Of course, girlfriend had only had one practice. And for whatever reason, I didn't get the email, so she showed up to her first practice in a sparkly skirt and sandals. The other girls totally looked the part. I rushed her outside and then ran to the curb to make sure that my middle schoolers made it safely home. I wasn't exactly too concerned about girlfriend and the game.
That all seemed to change today on the field. Today on the field, five small girls facing five other small girls, it all came back to me. My one season of soccer. Second grade. The Space Invaders. Sky blue and gold uniforms, my hair in a pixie cut, my gappy smile and knobby knees. The orange slices and Capri Suns.
And how I never, ever wanted the ball to come near me.
I hated soccer. Despised it.
Oh, I remember them all. The Strawberry Shortcakes with the DeLellis twins, their sporty blonde ponytails and fancy footwork. The tomboy Meghan Ramierez with her evil looks and aggressive elbows. The coach who totally scared me.
I was always full-back, out in the far corner of the field, praying, praying, that the damn ball stayed away. I'm pretty certain I never kicked it. I'm pretty certain that in my mind I was singing songs from, The Sound of Music, staging elaborate renditions of, "So Long, Farewell." I'm pretty sure I was wondering how I ever ended up on that field, what possessed me to think that I was like these other girls. I hated being on a team because I hated the idea of messing up. I didn't want to be blamed. I didn't want to be weak. I just wanted to blend in with the grass and count the minutes until the whistle blew.
So some odd flashbacks occurred today as I sat on the damp grass, watching Eliana run up and down the field. I was anxious. I was intense. I was pissed when she spaced out, rolling a fly-away ringlet around one finger instead of following the ball, called her name, tried to bring her back in to the game. I was definitely saying more than any of the other moms. I was cheering and encouraging, I was focused and intent (because Lord knows that while I failed at team sports, I excelled at cheerleading).
As I watched the other team score goal after goal against my daughter's team, watched her peppy posture grow more and more deflated, my empathy meter rose. My flashbacks came faster, neon colored like bad hallucinogens, bright and quick and a bit scary. I hated to think of her experiencing the sensation of losing, hated to think of her feeling in any way like a failure. Life has been gentle on her so far. She's naive and blissed out and dances wildly to her show tunes. She is not aggressive. That said, she is way tougher than I was. She skis fast, hikes hard, rides her bike like the bully in Pee Wee's Big Adventure, up and down the street. She is not me. Even with her love for, The Sound of Music.
I was afraid of what she'd say when the game ended. They lost twenty to three. Not that I was counting.
But she just rolled on through her day without saying all that much. She said that they did pretty well for only having one practice. She was really proud of her fancy footwork at the end. She wanted to go eat Asian bento boxes at Iza and when I told her Iza was closed, she wanted burritos. She was just moving through another thing.
And maybe I did too when I was her age. Maybe I chose to never play another team sport again, ever, not because it was so awful, but because I just got really, really into dance and didn't have time for the field. Maybe.
Or maybe she is a totally different kid than I was, her daddy's daughter, a Montana girl. I guess it doesn't matter. But at the end of the day, I was so full of love for my girl. And as we listened to, "Eidelweiss" that afternoon and made plum jelly, her taking breaks from chopping and stirring to do wild dance moves in the dining room, I felt so thankful for this opportunity to look full circle, to feel so deeply, to love so hard.
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