Tag Archives: Soccer

Huh, It Works on Other People, Too!


My mother was right. Guilt does work.

After begging for weeks for someone to help me, I actually do have an assistant coach. Kind of. I have a referee. Kind of.  Five of the six parents paid me for the banner. The parent who forgot snacks on snack day felt so bad, she brought the most awesome goody bags I have ever seen, complete with all kinds of little things the girls loved. Change purses, fluorescent bracelets, candy, crackers, juice boxes, all in a little cloth sack in pink or purple.

I’m not sure if it was my final, pathetic email, when I reminded them of the game on Saturday and asked them to help me take down the goals (two different families from my team actually did help me take down the goals. The other team, not so much. It’s all right. I didn’t have to do it all by myself), and then said I still needed an assistant coach, a ref and a team parent (every job but coach). I don’t know if it was the constant gentle reminders at practice that I could use some help.

At this point, I don’t care.

I have help!

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Top 5 Reasons Why I Hate Soccer


1. It starts in the summer, when the temperatures outside rival that of the sun.

2. “It’s too hot and I’m too busy to help out.” (This is the standard excuse of the parents who are playing on their iPhones). My (internal) response: a) WHAT THE HELL? and b) I have a full-time job, kids in piano and soccer and swimming, I’m managing a five-year old while I’m coaching your kid, and in my free time, I write books; and c) I asked you to do a goddamn snack schedule, not… I don’t know… cure cancer.

Also: I’m not bitter.

3. I am coach, assistant coach, the ref and the team parent. I arranged for the banner, my husband is making the stand, I did the snack schedule and I coach your kids. And I hate it. I’d love to sit on a bench in the shade at the end of the day, rather than running around a soccer field. I mean, after all, I FEEL LIKE MELTING BUTTER. No, I’m not exaggerating. Ever heard fat sizzle? I have. I hear it at every goddamn practice–only, instead of a side of bacon, IT’S MY FLESH! Yes, I’m yelling. See above. (Aside: mmm, bacon)

4. I haven’t played soccer since fifth grade. I am not fourteen. Or even double that. Ergo, it’s been a long time. You are not allowed to critique my coaching, because, hell, I barely even know the rules. No seriously. But if you have problems with the way I do it, then maybe you would like to be my assistant rather than the ten-year old I currently have? (Basically, he’s my runner… As I’ve discussed on this blog before, I only run if I’m being chased by clowns)

5. Coaches’ camp. After my third practice. On a Saturday, for the entire morning. And it’s supposed to be 108.

My  only solace? That my new kitchen table should be here by the time I get back from Coaches’ Camp. Just in time for me to die of heat exhaustion. Maybe the dog won’t eat this one. Here’s hoping.