PostGrad Single Dad: First Soccer Game

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“Alright buddy. We’re almost there, so what’re we going to do today? Repeat after me: listen to coach.”

“LISTEN TO COACH!” screamed Grant from his carseat.

“Be a good teammate.”

Still screaming, “BE A GOOD TEAMMATE!”

“Play hard.”

“PLAY HARD!”

“And have fun.”

“HAVE FUN!”

Tilting his head to make sure his son’s screaming hadn’t popped an eardrum, he parked the car and looked back at Grant. “Ready for your first soccer game?”

Grant smiled and nodded. The pair made their way out of the car and up to the soccer fields at the city park.

It was a huge dad milestone, no doubt about it. His son’s first sporting event; despite knowing that four-year-old soccer would be nothing short of herding cats, he was still excited. This was where his journey as a #SportsDad would begin, hopefully.

As he strutted to the fields with Grant in tow, wobbling slightly while walking in his stiff new soccer cleats on the pavement, he felt that it was important not to head into his first soccer game with too high of expectations. Taking high expectations into a sporting event hadn’t exactly paid off when he took Grant to watch a baseball game.

However, he felt this was a little different. While Grant just displayed a middling interest in sports, actually participating was different than just showing up and watching. At the very least, he’d get to run around for half an hour, and kids love nothing more than being able to run and scream.

Walking and squinting at his phone to double-check the team schedule for the field they were supposed to be at, they found their way to field 4B. Grant took his ball to the field right away and started kicking it at the goal with the Coach’s daughter.

Great start, even though he just kicked the ball a good five feet wide of the goal.

He shook the Coach’s hand then set out the chairs he’d brought for him and his parents on the sideline. They were about twenty minutes early and privy to some prime midfield real estate. The third chair had just unfolded when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Hope one of those fucking things is for me!”

Oh please God no.

He turned around slowly, and as the source of the voice got close he said “Hey Frank, maybe try not yelling F bombs when you’re surrounded by small kids.” He took in his grinning friend, wearing a short sleeve button down with one too many buttons undone, showcasing half of the Ralph Lauren logo tattoo he’d gotten in college. “And Christ, you smell like a fucking distillery. Is that from last night or this morning?”

Frank grinned. “Both.” He took a swig from a blue bottle that definitely contained anything but water, then helped himself to one of the chairs.

Just as he was about to explain to Frank that those chairs were for his parents and himself, the Coach tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, you think you could help me out today? Nothing big, just stand over on our sideline and keep the kids who aren’t in the game seated and focused?”

Nothing could possibly ruin my day more, as the only thing worse than my own kid not listening to me is multiple kids not listening to me.

“Oh yeah, sure Coach, definitely” he responded, like the spineless human he often found himself to be.

The teenage refs signaled that games were about to begin on the two fields that had been divided into four smaller fields, so Grant’s coach huddled the team up. Taking a peak at the small children in shirts about a size too big blankly staring up at their Under Armor-decked out leader, he noticed that he only counted six, as opposed to the full seven on the roster.

Seeing as the team had only practiced once, Grant was the only child whose name he actually knew. He started counting off the kids in his head to find the missing one based on the names he’d assigned them: Grant, Coach’s daughter, Neon Green Cleats, Buff Dad, Nosepick, and of course, Cig-Smelling Grandma, who earned the name because his Grandma smelled like a country bar.

With a lump in his throat, he realized they were missing the child he’d labeled “Messi.” A head taller than the other kids on the team, Messi had scored 97% of the goals at their first practice and was their lone source of hope to win games. Yeah, the league didn’t keep score, but it was a pride thing.

Well, on the bright side, maybe it’ll open the door for some other kids to score.

He saw coach pick his starting three, including Grant, and proceeded to watch each of them run into each other as they jogged to midfield.

We’re gonna get smoked.

The whistle blew, and unorganized chaos began. It became clear very quickly that only one child out of the twelve participating in the game knew what they were doing, and that child played for their hated opposition, the Red Team.

The job Coach had assigned him proved tougher than he’d originally thought. While Nosepick, Coach’s Daughter and Neon Green Cleats were exemplary on the sideline, the others proved more challenging. Grant, when not ignoring the ball on the field and simply just running and yelling, spent his time on the sideline grabbing his father’s shorts and asking if they could go visit the ice cream truck parked next to the field.

Buff Dad, to his credit, likely inherited some of his father’s intensity towards athletics, as he spent his entire time on the sideline trying to get back on the field. He made it so difficult to corral that he ended up just needing the back of his shirt pulled at all times.

I feel like one of those college football coach sideline wranglers.

Cig-Smelling Grandma kept it simple by untying his shoes while he was preoccupied with either Grant or Buff Dad. Shoes untied, Grant tugging at his shorts, it wasn’t the best situation he’d ever been in, especially considering he’d planned on relaxing in a chair during this game. He looked across the field at his prime seats to see his recently arrived parents decently amused, and Frank leaning over in a deep conversation with the Cig-Smelling Grandma.

The on-field action wasn’t much better. While some adorable moments did occur, it was mostly an understandable disaster. One practice wasn’t nearly enough to give four-year-olds any sense of how to correctly play soccer, but after the 4th handball and the sequence that involved the ball going out of bounds seven times in 15 seconds, he had to keep repeating in his head that sports were good for Grant and this was all a positive thing.

Whenever other dads would walk over to the sideline, they’d all exchange the same cliches regarding the on-field product their registration fee was paying for. “Man, kinda like herding cats out there” or “Just give it time, by the end of the season they’ll really know what they’re doing out there.” That was all said verbally, but all their eyes said “I should’ve had at least three more beers before I came out here.”

Before the game had started he’d originally thought that four 8-minute quarters were too short for the game. Now, he felt that it was maybe two quarters too many. As Coach, who’s spirits were still fairly high (the man had been around the block with his two older kids, so he had proper expectations) signaled in Grant’s line in for the last bit of the 4th quarter, he tried to take some positives out of this.

Well, he didn’t score…he actually only kicked the ball once and that was by accident. But at least he ran around a lot, exercise is good I guess. He didn’t get hurt or cry…Frank hasn’t been kicked out, all in all, not too ba….

He was snapped out of this thought process by a breakaway; not a breakaway in the traditional sense, but the ball had been kicked towards the Grant’s teams goal, and since he had been on the other side of the field chasing God knows what, he was the only kid within fifteen feet of the ball.

“Get the ball Grant, kick it in the goal!” he yelled, fully aware of what an obnoxious sports dad asshole he sounded like.

Grant, snapped out of whatever he’d been thinking, noticed the ball in his vicinity and jogged to it.

Oh my God. He’s actually going to score; he’s going to taste that sweet victory and it’ll change his view on competition forever.

Grant patted the ball ahead gently with his right foot. Unaware that five screaming children were coming for that ball at varying speeds, Grant was showing no urgency. It was now or never.

Numerous varying renditions of the phrase “Shoot Grant!” were screamed from all over the sidelines. He reared his little leg back and by some miracle made solid contact, about seven feet from the goal.

The ball sailed wide. His arms had been up, he was ready to Tiger Woods fist-pump his son’s first meaningless goal. Deflated, he lowered his arms and looked for Grant, to make sure he was handling his missed opportunity okay. He found him, walking towards him with a big smile.

“Wow Daddy, that kick really hurt my leg. I think getting some ice cream would help me feel better.” .

If you’re enjoying following “PostGrad Single Dad,” be sure to go listen to the first episode of “The DadGum Podcast,” live on Grandex Labs.

Image via Unsplash

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Kyle Bandujo

The artist formerly known as Crash Davis. My kid doesn't think I'm funny.

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