Losses and losing streaks and losing seasons dot my sporting timeline. I have the green and yellow field-day ribbons to prove it. Want to know where the fringe begins? I made a home there.
You can claim that, when you’re the last player to make it on the worst teams in their leagues. I lost and lost – until I didn’t. Appropriately, I didn’t step a foot on the field for my first championship.
I stood in disbelief as the seconds counted down for Elise’s first championship, too.
You know – Coach Daddy time. A to Z Challenge? Few days behind. Photo a Day Challenge? Hell, June’s almost over, and it feels like I have a week of photos to take. So it stands to reason we’d recognize National Safety Month – June – On June 29.
Every month, I compile a post called 6 Words. Ernest Hemingway inspired it when he said any story can be told in six words. I ask bloggers, friends, strangers, and a few strange blogger friends to respond to a prompt.
June is National Safety Month. Tell us about something you did decidedly unsafe – in six words. It could be from any time in your life. Think “Rode Big Wheel off garage roof,” or “Wore Georgia gear in Florida section.”
The USMNT did well to reach the quarterfinals in Copa America. When I see kids on the pitch, though, they’re not in Clint Dempsey or Jozy Altidore shirts. They’re in Barca and Man U shirts, paying homage to Messi and Ronaldo and Neymar.
What about the girls?
They’re in shirts with Morgan and Wambach on the back. They’re imitating Carli Lloyd and Julie Johnston and Kelly O’Hara. Their teams are built like Jill Ellis’. The boys’ teams, the men’s program, they lack the identity of girls’ soccer and the women’s national team.
Take one look in my work bag or backseat of my car, and you’ll learn fast: Organizatin isn’t my strong suit.
I am, however, a problem solver. Today’s organizatin photo features froyo from the RV food court. I’d encountered a problem on my previous cup: Toppings that stayed at the top. As first-world as this sounds, it needed a solution. A dose of organizatin.
I found one, with careful planning.
I led with a swirled base of strawberry-vanilla froyo, but just a layer. I followed with scoops of Snickers and Butterfinger crumble, and topped that with a couple more swirls of froyo. I stopped to add M&Ms and Reeses’, then buried that below more strawberry/vanilla.
It’s in the teams I coach. It’s in my teammates at work (of whom I’m old enough to be a big brother.) It’s constant, with my girls. Especially its evident on graduation day. One hundred-three seniors let fly their caps on Saturday, and look where one landed?
Grace served as an enthusiastic (and sassy) human hanger for Elise’s cap and gown.
Youth’s also still within me. I might creak and groan when I get up. Maybe I can’t cover ground the way I once did. I’m just as good once as I ever was, as the song goes. At times, I’m an old car with a fresh tank of gas, and that’s good to go.(That’s Elise, by the way, in the background, in the peach dress.)
It’s why I love them. I love them most from a position NOT as the No. 1 seed. If you’re the top team in the playoffs, your road, theoretically, starts out easy. No. 1 seeds play No. 4 seeds or No. 16s or whoever just made it in to the tournament.
And that’s the most dangerous team to play.
I love coaching or rooting for that No. 4 seed or No. 16s who get paired up with the team that’s supposed to go home with medals. The thing about tournaments and fate: Tournaments and fate don’t give a !@#$! what seed you are. You’re all 0-0, and let’s get this thing going.
Even if you just hear about them. I recently wrote 11 questions for a youth soccer coach. Quietly, I don’t officially have a team for this fall. It’s the first time since Swedish tennis player Anna Holmstrom finished fourth in the 1912 Stockholm Olympics.
So, it’s been a while.
I wrote the questions for the next generation of youth soccer coaches. Dudes with accents and pointy hair and fantastic calves tend to infiltrate the sidelines of those of us out of Generation X, we of graying roofs and middle-age spread.
They’re strange bedfellows, for sure. They catch glimpses of a political candidate saying this or a tropical storm doing that. Shootings and scientific breakthroughs. Sometimes, they ask stuff. Sometimes, they act something out.
Elise celebrated her fourth birthday two months after the Twin Towers fell.
Her young mind tried to wrap around it just as my old mind did. She suggested George W. Bush should fly a helicopter over Osama Bin Laden, and, with a coat hanger on the end of a really long pole, scoop him up and arrest him. Mission accomplished, indeed.
We – by ‘we’ I mean us, as in me and you readers and writers – had a bit of a reputation.
Many six-words prompts for a segment of 6 Words post history contained comfort items, mainly wine, chocolate, and pizza. The Trinity of Indulgences, you might say. Have some downtime? Wine. Have some alone time? Chocolate. Have any time? Pizza.
Indulgences sponsor parental warfare – let’s not get it crooked.
Our friend, Janine, writes the blog Confessions of a Mommyaholic. She blogged recently of her own mommy indulgences and even furnished a printable Do Not Disturb sign. This sign bore the symbols of mommy indulgence – smartphones, sweets and the like.
Janine’s post got me thinking about dad indulgences.