peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

Kickball. Two teams. Two captains. Time to pick teams.

There were always the best players who could kick a home run every time. There were the fast players, who could round the bases with little effort. I was both.

Then there were the kids who were picked last. Their dejected faces drooping, as they shuffled over to the rest of their team. Were their feelings hurt? Did they know they lacked mad kickball skills? Did they know they sorta sucked?

I never knew because I was always a team captain or one of the first to get picked. I was one of the tallest girls in 8th grade. Long legs. Athletic. I excelled at kickball.

It wasn’t until later in life that I started getting picked last. And let me tell you, it sucks.

I play indoor women’s soccer and the teams get formed on the spot. You show up wearing a dark shirt or a white shirt. Forming teams is usually pretty easy. The dark shirts vs. the white shirts. Except sometimes teams are a little skewed. And some player shuffling goes on. I am usually picked, oh, about sixth.

There are six players on the field. Do the math.

I’m still tall tallish and I still have long legs. But I’m not as athletic as I used to be. I definitely do not excel at soccer. But I am decent. I try hard. OK, I try my best. I get sweaty. I’m a team player. I’m competitive. I cannot help but do the comparison:

Pippi = Rudy. Sort of.

You know Rudy? That kid had heart. Even though he only played during the game for like eight minutes.

When I go grocery shopping, I can’t help but think about picking teams, especially when it’s time to select the apples. Pick the shiny, firm apples? Or pick a few that have a little dent or a bruise?

Yeah, I’m that sucker who feels sorry for fruit.

For every half dozen apples I select, I grab a deformed one and vow to eat it first when I get home. Because no one likes getting picked last.

Hey! I’m hanging out with other cool bloggers at Yeah Write. Check them out!

There is nothing more exciting on a Saturday morning than to watch my daughter tear it up and rough it up during a soccer game.

She’s the one in all blue. The one that looks like she’s gonna break the other girl’s arm. Or did she already?

We teach our children to be kind. We teach them to be empathetic. We teach them to be good citizens, good learners, good listeners, good people. We support their creativity. We support their dreams.

And let me tell you. We support them when they kick some ass in sports.

That’s where my competitiveness comes out. Yeah. I’m the parent of an athlete. I am impressed by her athleticism, determination, and strength. Not only am I proud, but I am learning from her.

I am the parent hollering on the sidelines. I am the one high-fiving my husband when our daughter protects the goal. Scores a goal from half-field. Or roughs it up on the field.

You see, what’s funny is my daughter is soft spoken. She has a fairy-like, sing-song voice. She plays with dragons. She paints vibrant canvases. She is unique and free-spirited and peaceful.

But when she’s on the soccer field, better hide the girlie girls. Because #99 is a powerful force.

Sarophilus harrisii. That’s Tasmanian devil to you. “The Tasmanian devil is capable of surprising speed and endurance, and can climb trees and swim across rivers.”

We have been Tasmanian devils these past two months since school started in September. Today is the first Saturday in eight weeks where we have no soccer games or football games to shuttle the kids to, coach, or support. My husband and my conversations on Friday night have gone something like this:

“OK, let’s take two cars. You take X and I’ll take Y. Then Z can get a ride with W. Then you can watch X’s game and I’ll watch Y, but I’ll need to leave early so that I can go to Z’s game. So can you pick up Y and go to W’s game and I’ll pick up X?”

I am not complaining. Just a little sleepy.

My husband and I signed our kids up for sports and we support them 100%. The parents that do over complain about “I am so busy…”

Two words for you: buck up. Make it work. Parenting is busy. We know this. Our rule is that each child has one activity at a time. And that is enough.

I have also come to the realization that with three kids–and it’s been a little tough to accept–well, you just can’t attend every game, every Saturday. Especially when games are scheduled at the same time. And they are across town from each other. I have learned that you can’t feel guilty about it. Tasmanian devils have not been cloned yet. Until then, I am fortunate that my husband and I can split up on Saturday mornings to root on and support someone. And we have wonderful grandparents that live nearby and who make good cheerleaders too. It’s a good idea to become friends with other parents on your child’s team because we were also blessed with the magic of carpooling.

Fortunately, we Tasmanian devils are fast and have good endurance. And like all Tasmanian devils, we need a rest. So, finally. A sleep-in Saturday. Or so I thought.

Too bad we decided to feed our dog, Lucy, an abundance of turkey leftovers last night. So at 7:00 a.m. this morning, I awoke to a whining dog begging me to let her out. Because she had a case of the runs.

So it seems to me, that if a parent of a child who plays on a recreational soccer team really wants her child to receive a trophy–regardless of how well (or not so well) the child played during the season–she needs to pay for it. The whole thing. I’ll explain in a bit.

First off, I’m fine with giving out fake trophies. You know, not fake gold, but fake as in “these trophies don’t have meaning but are a symbol of completion.” Back in the day, we didn’t get trophies unless we won championships or tournaments. Or if we were singled out in high school as playing above-and-beyond. Shout out for me: I received Most Inspirational in tennis in high school. (Are you laughing at me?) I do realize that “Inspirational” has nothing to do with skill.

As a coach of youth soccer–six-year-old boys–I try to do the right thing. And if the parents want trophies, I will order them and collect money from the parents and then hand them out at the end of the season. I really do hate ponying up money ahead of time and then asking for reimbursement. It is belittling and makes me look desperate. But, oh well, it’s all part of being a volunteer coach. So, I find a good deal, supporting a local trophy shop, and place the order. The trophies are a great deal, at $6.43 each. I send the email to the parents explaining that I ordered them and to please pay me at practice.

Then I have to remind them at several practices and several games to please pay me. Now, I’m a nag (see post on being a nag). A nag pestering for a measly $6.43.

Finally, the parents pay. But one parent paid only $12 for two trophies, as if buying multiples gives her a discount. Shortchanged. Chumped again. I don’t really need the money (but some of these parents drive Range Rovers). I don’t really need the extra $.86 either. It’s the principle.

I should have broken off the trophy player’s arm or something and handed that out at our end-of-season celebration. Because, really, if you don’t pay the full amount, you shouldn’t get a total trophy. Hence the saying: “You get what you pay for.”