last year sometime

“I will NEVER be able to play this!”

my (then) 8-year-old daughter Ava shouted and threw her plastic Yamaha recorder onto the couch, after failing to play “Hot Cross Buns.” Again.

I sighed. “Let’s take a break, love.”

An hour later after dinner and homework, I handed her the beige plastic musical instrument.

She grimaced at it. Frowned at me.

I nodded, silently saying: Yes; you are going to try this again.

She raised the recorder to her lips, her eyes on the music sheet.

She played.

She nailed the song. Note for note perfect. Her eyes widened, surprise mixed with delight.

“So, my love, is this what never sounds like?” I teased,
unable to contain my delight.

Ava laughed, and played it again. Perfectly.

recently

An email went out to my office, with the subject line:

Do you have legs? Then we need you!

I’ve never played team sports. I’ve always been “that girl” on the field, last picked for PE games, greeted with groans when I ended up on someone’s team.

But I really wanted to play soccer, and my company indoor soccer team needed folks with legs. They did not ask for talent, and I did not deceive them that I had any.

Figuring out how to buy shin guards at Sports Basement was tricky. I finally googled “putting on shin guards” on my phone and watched a YouTube video. The shin guards the experienced woman soccer player adorned did not look like anything hanging from the store wall.

I was too embarrassed to ask for help. So I guessed. Then I grabbed some white soccer socks, and a pair of black soccer shorts. I thought about how I’d have to be committed to shaving my legs Thursday mornings.

“This is a practice, right, not a game?” Ava asked, kicking a half-sized soccer ball around the aisles of gear.

“It’s a game,” I replied, looking at the floor, the walls of shoes, anywhere but at her. Knowing how ridiculous the idea sounded.

“Look Mommy,” Ava said, “kick the ball with the side of your foot, not your toe.” She kicked it to me in the store aisle. I kicked it back. The sum of her soccer experience was one week of camp, 5 years ago.

Still, that was more than me.

a couple weeks ago

“You’ve played before, right?” my teammate asked as we walked onto the court.

“Nope.” I wasn’t going to lie to him. “I’ve kicked the ball around a bit, but never played a game.” I didn’t tell him that most of this recent ball-kicking happened in the past three weeks in my living room.

I listened to all the coaching my teammates gave me and did my best to follow it. I subbed for the other women on our co-ed team when they got tired. My teammates said my game improved the second half, when I was coached to “guard the girl” on the other team.

“Guard” loosely translates to get in my opponent’s way, stay in her way, and always be between her and our goal.

Get in the way? I can do that. Even badly. I discovered personal space doesn’t exist on the indoor soccer court.

We lost; by a lot.

Regardless, we were ebullient and happy just to be playing.