Everyone is an Athlete When It’s Rec
And everybody wins when you say yay to sports
“You just need to fill out this form for everybody and write a check.”
I had just walked in from Shoprite and my husband, Peter, was sitting at his desk in his home office. He handed me a rumpled flyer and on it, I saw a smiling soccer player and a million little boxes. With a pen I found on the floor, I completed the form, skipping only the box for the first name, and then made two copies on the office copier. Then I wrote by hand my daughters’ names in each of the three empty boxes. I don’t know if all triplet moms fill out forms that way but it has always worked for me.
“Is it a clinic?” I asked, “Or do they play games?” I had a vague memory of bringing my niece, now ten, to a soccer clinic in kindergarten where three dozen children ran wild chasing soccer balls and knocking down cones. She had loved it. My sister and I had not participated in sports in our youth and that soccer clinic was the only sport I could remember attending for either my niece or nephew.
My husband, however, had played sports throughout his childhood. Soccer, basketball, and baseball, from pick-up games to varsity. And street hockey, so much street hockey.
Each season, in each sport, his father was his coach. So when he said he would sit back and let another dad coach, I was surprised. Wasn't this something he had waited to do? But all of this was new to me so I followed his lead.
And that first year was adorable. The girls had enormous jerseys that I tailored the best I could without cutting off the numbers on their backs. My husband commented a million times that Stevie’s dad didn’t know anything about soccer. And that Grace was offside (whatever that was). That was the only season, the only sport, that Peter watched as a spectator.
The next year Peter coached kindergarten for our son and first grade for our daughters and the following year all four kids were on the same team because first and second grade are combined and co-ed which seemed to be an amazing idea. I ordered navy blue headbands for the girls to match their navy blue jerseys trimmed with white and sponsored by Jax Car Wash; whenever I get my car washed I see that team picture and I smile.
By the end of second grade, we were playing a sport every season and the kids loved it. Peter was either head or assistant coach for each sport except swimming, that was mine. In addition to everybody joining and playing recreation teams, we now played travel. That meant more practices, more uniforms, more games, and more checks. As a family we hit the maximum contribution for town recreation every year; we also scooped Italian ice, grilled hot dogs, flipped pancakes, and dressed in matching t-shirts for a dozen tournaments and fundraisers each year.
In August when swimming ends and their competition suits have been stowed in a bin marked Maywood Dolphins in the basement, my kids will drag the bin marked Cleats and Shin Guards out to the driveway. They will try on different pairs until they find a pair they like.
“But my feet are the smallest so I never get new ones,” Bridget looked at me with her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “Vincent gets new ones twice a year and sometimes Claire gets new ones, too.”
“Would you rather new cleats or giant feet?” I ask. She laughs and says, “Mommy,” as she always does when she thinks I’m being ridiculous.
I ask them to figure out the cleats and shin guards and then clean up the pile. We have company coming. Some of the families from the travel baseball team are coming for an impromptu potluck barbecue.
When Peter handed me that flyer, I became a soccer mom. I didn’t get a minivan and sporty visor but the moms I met on the sidelines are the moms I lean on every day. When I cheer on my kids I’m still uncertain of some of the rules (something, something, last defender) but I cheer them on loudly. Participation in sports came with the promise of instilling self-confidence and self-discipline in my kids. It was meant to teach them teamwork and to help them build stronger relationships. And it does.
When I look at the other parents on the bleachers, on the sideline, and sitting by the pool, I realize that youth sports do all of those things for some parents, too. Moms that might not be that social find it easier to chat when you have to sit next to me for 45 minutes every week in the gym. And a single dad whose daughter wants a playdate might find it’s easier to organize when we are all yelling at the ref together at a soccer game. The team, it seems, isn’t just the players. It’s the parents, too. So if you ever see me at a game or a meet, please come and say hello; you’ll know it’s me because I’m the one yelling, “Yay, Sports!”
