November 25, 2008
Drop into enemy territory. Eyes scan left … right … note all points of ingress and egress – blind spots – be watchful for escapees as troops fan out. Evaluate terrain. It’s too hilly, dammit! Fall back! Fall back! Look ou…! MAN DOWN! MEDIC! MEDIC!! MAN DOWN!
Nothing like a Sunday morning visit to the Children’s Museum.
November 25, 2008
The conversation with the organizing coach went something like this: “I’d rather sit on the sidelines and cheer on my son.” “But we really need refs.” “well … but .. I don’t know the rules that well.”
Freeze! Zoom in. See if you can spot the fatal error…yeeees, there it is, see it? Lack of an unequivocal denial. BIG mistake. He smelled blood and moved in. “That’s ok, they’re just 6 year olds. C’mon.” Deep sigh. This went back and forth for a while, but I was done for. Finally: “OK. Soccer’s the one played with the feet, right?” Too little too late.
The e-mail arrived a week later – mandatory three hour training session for coaches. No kidding. Three hours. On a Saturday morning. VERY hardcore. How to throw out a girl who refuses to remove her jewelry, no touching the players, if you have to console, hug from the side, whisper to the team’s coach and have THEM dispatch a homicidal parent (hopefully before they charge the field with a machete), and more. Boot camp. Then there was a quiz (I kid you not) followed by what felt like my high school graduation as we filed past, had our hands shook, and were handed the hideous yellow shirt we were expected to wear to each game, black shorts, a rule book, a whistle, a plastic coin (for the toss), and, my favorite, red and yellow cards for penalties and ejections.
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