CREEK ROAD GANG
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Invasion of the Soccer Mom Pods
Patrick Carmody
copyright 2009
Watch out: Aliens are back and they're snatching people again. I know this because my wife has been replaced by a pod, a Soccer Mom Pod.
Recently, I heard noises coming from downstairs at 5:00A.M. I cautiously crept down the steps only to discover my wife Peg watching a World Cup soccer match on television. It appeared she was taking notes. This was not the woman I had married.
Peg grew up in upstate Pennsylvania, the daughter of a coal miner. Her high school had the basic sports- Football, Wrestling, Baseball and, if it rained the night before, Swimming (it was a multi-purpose field). At my high school we had soccer, but way back then, the sport hadn’t exploded. Soccer players spent most of their time jammed into lockers by the football players. (I’m not bragging; I ran cross-country, even lower on the food chain). So, neither of us were prepared for the soccer epidemic that has infected this country.
Soccer is a kid friendly game, with little commitment or gear needed. When kids first start to play soccer they apparently use a ball that is magnetized, because all the players act as if they’ve been taped together. The early years for our 2 oldest kids were pleasant times for my wife and me. We’d sit back enjoying the game and pray that they didn’t put our child in goal. Sami, our oldest, spent most of her time in goal checking out the birds in the trees. One game, Sami was free to do this because the action was at the other end of the field. Suddenly, the ball was kicked her way. I turned to discover, with all the other horrified parents that Sami was facing her own net, trying to dislodge her foot from the net. Parents started to yell at my six-year-old daughter at as if she had thrown the game-losing interception. Fortunately, the shot on her goal went wide before a riot broke out.
As Sami got older, she became a better player and her younger brother Brian joined her in also playing in recreational leagues. During these games, my wife chatted with the other parents oblivious to the score. This was in contrast to me. Having been an Eagles season ticket holder (yes I did, as a teenager, boo Santa; he was pretty ratty looking), I understand I have a problem. So I deliberately sat in a chair, reading the paper, trying to avoid getting too involved in the games. I only slipped up once.
One day I was asked to be Flag Guy, the person who waves a big flag to signal which team gets possession when the ball goes out of bounds. The referee often ignores the flag guy unless he did not see the play. It’s a job often performed by a child. That day, however, no child was available.
Sami was twelve and her team was playing against her good friend Aggie’s team. It was a close game and some of the parents believed the intensity of my flag waving was influencing the fourteen-year-old female ref. Even parents on our team asked “Aren’t you tired?” or “Would you like someone else to hold the flag for awhile?” But I wasn’t about to give up that flag; I had caught the soccer bug. Then Aggie got kicked in the stomach and crumpled to the field. Violating all soccer etiquette, I ran onto the field, flagging play to a halt. The referee looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Within a few moments, Aggie was fine but when I returned to the sidelines, my flag had been confiscated. Vaguely, I recalled a TV show “Branded” where Chuck Connors was cast out of the Army and insignias were ripped off his uniform. I humbly returned to my paper, cured forever of soccer fever.
Still as I watched the antics of other parents at games, I sighed contentedly that at least that was not my wife. But then our third child Jack started playing soccer and some genius suggested, “he should play travel”. The next thing I knew Peg had volunteered to be the team administrator for a nine-year-old's soccer squad, an unpaid position that seems primarily designed to keep the coach from having to deal with the parents. Peg though explained her position very differently – an “Oh it’s a crucial position – You have to schedule tournaments, complete the roster and player card paperwork, pay the referees, remember to bring badges to exchange with the other teams, make sure everyone is wearing the proper uniform…” Peg was still talking after I left the room.
Peg has jumped into this role. She spends hours on the phone organizing tournaments miles away. At the games, she explains the rules to the uninitiated: “Offsides is when you’re at the Supermarket checkout line and you don’t have any money and someone behind you in line throws their purse ahead to you”. She cheers Jack on as if she was leading troops into battle: “Markup, attack, clear”. When we drive to these tournaments, she’s on the phone with all the other minivans to make sure the opposing administrator didn’t give us faulty directions, trying to sabotage our coordinated attack.
Lately, after we return from one of these tournaments and our kids have finally fallen asleep, when I reach out for Peg, she blankly says, “No hands,” and turns on the Spanish channel to watch two soccer teams she is somehow familiar with.
I miss my wife.
Recently, I heard noises coming from downstairs at 5:00A.M. I cautiously crept down the steps only to discover my wife Peg watching a World Cup soccer match on television. It appeared she was taking notes. This was not the woman I had married.
Peg grew up in upstate Pennsylvania, the daughter of a coal miner. Her high school had the basic sports- Football, Wrestling, Baseball and, if it rained the night before, Swimming (it was a multi-purpose field). At my high school we had soccer, but way back then, the sport hadn’t exploded. Soccer players spent most of their time jammed into lockers by the football players. (I’m not bragging; I ran cross-country, even lower on the food chain). So, neither of us were prepared for the soccer epidemic that has infected this country.
Soccer is a kid friendly game, with little commitment or gear needed. When kids first start to play soccer they apparently use a ball that is magnetized, because all the players act as if they’ve been taped together. The early years for our 2 oldest kids were pleasant times for my wife and me. We’d sit back enjoying the game and pray that they didn’t put our child in goal. Sami, our oldest, spent most of her time in goal checking out the birds in the trees. One game, Sami was free to do this because the action was at the other end of the field. Suddenly, the ball was kicked her way. I turned to discover, with all the other horrified parents that Sami was facing her own net, trying to dislodge her foot from the net. Parents started to yell at my six-year-old daughter at as if she had thrown the game-losing interception. Fortunately, the shot on her goal went wide before a riot broke out.
As Sami got older, she became a better player and her younger brother Brian joined her in also playing in recreational leagues. During these games, my wife chatted with the other parents oblivious to the score. This was in contrast to me. Having been an Eagles season ticket holder (yes I did, as a teenager, boo Santa; he was pretty ratty looking), I understand I have a problem. So I deliberately sat in a chair, reading the paper, trying to avoid getting too involved in the games. I only slipped up once.
One day I was asked to be Flag Guy, the person who waves a big flag to signal which team gets possession when the ball goes out of bounds. The referee often ignores the flag guy unless he did not see the play. It’s a job often performed by a child. That day, however, no child was available.
Sami was twelve and her team was playing against her good friend Aggie’s team. It was a close game and some of the parents believed the intensity of my flag waving was influencing the fourteen-year-old female ref. Even parents on our team asked “Aren’t you tired?” or “Would you like someone else to hold the flag for awhile?” But I wasn’t about to give up that flag; I had caught the soccer bug. Then Aggie got kicked in the stomach and crumpled to the field. Violating all soccer etiquette, I ran onto the field, flagging play to a halt. The referee looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Within a few moments, Aggie was fine but when I returned to the sidelines, my flag had been confiscated. Vaguely, I recalled a TV show “Branded” where Chuck Connors was cast out of the Army and insignias were ripped off his uniform. I humbly returned to my paper, cured forever of soccer fever.
Still as I watched the antics of other parents at games, I sighed contentedly that at least that was not my wife. But then our third child Jack started playing soccer and some genius suggested, “he should play travel”. The next thing I knew Peg had volunteered to be the team administrator for a nine-year-old's soccer squad, an unpaid position that seems primarily designed to keep the coach from having to deal with the parents. Peg though explained her position very differently – an “Oh it’s a crucial position – You have to schedule tournaments, complete the roster and player card paperwork, pay the referees, remember to bring badges to exchange with the other teams, make sure everyone is wearing the proper uniform…” Peg was still talking after I left the room.
Peg has jumped into this role. She spends hours on the phone organizing tournaments miles away. At the games, she explains the rules to the uninitiated: “Offsides is when you’re at the Supermarket checkout line and you don’t have any money and someone behind you in line throws their purse ahead to you”. She cheers Jack on as if she was leading troops into battle: “Markup, attack, clear”. When we drive to these tournaments, she’s on the phone with all the other minivans to make sure the opposing administrator didn’t give us faulty directions, trying to sabotage our coordinated attack.
Lately, after we return from one of these tournaments and our kids have finally fallen asleep, when I reach out for Peg, she blankly says, “No hands,” and turns on the Spanish channel to watch two soccer teams she is somehow familiar with.
I miss my wife.
~~~
Biographical Note: Patrick Carmody lives and writes in West Chester, Pa. where he is held hostage by his wife and three children. He can be contacted at pcarmody@chesco.org.
