I'm Coaching 4th Grade Soccer: II

And it fucking sucks

Welcome back to my series about my amazing time coaching 4th grade soccer. If you’re new here, welcome! I’m so excited you’re here! This is a link to the first post in this series.

Let’s carry on with part 2, yeah?

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Here’s the thing about being a Head Coach: you’re instantly propelled into the most elite and powerful echelons of society. One minute you’re a lowly cog in the machine. Next minute, a goddamn icon. It can go to a person’s head.

After I had removed all the quitters from the roster settled the team’s logistical details, it was time to alert the masses about my new credentials. Here is the message that I sent to friends and family in various group texts:

This message was met with various responses. From my pals over on MELM, nothing but positive reinforcement. “Will you please dress up like Jane Lynch from Glee?” This was from M number 1. “‘First step is to figure out my outfits’, is the reason we are friends,” said M number 2.

My dad had a more gruff response. “Just win.”

One theme kept coming up across a particular subset of my community: fellow moms.

• “I would have just let my kid’s team go under before signing up for something like this.”

• “Wow. I commend you. I would have said fuck that! and never thought twice.”

• “… Are you … doing this for … free?”

What can I say. We’re a tired demographic.

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Our first practice was on a warm evening in early September. I was running late because I had to change into my coaching outfit at the office. Plus I was fielding parting cheers and accolades from my colleagues saying what a hero I am. (An icon must always be gracious.)

By the time I pulled up, I noticed that several players and their parents were already standing on the sidelines of the field. Alex and Walter were there as well, passing the ball. In my car, I glanced at my brand new whistle hanging from the rearview. So embarrassing. I decided to leave it. Exiting the safe solitude of my car, I hoisted the bag of balls over my shoulder and walked toward my team.

A Minor Detour

Before I continue on with this story, it feels important to share some details about my appearance. This topic will become a recurring theme throughout the series.

I am a small person. I’m 5 feet 2 inches, and weigh between 100-110 pounds depending on if I’m hibernating for the winter. The internet tells me that is the size of an average 12-year old American boy. My features are small and my voice is quiet. I am commonly mistaken for a teen girl or boy, depending on my current vibe. At best, strangers assume my son and I are siblings. At worst, I get chastised in public for being a teen mom. I will be turning 40 next year. When I go out to dinner with my family, my husband is often handed one adult menu and two children’s menus. People tell me to appreciate this. That I’ll like it when I am older. This has been going on for my entire life, and the chip on my shoulder has only grown. It is my albatross.

If I make a self-deprecating joke about this issue in your presence, consider us friends. You have now been invited to chime in if you have comedic value to add. If I’ve not opened this door, the topic is off limits. Making even the smallest remark about my appearance would be a grave mistake. You will become dead to me. The grudge will be permanent and the vengeance conniving. You will never become un-dead.

As more of the team arrived, I realized that many of these 4th graders were as big as me. Two boys in particular had not only passed my meager height, but also had the sturdiness better suited for a high school football team. These were not spritely mid-fielders. These were budding linebackers for the Green Bay Packers. No worries. I’ll manage these kids through my wit and charm.

After a while, everyone had arrived. Most children stood awkwardly by their parents, but a few had run off to the large field. The parents stood on the sidelines, looking at me expectantly. It seemed they wanted a speech.

I began shouting into the void. “Hi!!! I’m Lindsey!!! I’m your coach, and I’m so excited for this season!!! Can all the players head on over there and start passing? Parents are welcome to head out and come back in an hour.” (Last thing I needed was an audience.)

Nobody moved.

Actually, that’s not true. Alex moved. He gave me a little salute and left for his car. As far as he was concerned, his only role in this endeavor was to get our son to practice on time. Some help he is.

Changing tactics, I tried a more intimate approach. I walked up to the dad of one of the linebackers and introduced myself. “This is Ethan¹,” he said. “Sorry he doesn’t have cleats. He grew a lot this summer, and we just realized his shoes don’t fit.”

“Well, hi there, Ethan! It’s so nice to meet you,” I said. I moved in for a handshake. He looked at my outstretched hand with a smirk. Not impressed. “Anyway! Head on over to the team and I’ll join you in a minute.”

As Ethan walked toward the team, his dad asked for my number. Yep. Still got it. I began to stammer.

“I’m going to leave. I’d like to exchange phone numbers in case you need to get a hold of me,” he interrupted.

Right.

The parents began lining up, each hoping for a one-on-one session to exchange digits and share specific details about their children. After nearly ten minutes, I had worked through the line. One dad remained.

“My son is Max,” the man said. He had an unsettling voice. He was wearing a heavy leather jacket and sturdy black boots. His sunglasses were wrapped tightly around his face. I saw my reflection in the electric blue frames. He pointed toward the other linebacker who had joined the players on the field. Max sounds familiar, I thought. His dad looked at me with a chilling smile. “You let me know if you have any trouble with this team,” he said. Then it registered. Ah, yes. Max. Bad with criticism.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it under control,” I said, eager to leave the conversation.

I jogged to the team in the center field. The boys were running around everywhere. Drop kicking balls, shouting, running off into the distance. Absolute chaos.

“Guys! Huddle up,” I said.

Nothing.

“OKAY TEAM! Let’s get started!”

My son accidentally made eye contact with me. He joined me reluctantly.

Regretting my decision about the whistle, I realized I’d have to scream at the top of my lungs. “IT’S TIME TO START!!!!!” Walter looked at me, completely humiliated.

The team slowly began forming around me. Each child had a soccer ball that was being handled in some way - thrown in the air, kicked around in a small circle, passing between one another. The ultimate distraction tool.

“Right. Can we just leave the balls alone?”

Nothing.

I carried on. “Anyway, I am so happy to be with you all! I thought the first thing we could do is go around in a circle and introduce ourselves. I’ll start. We’ll each say our name and our favorite color!” I looked around. It seemed nobody had heard me. “Okay! So! I’m Lindsey and my favorite color is green!” I looked at the kid to my right.

“Wait. What are we doing?” he asked, throwing his soccer ball up into the air.

“Just say your name and favorite color,” I snapped.

“I like blue.” He threw the ball 15 feet into the air, missing the catch.

“… And … your name?”

He ran after his ball. “Oscar!” he shouted from afar.

We turned our attention to the next kid, who was quietly examining individual blades of grass. “Sincerest apologies. What was I supposed to say again?”

“Just your name and favorite color.” Somebody murder me, I thought.

“I’m Dylan. Choosing a favorite color, I find, is an ongoing conundrum. I suppose it depends on any given moment. When I feel joyous, I naturally gravitate to the brighter hues on the color wheel. Yellow, for instance. However, there are times when my emotional state is —”

“— What the hell is this guy even talking about?” Ethan, linebacker number one, had entered the chat. The children laughed.

“Whoa! Language! Dylan here was just —”

“— Whatever lady. How old even are you? Are you in high school?” Welcome, Ethan, to my official shit list.

“For your information, I am not in high school,” I said sweetly. “Look, let’s just get through this ice breaker, yeah?” I looked at the next kid in the circle. Max.

“My name is Max and this is stupid.” Walter and I looked at each other, our eyes wide.

I decided to change course. I pointed at each remaining kid. “You know what? Forget it. Just tell me your name.”

“David.” The center forward.

“Walter.”

“Ethan.”

I looked down at my phone. Half of our practice had already passed and we hadn’t played any soccer. Let alone chosen a team name. I looked toward the sidelines at the parents that had decided to stay. I was feeling extremely self conscious.

“Okay. Here’s the plan for the rest of practice, fellas. We’re going to just play a little scrimmage. When we have about ten minutes left, I’d like to gather up again and brainstorm a team name. Does that sound like a good plan?”

“Wow. About time we, I dunno, actually played soccer?” That was Max. Welcome, Max, to my official shit list.

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After much ado, I arranged the children into two teams and they began their scrimmage. I stood on the sidelines of my makeshift field drawn by cones and attempted to direct the play.

“Spread out, guys!”

“Same team!”

“Look up! Pass!”

“Dylan — wait — Dylan why are you laying in the field!?”

I walked over to Dylan and sat down beside him, my back to the rest of the players. He was pulling out huge clumps of grass. “I simply don’t see the point of this. Nobody appreciates what I’m doing on defense. Why does everyone glorify offensive roles when its defense that is the most critical? It makes me not want to try at all!”

He had a point. “Um. Well —” I paused. I had no idea how to deal with this.

“— Mom. Mom! MOM!” I turned to see Walter running toward me.

“Those kids are fighting!” he said, pointing.

Max and Ethan were rolling on the ground in a clump, throwing punches at one another. I ran over to them. “What on EARTH are you two doing?!” I yelled.

“He fouled me!” yelled Ethan.

“I did not!” replied Max.

“Well, I didn’t see what happened, but you both need to keep your hands to yourselves. If I see any more of this behavior then —”

“Oh. Cool. So you’re literally not doing anything about it,” said Ethan. The entire team had gathered around. The parents watched tentatively from the sidelines.

“Okay, well,” I looked at my phone. “We’re at time anyway. Let’s quickly come up with a team name, and then we can end our first pract—”

“— I know what our team name should be,” said Oscar. “The Fireballs!”

“Ooooh! Balls! Ha ha ha! How about the Big Balls!”

“No no! How about I Got Big Balls!”

“We’ve got big balls!”

“Look at me! I’m touching all these balls!”

“Balls balls balls.”

“Coach Lindsey doesn’t have balls!”

“Oh for fuc— God’s sake. Oscar, great pick. Fireballs it is! On the count of three let’s all shout our new team name! One… two… three!”

“FIREBALLS!!!!”

The team scrambled off, leaving Walter and me to gather cones and locate errant soccer… balls. After a while, we had gathered all of our gear and walked in silence toward the parking lot. I was absolutely defeated. All I could think of was that popular meme that resurfaces at the beginning of every school year. The before and after photo of the girl on her first day of school.

It me.

“Great job today, Coach!” I looked up to see Dylan and his mom near her car. “It seems you have a whole team of neuro-divergent children,” she mused.

“Ha. Yeah. Maybe,” I responded.

We got into the car and began driving toward home. We drove in silence for a very long time. Finally, Walter spoke.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I… have some feedback.”

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Next up: I’m Coaching 4th Grade Soccer (and it fucking sucks, part 3). If you don’t want to miss my 4th grader’s sage advice, be sure to subscribe:

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1. All names have been changed to protect the innocent.