Years ago, standing in the lunch room, I talked with a colleague about our shared experience of soccer mum life. Her son was in his 30s, and she reminisced about the fleeting nature of his childhood. Of life. “You think you’ll always have a kid in soccer, but one day it ends and you’re surprised and sad that it’s over,” she said.
Every weekend from April until September (and beyond for tournaments) I jumped, paced and plodded the sidelines in pouring rain or sunshine, quietly cheering the children, because their mortification factor grew each year if they heard my voice from their position at defense or wing. Anything beyond normal speaking volume was verboten and heaven help me if I shouted their names.
Despite these restrictions and sometimes awful weather, I loved Super Soccer Saturdays. And Sundays. I often wondered if I could quantify the number of hours I’ve spent watching Fiona’s precision passes or Finley’s tackles. Keep in mind my math skills are abysmal (thank goodness for calculators), but let’s try: both kids have played soccer from age five until 17 (subtracting some games for Finley, because he turns 17 in October).
Each season has around 15 regular games, ranging from 26 minutes total when they’re under age eight, to 90 minutes for ages 15 and up. That averages 60 minutes per game. Twelve years of soccer for two children equals roughly 180 games, times 60 minutes. That’s 180 hours per child. This does not include pre or post-season games or tournaments. Or futsal (indoor soccer).
Even if I exclude days when I couldn’t watch both kids play because of a schedule clash and games canceled due to the pandemic, I would bet my last dark chocolate bar that I have stood on the sidelines for more than 360 hours. That’s equivalent to nine weeks of full-time work spent watching, cheering, and snapping photos in addition to hours of travel to games and training, plus time spent washing uniforms and coordinating the family calendar.
I wouldn’t trade any of those hours. Except maybe the washing ones when my machine broke and I schlepped to the laundromat.
I knew my soccer mum hours were numbered. I remember blinking back tears while telling my colleague that imagining my youngest child’s last game made me sad.
Finley leaves for high school in the States in eleven days. He’ll live with the grandparents, who will, at last, get to see him play on a regular basis (assuming Finn stays in school and remains healthy enough to play).
The final game of my son’s New Zealand soccer career was scheduled for yesterday. The night before, I dug out the big camera with a telephoto lens from its high perch in the closet. I would be ready to capture every moment of Finley’s final Kiwi game.
I was getting ready that morning when Finley popped his head into my bathroom. “Mom! You forgot to wash my uniform!” I had been diligent about that task all season. Until now. The uniform had languished at the bottom of the wardrobe, beneath a pile of clothes that were either dirty or had been flung to the ground because using a hanger is oh-so-hard.
I popped the uniform on a 15-minute wash. It had tumbled in the dryer five minutes when Finley yelled from the next room, “The game’s been postponed.”
No. Not the last game. Rain had pummeled the soccer grounds the previous day, so playing there would rip it up. This was to be the last game before the school holidays and it’s unlikely anything will happen before Finley leaves.
No swan song in Aotearoa. No final huddle, no high-fives from teammates, no chance to kick a final goal for his school. No sideline cheers or tears from me.
Without ceremony or warning, it’s over. Not a grand finale but a finishing fizzle. Ain’t that just like life?
I did, in fact, watch Finley’s final Mount College soccer game. It happened last Saturday across town. Finn banged in a goal from near the corner. “Did you catch that?” asked a parent I had been chatting with on the sidelines. Throughout the years, many of us have missed the moment our kid scored because we were either talking or looking the wrong way. I sure have. I once asked other parents to describe a goal Fiona scored because I didn’t have the heart to admit that no, I had not seen it. I could live with the lie.
Thank goodness I was paying attention last week. I had, in fact, seen Finley score. I also watched him and several teammates perform a synchronous knee slide into the corner after their goalie drilled one into the opposing team’s net. It was not the best sportsmanship, but it was funny.
The finishing fizzle is another reminder of time’s relentless march. Major life changes often fail to include a pre-game warning. We are all one accident, one illness, one mistake from ‘before’ and ‘after.’
It’s not as grim as it sounds. Flip the burned pancake and you’ll often see the perfectly-cooked B side. If we never taste bitter, how do we know what’s sweet? We are all one practice, one round of healing, one achievement from ‘before’ and ‘after.’
The trick is relishing the ordinary day. The ordinary run or walk or catch-up with friends. The ordinary meal or sunrise or sunset. They are all extraordinary in their normalcy.
I was pondering Finley’s impending move during a post-run coffee today, adding a note of caution about what might happen after my son hits the States. If he doesn’t attend school regularly (he has been wagging the past couple of months due to a combination of genuine illness, imaginary ailments, and laziness honed to perfection over the past 16 years), he will boomerang back to New Zealand, which is weird, because boomerangs originated in Australia.
Regardless of the outcome, Finn is going to Ohio. Very soon. “Take the win,” said my friend Rockie, as I downed the last of a large oat milk flat white at Tay Street. She’s right.
In the midst of a less-than-stellar season, Finley’s team won their game last weekend. We are lucky he has the opportunity to begin something in a new place.
I’ll take the win.