red card

Note to my sister Kari--this post is about Brennan.

I am coaching Brennan's soccer team this fall. We're the earthquakes (which makes for excellent team cheers). At the first practice Brennan unleashed an aggressive prowess during scrimmage which I've never before witnessed; he was playing like a man possessed. Offense. Defense. He was all over the place. It was exciting to watch, but of course it meant that several of the kids became victims of Brennan's flailing feet. He got the ball most of the times, but shins were kicked, and in one case this resulted in an exchange which went something like this:

• Little boy: Brennan took a swing at me!
• Brennan: Did not...you pulled my shirt, I was just knocking your hand off (*starting to sob*)!
• Little boy: That's because you kicked me. And you can't cry in soccer.
• Brennan: You can't be mean in soccer.
• Me: (*at this point off to the side of the field*) Technically if you watch any Champions League soccer, you would know that crying and being mean are encouraged, but I suppose that is besides the point here. Can you guys go out there and play hard, but not get upset when you get bumped or kicked? This stuff happens in soccer.
• Brennan and little boy: Ok. *they shake hands and run back onto the field*

Brennan was still sulking a bit after practice, so I felt it was time for him to hear the infamous story of the red card of '96. Long story short: Regional championship game of my senior year (oh man, I feel like Uncle Rico...but I will proceed anyway), I'm getting mauled all game by this kid from Alton. At some point in the second half he tackles me, I don't go down, and seeing him on the ground there in front of me, I decide instead of just jumping over him (he was in my path and had to be avoided) I would gently place a foot on his back, just to remind him I was still standing. Of course when I rested my boot on his back, he flopped like an Italian, prompting the ref to run over and intervene in what was surely to become a violent clash. The ref put his forearm on my chest, then reached for his wallet and pulled out the red card. This meant that I was out of the game and suspended for the next game as well. I asked Brennan what I should have done in this situation, and he didn't know. I gave him the options of: smiling, laughing, or ignoring. My good friend Cory, the assistant coach, added, "ask him on a date" but I think that one went over Brennan's head. I repeated to Brennan what had transpired during the game: I lost my cool, and as a result I got kicked out of the game. The other kid smirked and resumed play. Brennan decided that I should have ignored the kid, but smiling was also acceptable. I liked that response.

This is a tenuous thing for any peace-loving, sports-playing father. I don't want to squelch his competitive drive, but I also don't want him to be a jerk. I believe sports to be one of those things that can be great, but can also go really, really south, real quick (also in this category: Pauly Shore, religion, socialism, and Papa John's pizza). I'm not quite sure what the proper approach is on this sports stuff, but I do know that these situations provide a nice context for great conversations with Brennan: talking about how to work collaboratively and productively with members of a team will prove to be beneficial regardless of what Brennan decides to do in life (this week it is: become a Navy SEAL). Teaching a lesson about keeping his cool when emotions run high will certainly help him in an array of life situations (particularly when they are trying to drown him during SEAL Hell week). I suppose more importantly than anything else, as long as we approach sports in much the same way that we strive to approach other things in our life--with balance and level-headedness--surely it will work itself out. If that doesn't work, I could always done a Rage Against the Machine Shirt, push Brenno to the limits, and tell the other parents to buy titanium shin guards for their six year olds.

but it seemed like such a good idea

Seriously. It was a fool proof plan. Zoe was strapped into the stroller and Lori wasn't that far down the hill. Really, how much momentum could the stroller gain before Lori caught her? The two of them would embrace with a laugh and smile--an instant little memory and adventure would be shared and treasured forever. My well-designed plan came to a screeching halt as the stroller went up onto the curb at 6 miles an hour, flipping the stroller over onto it's side and sending Zoe crashing to the concrete pad below. Instead of joyous yelps from Lori for a moment well-lived, Lori yelled "dammit" and kicked a soccer ball (which went rolling towards her after it fell out of the tipped over stroller) while biting her lip (which Lori does when she is exceedingly mad...the bit lip is usually followed by a swing in my direction, or preceded by profanity. In this case I was too far away to punch, so dammit had to suffice). I ran forward fully expecting a busted mouth/forehead, broken tooth, or sprained wrist, but all that was to be found was a traumatized little girl and a skinned knee (she enjoyed the ride, the tipping was a bit much for her...understandably so). Of course I felt like a bad father, terrible person, reckless human, etc. but I was offered some solace by the memory of my father providing adventures which had the same inevitable conclusion as the runaway stroller. I'm quite sure there are others, but I'm aware of at least 2 (Mom, maybe you can help me complete the list):

1) Victim: a young me (4 yrs. old?)
Activity: careening down the driveway, much too fast, on an old hot wheels three wheeler
Culprit: my father
Result: a split toe nail which would leave my foot permanently scarred until my 13th year
2) Victim: a young Kari (my younger sister)
Activity: an ice cube fight in the backyard
Culprit: my father
Result: Kari's lip was sliced open by a flying ice cube. This did not result in stitches,
but probably should have.

The reason these memories comforted me in my moment of irresponsibility is because my dad is a great dad. Even in these instances when he inflicted pain, it was the consequence of fun intentions and there were no lasting negative associations with his playfulness (i.e. you never would have heard any of us kids utter, "No, I will not go swimming with that man. I will surely drown." Perhaps that's because we all focused our concern on his neck mole and that it would be eaten by a spotted sea trout...even when we were in a swimming pool. As if his neck mole was so appealing, it had the power to lure aquatic lifeforms from their ocean dwellings to a public pool in central Illinois).

I am happy to report that I believe Zoe has forgiven me and that she is still willing to play my games. Yesterday I took her for a 30 mile bike ride in the trailer. When she began to feel uncomfortable and voiced her concern that she shouldn't have agreed to this madness, I promptly stopped at a nearby park where we had fun swinging on the swings and playing hide and seek. Even the game of "tornado" which we typically play at full force on the tire swing could have been appropriately renamed, "mildly suspicious funnel cloud." She is forgiving, and I am adapting. Although now that I know all she suffered was a skinned knee, and no visible emotional baggage, is it ok to say that seeing Lori's face and hearing Brennan's response ("why would you do that?") made it all worthwhile? Maybe, but surely that thought will prompt karma to send a trout to attack my right cheek during tomorrow morning's shower. In light of that possibility, and the fact that I still genuinely feel bad about the outcome, I will just say, sorry Zoe.

just kids

Zoe turns 4 today. Happy birthday little Zo. No other little girl will ever have a fourth birthday with 50+ attendees and a mix cd as a party favor with tracks from Jackson Browne and Ray LaMontagne. Yes, you are THAT cool. The other night as I was putting the kids to bed they began their ritualistic request for water/books/stuffed animals which usually begins after I have already read/sang/cuddled. I was tired on this particular night and not up for the reasoning required to trim down their requests into a manageable number. Despite my desire to avoid the monologue, I began listing the reasons that they don't need water/books/stuffed animals. The list included peeing the bed and too many books/animals could minimize the amount of space they have to sleep on. My exasperated attempt was brought to an abrupt halt by Zoe, who, as I came to the climax of my case against prolonged bedtime petitions, looked up at me with her eyebrows furrowed, and said, "Daddy, we're just kids." Oh yeah, I forgot. And what wonderful kids they are.