Really good. He should be. He's been kicking a ball since before he could walk. Last night, I watched him dribble a Hot Wheels down the hall to bed. He can't help himself. Fancy footwork makes him happy. Unfortunately, at some point, fancy footwork needs to be challenged. It's time for him to move on to a "real" soccer league--one that will challenge him and teach him that it's okay to lose.
But last Saturday, our team was undefeatable. He wanted to win. I wanted him to win.
And they did. They're undefeatable.
I blinked, and he went from
this....to
this. (I told his coach he had to stay out of the goal; it stresses me out too much).
We've had a pretty great coach along the way.
And added another Saturday game to our regular schedule. She's fierce too.
I'm guessing her brother will be undefeatable in her eyes no matter the score.
The chairs have been stored, and we've reclaimed a few Saturdays before the next season starts.
One last medal has been awarded--a reminder to improve himself in spirit, mind, and body.
And even if only this one time, my boy knows the pure champion joy of being undefeatable.
