I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
September 2, 2005
Being a soccer mom is so much harder than you’d think.
It’s not easy remembering to bring 18 Little Debbies and Capri Suns to the Tuesday away game against the Bumbleville Buzzards. It’s no picnic realizing the dead animal stench radiating from your laundry closet (uncomfortably close to the kitchen table) is coming from a pair of unwashed shin guards lodged in between the washer and dryer. And it’s definitely difficult driving a gaggle of screeching 14-year-olds to a scrimmage without (purposely? Who’s to say?) swerving off the road and right through a McDonalds billboard.
But there’s one challenge that trumps them all: joining other soccer moms and dads in the stands.
Not that the game itself isn’t generally interesting (particularly if it’s been raining and there’s a large mud puddle in the center of the field). I’ll never forget, for instance, the looks on my 14 and 12-year-olds’ faces after they’ve won a game or the agonies they suffer upon defeat. And while we’re on the subject of defeat, I’ll definitely never forget the player we nicknamed “Scratch” who, in a fit of rage after a particularly difficult loss, methodically dug her nails into the palm of each girl from the opposing team as they all shook hands.
No, I’m talking about a kind of suffering that doesn’t involve bleeding palms, but can be just as painful, a hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing suffering brought on by the parents themselves.
There are the Bleacher Blondes- the “carefully preserved” moms who love to give you a complete rundown of their lives and the lives of their neighbors, not seeming to understand that your sole reason for sitting beside them is to see your daughter kick the freakin’ ball down the field, not to hear about Madge Eaton’s three-day labor.
There are the Ghost Coaches- the dads who stand on the sidelines and yell directions at their kid because obviously, the coach doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
There are the Screamers- Men (and these days, women) who get purple in the face telling the pimply, 15-year-old ref where he can get off after precious Poopsie gets a yellow card.
And this year, there’s the Bragger. His daughter is a wonderful soccer player with questionable social skills. Now we know from whence they come.
“There she goes!” he chortled to another parent at last week’s season opener. “Goooooaaaaalllllll!”
“A hat trick!” he shouted several minutes later, standing up and turning around to make sure others were listening. “That was a hat trick for Jeanine right there!”
“You know,” he said, leaning toward my husband, “I was the top scoring high school basketball player in Nashville 20 years ago.” Hubs must’ve looked dubious. Bragger shifted his paunch and added, “The fastest in Bellevue anyway. Set a record. Yup.”
“Oooh, I wish I had been there,” I said when Hubs told me the story afterward. “I’d have had a few things to say myself!”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’ve set a few records, too. Records that make his pale by comparison”
“Records? You never told me about any records.”
“Shoe scramble. Field Day. Third grade.”
“The shoe scramble?”
“The teachers said they’d never seen anyone pick their shoes out of that pile as quickly as I did.”
Hubs thought for a second. He seemed to like the idea. “And what about my cake walk victory at the elementary school fundrasier last year?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, that’s a good one!” I laughed. “We’re going to have to have our own conversation about this at the next game. A very loud conversation. The moment he gets going about how fast he is… er, used to be.”
You see, speaking out is something soccer moms quickly learn by default. How can you remain silent when your own beloved daughter gets sucker punched by a brutish redheaded keeper the moment the referee looks away? How can you hold back the jubilation as that same daughter “accidentally” kicks that foul redheaded keeper in the teeth while simultaneously scoring the winning goal? How can you let a jackass Bragger go on and on about his superstar little girl without saying something?
Well, you can’t. And I won’t. I guarantee.
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>I love your characterizations of the parents. This is why I was glad my girls didn’t get really heavily involved in organized sports as they got older. I went to a softball game once where a father berated his daughter in front of everyone for running like a girl! Michele sent me.
>The personality types are hilarious. I think I have met all of them. I was a soccer dad for only one season. My tour of duty was four years as assistant den leader. That’s the lowest leader rank you can have in Scouts and still get to wear the snazzy uniforms. Now I’m a Band Booster. Another thing I never ever imagined being. No one warns you or if they do, I didn’t listen.
>oh, and michele sent me. I always forget that part.
>This post was right up my alley…esp. since I am a NautralBlondeGhostCoach 😉 I scream my fool head off and I do know more than the coach sometimes. I do not gossip because I am only there to watch the game. I pace back and forth, I only sit at half time, I scream and I totally tear up when she scores. Ahhhhh, soccer season is the best! Great post Lucinda:)
>MommaK, you sound just like my husband!
>My sister and brother were on opposing Little League teams one year. The games they played against each other were the best–in terms of how entertaining my mother was in the stands. The greatest was the pop fly my brother hit, that my sister caught. My mom was yelling, “Catch that ball! No!! Don’t catch that ball!” I’m surprised she wasn’t hauled off in a straitjacket.
>Lucinda-I left you a note over on my site- glad you stopped by!!!This post is so right on!- I think my husband and I are the only two parents who don’t scream out- My jim-because he is mellow and calm- just being himself- me- because I’m afriad that once I started- I would not stop-plus both of my kids have told us- “we can’t really understand what the growns are saying, all it sounds like is yelling and then we can’t hear our coach”-my kids-just telling it like it is-my Jilly bean-takes her soccer seriously! -stalk back over to my place-please!!:)
>Atta, girl! Give ’em hell in those stands! One more personality type–the parent who keeps stats for his or her kid like they’re going to be in the Olympics that year or something. And, then they’ll make sure to comment if your kids stats are down in an area, but in a “constructive” way…I tried to find myself in those characteristics, and I couldn’t. So, i guess that is good. I am a pretty vocal cheerleader though, for all the kids, which might get annoying. And I care WAY too much if my kid does well or not. He picks up on that and then has performance anxiety, much like I did as a kid. So, this year with T-ball I let it all go, and both he and I had WAY more fun because of it! I plan to do the same for soccer this season.Oh, and damn don’t those shin guards STINK! My son is only 6 and his are unbearable!
>I see now what I missed. My girls never played a team sport.
>Don’t know soccer moms, but I have dealt with “Fencing Moms”. they are a similar breed. but there is no team, os it really is all ablout Junior.
>I loved this post. I am a softball/basketball/baseball/volleyball aunt because my niece and nephew do it ALL and I’m childless and they are my substitue children. I witness these types of parents all the time. They are sad. And nuts. And I want to punch them.
>You’ve cut to the core of the issue with surgical, rapier-like precision. Thanks from all parents – soccer and non-soccer alike – who have suffered in silence up until now.Michele sent me. How lucky I am that she did, as your blog is a joy to read.
>hey thanks for dropping by my blog earlier. i’ve been a soccer mom three times now, to me, team sports are a huge part of kids growing up, it’s something my husband and i have encouraged our kids to do. i’m not a screamer, or a gossiper, i’m there to watch my kids. i even stay for the practices, too many parents think that the coach at the practice is there as a babysitter, they don’t realize that when their kid gets hurt at practice, which does happen, practice just ended as the coach now has to sit with their injured child until they return.
>Lucinda, thanks for the comment in ref. to my church. You are absolutely correct, of course, and you put it so well. Thanks!
>LOL! interesting post… i wonder if i’ll become a soccer mom?!;) i’d be the Clueless Mom who knows nothing abour sports. heehee!thanks for visiting my blog and leaving a wonderful comment.;) much appreciated.
>Well, I’d love to sit in the stands with any of you. Anyway, you’re all a different breed- you’re the ones looking around the whole time for something to blog about!
>”The fastest white guy, anyway.”Thanks for making me laugh. Shoe scramble, huh? I wish you lived next door to me, because I know we’d get along.