Hello?
My stepdaughter frowned into the phone as she heard the callers response. Just a minute, please, she muttered wearily, hitting the mute button. Its one of Dads girlfriends, she told me flatly before heading to the den to hand Hubs the phone.
In a moment, I heard my husbands booming voice. Youve got to be kidding me! A torn ACL? Aw, thats the pits. You dont have a lot of other sweeper options. I sighed. It was indeed one of the girlfriends, as we call them around here, an assortment of high school soccer coaches who call my husband to exchange team gossip. Hubs would be glued to the phone for at least the next 30 minutes and dinner would have to wait. Just another day in the life of a soccer widow.
Ive had several years now to get used to my soccer widow status, but it never really gets any easier. Tomorrow, Ill be the one standing glassy-eyed at a cookout while some soccer dad harangues Hubs on which cleats are best for synthetic turf. Next Tuesday night, Ill play the single mom, wrangling two small children in the bleachers by myself so that my husband can stand on the other side of the field and tell my stepdaughters and their teammates what to do.
Between my three girls, Hubs is coaching seven different teams. For us, soccer has become a year-round affair, and my house resembles one enormous locker room, muddy cleats perpetually tripping guests in the front hallway, smelly shin guards and socks littering the stairs, errant balls collecting dust under the dining room table, and everywhere, everywhere, team line-ups scrawled on scraps of paper.
I suppose my husbands coaching obsession helps him dull the sting of midlife, and I realize his opiate of choice could be far worse.
But soccer can also be a cruel mistress, and my patience is wearing thin. I cling now to small respites from the sport, like the romantic date night we scheduled last week. Starry-eyed over the prospect of a few soccer-free hours with my man, I looked as good that evening as a woman with 10 minutes to get ready could. We snuck away to a romantic, dimly-lit restaurant and stared meaningfully at each other over lobster tempura and a bottle of wine. After a long, lingering moment, both of us opened our mouths to speak.
Go ahead, Hubs laughed.
No, I said, blushing. You first. I couldnt wait to hear what Hubs had to say. Would he tell me I was prettier than the day we married? Would he insist my eyes sparkled that night like never before? He leaned forward and spoke.
I just hope the girls dont get too confident about tomorrow nights game, he said. I mean, River Fork isnt the best team out there, but they could easily beat us. Dont you think?
I stared at him.
Oh come on, he insisted, oblivious. You remember them from last year. River Fork.
These are the times when I want nothing more than to take a butcher knife and slash every soccer ball in the house.
You might wonder if you saw me how I maintain my outward calm, season in and season out. Well, I have a secret, one that has nothing to do with Xanax. Instead it resides in the delicate form of my 4-year-old daughter, Punky. Both my stepdaughters will be going to college soon and Hubs is now banking on our frail preschool flower to be the next Mia Hamm.
It doesnt look promising.
Shes pranced around the soccer field for three seasons now, scoring no goals but inspiring countless rounds of Ring Around the Rosey. Then last month, she started dance class and the die was cast.
I like soccer a little bit, she announced afterward. But ballerina school is my best day ever.
A sly smile spread across my face as I embraced my tiny dancer. The end of soccer was finally in sight. After all these long years, could victory really be mine?
Dont count on it.
Last Saturday, I let my 18-month-old son, Bruiser, run around on the field before Punkys game. He toddled over to a soccer ball and deftly began kicking it across the grass. No, Bruiser, I chided, but my words did no good. Running up to the goal, he booted the ball in and raised his arms in celebration.
I looked at over at Hubs, hoping he hadnt noticed. But he had. And he was grinning wildly.
Forget it, Hubs, I said, shaking my head. No!
Did you see that? he asked. He might be ready to join a team next fall!
NOOOOOOOOO!
Around me, the parents chatter abruptly stopped. They looked at me with pity, but they didnt seem surprised.