Except that there are not other things in this post. They will have to wait - I just spent an hour on the phone with my sister. Cost me nothing, but kept this from being written for a good while. (Damn you, Skype! Damn you and your free, irresistible Jetson-like wiles...!!)
Two games this weekend, one yesterday and one today, both in Williamstown at the elementary school. Yesterday's first: When we arrived for warmups, the Southern Berkshire team was jogging around the field in a tight crowd, seeming to surround the Williamstown Strikers as they stretched. Even as I approached the field form the parking lot a good 100 yards away, I could tell they were big kids. And the word on the street was that there was not a single third grader on the squad. All of them at least 9, some of them 10, and all of them huge. Their coach stalked back and forth with his arms crossed, watching them jog. He seemed very serious indeed.
As I unfolded our chairs on the sidelines, I chatted with the mother of Jay, the Strikers' main goalie, who'd been there a while. And she said that while they were stretching, the So Berkshire coach had paced back and forth in front of his team slowly, demanding silence as he tried to focus them for the match. One quote she overheard: "The first time you're out of position, I'll warn you. The second time, you'll sit, and it will be for a good little while." We looked sidelong at each other and raised our eyebrows. This might be an intense day.
But I argued for optimism. "They're bigger," I said, "but I know for a fact they aren't faster. There's just no way." Q, Alex, Brady and Sam D have to be the top 4 runners in their grade, and they're probably faster than the entire grade above them. I was nervous for the boys, but I had a good feeling.
By virtue of their having been standing together near midfield when the ref called for the captains, Q and Alex were appointed to represent the strikers and marched to the center. The Southern Berkshire captains were a head taller, and both dark of hair and curly, looking down at Q and Alex, both short-haired blondies. This was the way the game would be, it seemed: Size, strength, experience, versus Williamstown's yellow-headed Tasmanian Devil-style swarmers. The coin was tossed, and Williamstown would take the first possession.
The game opened up with a very quick goal - by the Strikers. Sammy D charged through their entire collective defense for a solo run and beat the keeper squarely on the very first possession. Jubilation on the part of the Strikers, some of whom had been feeling a bit intimidated before the game. And one of whom, Q, remained so even after the quick goal. He wasn't himself - a lot of standing around and looking, a lot of shirt-holding (his own) and grimacing in a withdrawn sort of hunker - he watched players take the ball right past him, watched his teammates launch attacks and not think to go with them...Coach Foehl would cry, "Q! You are a forward!", as Q stood motionless near his own net and folded his shirt edge into itself over and over, seemingly deaf. It was very frustrating to watch, and I found myself trying to shake him out of it verbally. Never a good move - I come off as loud and pushy, and Q never reacts well to it. But it was like a compulsive need to scratch an itch - despite knowing it will only make things worse, I could not stop myself. "Q! Despertate!" ("Wake up!") "Q! Sos el DEFENSOR ahora! Paralo!" ("You're the DEFENDER now! Stop him!) Etc. Janneke tried to shush me, and I managed to keep more of a lid on it than at previous games, but I was absolutely squirming. He was stuck in second gear; he just wasn't himself, and his team needed him.
To complete their image as the heavies, Southern berkshire's coach loudly complained to a ref about a call in the first half. Having already warned the Baddies (probably not their nickname) about playing the ball rather than the man, about knocking people over on purpose, and having reminded one of their players about this not twenty seconds previous, she called one of them for sending Eli sprawling, and awarded a free kick to the Strikers. Which caused their coach to throw his hands in the air and shout, "HE GOT THE BALL!!!" And the ref, a former student of mine at BArT, held up one finger to him and said "Whoah. Stop." He continued, and she marched over and told him (as she recounted to us at halftime) that she would red card him if this continued. He got quieter and quieter as the reality of what it would be like to be known as "the guy who got red-carded at a 3rd-and-fourth-grade soccer game" ("by a girl" probably figuring in as well) became clearer and clearer.
But even without the rough stuff, So. Berkshire is formidable and skilled. Very soon it was 1-1, and then 2-1, So Berkshire taking the lead. Q was subbed out and spoken to by the coaches. "Q," as they told me later they'd said, "we do notice when you aren't playing like yourself. You're not running like we know you can run! Come on, pal! We need you!" And after that pep talk and a bit of time to blow, he went back in.
He was probably in for a minute before Sam D stole the ball from an oncoming So. Berkshire player deep in the Strikers' end, and looked for a place to send it. Q threw up his arm and called for the ball, and Sam sent it right to his foot.
Honestly, I think that at that moment, instinct took over and simply banished his jitters to the back of his mind, because he settled the ball and turned and accelerated to the goal like the Q I've seen so many times, racing past two defenders, never letting the ball get out beyond his grasp, and firing it into the upper right corner for a goal. He charged across the goal and back up the right side of the field, fists clenched and snarling, shouting primally and looking victorious, furiously satisfied, and vindicated. I was on my knees in front of my lawn chair, both fists in the air, roaring along with the other parents, who were, pretty much to a man, not embarrassing themselves to nearly the same extent.
It was a great, great goal. All speed and skill and quick reactions, ended with a calm and surgical strike right where it needed to be. But the sad thing is that I don't believe that he, as he charged and cheered and gnashed his winner's teeth, was happy.
The rest of the game he was again fairly zombie-like, with occasional bursts of attentiveness and speed. And he did contribute some very solid stuff, helping make it so that, after falling behind 2-5, Williamstown rallied and tied it, and the game ended. A huge victory, really, which should bolster the kids' confidence for the rubber match (next week already), and if their fastest player is on his game, they might actually march down there and come out with a win.
Q seemed happy afterwards, but I suspect he was mostly glad it was over. He loves to win, and to be able to say that he's on an undefeated team, but the actual business of being important, of walking under the weight of that responsibility, of taking on the knowledge that if they're going to win, it's partly up to him, of looking the opposing team in the eye (well, the chest) and not flinching - that's something he's not quite as ready for as some of his teammates. He's as talented as just about any of them, but confidence-wise, he's just not there yet.
I vowed not to call out to him at today's game, and even bought myself gum (which I ordinarily never chew) as a physical reminder at all times to be aware of my mouth. But he was zombie-like again to start, and while I was more successful in restraining myself today than I was yesterday, I still said a few too many things...Not shouting at him, not berating him, just reminding. But I must stop - it isn't my job. It's the coaches' job, and they actually stand a chance of making him hear them. I stand none.
Q scored the Strikers' second goal, another breakaway where the hapless defenders dropped farther and farther behind him as he ran and left him all alone with the goalie, who really stood no chance. And despite some more extended bouts of standing around, he snapped completely into "athlete" mode for the last fifteen minutes or so of the game, which had turned into a bit of a laugher, and must have fired four more shots on goal. None went in, unfortunately, one careening off the crossbar and a couple of others either going into the goalie or wide, but he was dominating that end of the field, making clever plays. (Two come to mind: A beautiful cross to the center when he got clogged up on the left side after a long run, which rolled to a tantalizing stop exactly where Q's teammates should have been before the keeper picked it up because no one had gone with him to support him. And, secondly: After sending a shot wide and bringing about a goal kick, Q, who had noticed that the keeper almost always kicked it straight ahead on goal kicks, hid behind the ref and streaked out to intercept the pass just as the keeper kicked it). He was simply, easily outrunning absolutely everybody down there, and seemingly never tiring out. So it was an improvement over yesterday.
But what kills me is how he could absolutely dominate like that all the time, but for a desire to do so, and a bone-level belief, not only that he can, but that he should.
"That's who he is right now," Janneke reminds me gently. "He feels it sometimes, and sometimes he doesn't. And that's OK."
Why is she so much smarter than I am...?
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1 comment:
Because she's a GIRL! Women generally accept people as they are. Men seem always trying to fine tune improvements - whether it's a co-worker, romantic interest, or friend. A woman might think that this or that could be done, but we would never say it. Somehow we realize that the only thing that matters is the thing you figure out for yourself. Quinn will come into his own athleticially. He needs to learn the lessons on his own. Being told he should do this or that just makes him feel bad about himself. That's my take on it.
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