It's about 4pm on a November afternoon in North Vancouver BC. It's raining, as always this time of year. Our daughter Abby is upstairs showering the mud off herself having played her Sunday game of soccer on an "all weather" field nearby. An all weather field is a densely packed somewhat flat gravel surface that while unforgiving to the players can at least drain itself from the monsoons that assault Vancouver all winter. Most of the rain runs off in hundreds of little rivulets that combine to create creeks that gush along the sidelines which will soak you past the ankles if you're stupid enough to get near them. But at least an all weather field is never, ever, closed for play. Rain can be coming down sideways in a driving wind that turns parents' umbrellas inside out but the game is always on. My wife Caroline used to laugh at drenched parents gathered closely into huddles on the sidelines of a winter soccer game trying to generate enough collective body heat to survive the match. But alas, one kid and a few years later with socks squishing with wetness and toes trending inevitably toward frostbite we cheer her on. And we are loving every second of it.
The kids never complain about the cold or the wet anymore as they have learned it is quite useless. The parents, of course, while trembling on the sidelines constantly compare the ordeal of watching a soccer game outdoors in November to the worst of common cold weather accidents - like driving off a bridge into an icy river for example, or the equally common occurrence of being towed face down and naked for miles through the snow by a runaway horse - but the weather concerns of our pony tailed, pasty faced athletes have fallen on deaf ears since kindergarten.
The only thing that bothers Abby is when the soccer ball comes to a sudden stop in a lake of standing water putting an end to a clean breakaway, which is something to be complained about because in grade 4 breakaways account for 100% of goals scored. Players silly enough to go falling and skidding on the all weather surface get wicked raspberry scraped knees and end up driving tiny bits of gravel deep up into the darkness of their shorts. This debris is unwelcomely released later onto the bedroom floor during a post game ceremony that features mom helping to peel off a soaked through jersey and shorts from a little shivering body, a great sucking sound can be heard house wide as the air lock that glues soggy socks to soggy feet is finally released. Athlete then bolts to a warm shower and will not emerge until much later when her need for warmth finally loses out against the urge for a cookie.
Because weather is such an influence on both the player and parent soccer experience in North Vancouver all the teams in the league have been named after intimidating climatological or geological events. Once you actually gain an appreciation for the number of scary team names that can be conceived from this concept you no longer question it; the Hurricanes and Inferno, Earthquake, Cyclones and Landslide being among our noble competition.
One goal was all it took for our team, the Tsunami, to bring home victory on this day. Despite the fact our team has been together for 3 years it has still proven difficult for Coaches John and Steve to convince our young players of the limitless strategic possibilities that could be unlocked if they could just learn the concept known to grown ups as "spreading out". For years as you watch your young athletes you will yell from the sidelines "SPREAD OUT!!!!" But they will not. To them only two thoughts drive performance in these formative years:
1. The probability of me getting the ball is directly proportional to the distance between me and the ball. It does not matter how many people from both teams are also near the ball. I must get closer to the ball. I must follow the ball as close as I can, at all times;
2. I hope there's going to be treats at halftime.
Speedy Maddy with the red cleats emerged from the beehive of players after the ball accidentally squirted loose from the pack and she attempted something rare, a pass, in this case to Alyssa who must have become disoriented and found herself outside the scrum at the opportune moment. The pass was misdirected, but hard and toward the goal. The goalie, who had not seen the ball come near her in over an hour, was busy tossing twigs into the creek flowing around her goalpost to see what route they might take to the ocean. But a distracted keeper is not enough to assure a score in such conditions. The ball hit a puddle on the way to the goal and was struck as still as a sailboat in the mid Atlantic doldrums. Alyssa realized the problem and bolted toward the stranded ball and was able to punch it with a series of kicks and splashes over the goal line just before opposing defenders arrived to deal with the situation. Our team had achieved another victory preserving the Tsunami position at the top of the table.
I'm back at home slowly thawing and wondering if Abby is trying to set the world record for the longest hot shower ever endured by a human when the phone rings. I automatically glance at the call display to see if the caller is worthy of my precious time. It shows " J K Hunter". Hmm. That's Coach John, with a post game analysis I suppose. I decide I'd best answer.
But it's not John, it's his wife, Kathy, with an unexpected announcement, "John is going to open the gym at the school on Saturday mornings. Tryouts for Steve Nash are coming up. John would like Abby to come out, Allie will be there, what do you think?" About the only part I understood about this was that Allie, who is John and Kathy's daughter and also on the soccer team, was also going to be a part of this new venture.
I answer with the only sensible thing, "What's Steve Nash?"
Kathy explains with a tone designed to assist a recent immigrant from a distant solar system, "Steve Nash is a basketball club. All kids that want to play basketball start in the Steve Nash league. You want to come to tryouts prepared so that Abby gets a good rating. You need to get a good rating to get onto a good team. John will probably coach, he'll take as many of the soccer kids as he can but he wants them to show well at tryouts."
I'm processing several thoughts at once. I have just put my book down next to my glass of wine and my first thought is how does John, who is a full time family physician and who has already dedicated years coaching his two older daughters and their friends still find time to coach Abby in soccer and now wants to coach them all in basketball too? Also: maybe I'm a lazy parent who should judge his successful contribution to the team by something greater than just getting the kid to practice on time. Tryouts? At this age? And finally, Saturday is our skiing day.
So I tell Kathy, "Saturday is our skiing day, we can't commit to another sport right now".
"Okay", Kathy says. "But unless she starts basketball soon she won't have much of a chance of playing for the senior high school team". I did not even realize this was supposed to be a goal.
I tell Caroline this exchange and we both laugh. Our daughter is 8 years old and a senior basketball player is what? Probably age 16 at least? Crazy. Plus basketball is not on any of our radar screens. The sport is exceptionally boring to watch, and Abby, based on her ability to tackle her own teammates to get the ball out of the scrum and score goals, will probably be a dedicated soccer player anyway.
After one final chuckle, Mom, Dad, and Abby spend the next two years ignoring basketball completely.
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