The other day I went to a soccer game with my soccer playin’ daughter, Megan. Indoor, soccer, in case you were wondering what kind of insane team plays in the frigid weather and the snow. We were joking before the game that she was a Jedi knight, and the other soccer players would come to her and say, “Help me Obi Wan Megan. You’re my only hope.” She hit my arm and said, Maaa- ommmm. Typical response.
But during the game, I looked up from my book (yes, I do read at my children’s sporting events. Doesn’t everyone?) and saw that they had put Megan in as goalie. My little, not quite 5 ft tall, 80 pound 12 year old was playing goalie. Why is she playing goalie? That’s not her position. Eek. Needless to say, I put the book away.
Every time the other team got near their goal, my stomach tied itself into knots. Argh! No! No! Get back in the goal! Nooooooo! My little Obi Wan Megan WAS their only hope, and it wasn’t going well. Not only were they outsized and outplayed by this older, better team, but now they have my tiny little daughter as goalie. I felt like standing up and screaming, “Use the force! Use the force Obi wan Megan!” but I didn’t. I let her play out her stint as goalie with dignity.
About 1/2 way through the period, the coach switched her out and let someone else take a turn at the carnage, and I could breathe again. I much prefer watching her dashing across the field kicking the ball instead of trying to use her body to stop the ball. When the game was over, I braced myself for the disappointment and sullenness that might follow a loss such as this one. After the game, I met up with my little jedi and said, “Good game. How was that, playing goalie?”
“It was kind of fun. But I’m not really tall enough to be a good goalie,” and that was it. No sulking, no anger at the loss. Just joy to be able to play soccer.
Now if only I could make piano a sport.