Last Saturday was Martin's first day playing soccer.  I woke up feeling a little better prepared than I did for t-ball in that I already knew how to get to the field.  When we got there it was a bit chaotic, the schedules missing and the roster still being printed back in the office.  We waited patiently in the crowd, greeting Martin's friends and a few former t-ball teammates.  Once we figured out where we were going and which color shirt he should wear, we headed over to the field.  A field without a coach.

"Know anything about soccer?"  I asked one parent.  "Nothing at all," he said.  Not discouraged, I started polling the rest of the parents, hoping that someone would say that they'd played in school or that they were an avid fan and knew the game.  One by one, each parent gave the same answer.  The kids grew restless and I set my purse at the edge of the field.

"Alright boys!  Line up!" I shouted.  They all came running and the other parents breathed a visible sigh of relief.  Knowing NOTHING about soccer, not ever having even WATCHED A SINGLE GAME (is that even the right word?), I lined the boys up and let them kick at the goal.  I may not know anything about the game, but I can certainly organize a line.

I made up a few drill-like exercises and helped them get into positions (which I sort of figured out from what I could see the teams on the other fields doing).  I waved to my neighbor who walked by, laughing as she went.  I ran down the field with Sophie on my hip, cheering the boys onto an "everybody wins in Kindergarten soccer" victory.  And when it was time to go, I snapped one quick picture of my star player:


We're rained out this week, but next week, I'm praying for good weather.  And a COACH.  And by that, I don't mean ME.