Soccer, aka stupidball


Growing up, I had always wished I

(a) liked soccer


(b) was good at it.

The truth is that I probably didn’t like it because I wasn’t good at it. I’m a slow runner. Even in my prime, junior year of high school at 112lbs, I was the slowest runner (maybe) in the history of running. I’m no dummy and I’ve seen those soccer players run.

But kids always want to do what all their friends are doing (I’ve come to learn that so do adults) so Alice and Charlotte are playing soccer this year. It’s the worst.


We have one who practices at 5:15 on a Wednesday which, if we remembered to actually go, wouldn’t be that bad. It’s the Friday evening practice that makes me cranky. But what really makes me call it “stupid ball” is the Saturday morning soccer games. It’s cold. It’s usually a little wet. Games are usually spaced just far enough apart that we can’t stay there in between, but going home just means a few minutes before we have to get ready to go again.

I’m not shy about my dislike for kids soccer. People will ask if my kids are playing soccer and I’ll respond, “Yes, and it’s awful,” and the reply is usually a little chuckle with a bit of pity thrown in. I know there are parents who LOVE sports. They LOVE that their kids are into it and they take it really seriously. Not us. I love that Charlotte plays with her best friend B and I love that Alice looks forward to it. If it weren’t for those things, we wouldn’t be playing.

We just look forward to when Alice shreds so hard that she’s winning every skate and snow competition she enters. Until then, I guess it’s stupid ball.


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