Soccer

Soccer started this past month, along with everything else.   We’ve been the slacker family that only comes to half the practices because everything else started this month too.   After a few months weeks with no activities it’s hard getting into the groove of having to be two, three, or four places at once.  This is Mike’s first year with the big kids.  The way his birthday falls, he’s almost two years younger than the oldest kids in his division.  He’s much smaller than every one else.  He looks terribly small and insignificant compared to some of his teammates.  What he lacks in size he definitely makes up with spunk and pure aggressiveness.

We were so incredibly proud of him.  I told him that I thought he was definitely the second star player of the team.  Always modest, he placed himself as the third star.

McKayla said that we were thoroughly embarrassing with all of our shouting and cheering.  I think if she could have found a rock to crawl under, she would have.   If it wasn’t for the shade our Sportsbrella® offered, I’m pretty sure she would have inched her way over and pretended to be part of another family.

The other parents were standing and gasping at that poor little kid at the bottom of the pile.  That was our kid.  Right about now I was screaming, “Get up! Get up!  Hurry, they’re distracted!  The ball’s open!  The goal’s open!  Mike get up!”  I wonder where my kids get their competetive streak from?  He popped right up.  Like a jack-in-the-box.  It was really rather amazing. All of this cheering was done sitting in our sports chairs.  (Do you realize how much stuff we bring to kid’s sports functions?  We need an alpaca.)

I think it was his complete disregard for his own personal safety that landed him the spot as Goalie during the second half.   He was kick ass.  I’m not sure if it was the gloves or all of the shouting from us, but his little hands were like glue.  Out of the eight balls that were aimed at the goal, he diverted seven.

What can I say?  I’ve birthed a little pro soccer player.   I’m crediting that to my Mexican heritage.  It’s in his blood.  Fútbol and picking.   Plus, he’s even got a Mexican name, “Miguel Javier”*.

Well, except for the drop kick.  He needs some work on the drop.  His are more of  flop kicks.  This, his love for sloppy joes, and Ralph Lauren loafers… pure whitey.

By the end of the game, every bit of hesitation was gone. He was a formidable opponent.

*check back later about Miguel Javier