Or began, I should say. I meant to post this back on September 8th.
Sam had his first ever soccer game earlier this month. The first of what feels like 10,000 that potentially lie in front of us. It was pure comedy gold, screaming and cheering and crying because the other team was SO pitifully bad that Skip (Scott's twin brother, the head coach) finally took three of his own players out and left only his son Spencer (above) on the field to face six players of the opposing team.
Spencer still scored.
It was 27 to 0. The coaches decided to get on the field and help the blue team's cause. It involved: holding onto the back of the yellow team's jerseys to keep them from the ball, kicking the ball to the blue team, Scott carries a poor sweet crying girl in his arms, running with her down the field, dribbling to the goal, stopping the ball, sets her down behind it and watches proudly as she timidly tapped it into our goal. A girl from the opposing team, mind you.
Every parent on the sidelines broke out into a massive roar of support for her. She tearfully ran to her mom with her arms in the air, "I did it Mommy!" I may have cried a little.
What I learned: preschool soccer is awesome; that Sam hates it when I yell for him or any other player; that he doesn't stop beaming while he's on the field; and finally, that my husband looks really really hot in his soccer shoes, Mr. Assistant Coach himself.