Awful Moments in Soccer - Selection #2
Get Back in Your Cage
I’m biding my time on the sidelines of a game at a youth soccer tournament. I have no interest in the game, no feelings about either team. The U15 boys are decent players. I’m relaxed, enjoying the public solitude and people watching.
A couple, mostly likely married, sidle up to me. “Do you know these teams?” they ask.
“No, I’m just watching. I’ve got some time to kill before my team arrives.”
“So…you’re a coach?” the mom seemed genuinely interested.
“Yep.”
“Have you ever seen a player as dirty as number seven out there?” she asked.
“No. I mean no, I haven’t noticed anybody or anything particularly dirty.”
“Well, number seven is the dirtiest player we’ve ever seen. He attacked our son yesterday,” she said while her husband nodded his head.
It was time to do some ad-lib diffusing. “Oh. Well. Things seem fine in the game today. Is your kid okay?”
“He’s pretty banged up.”
“Yeah, some games can get rough. Unfortunate things happen. In my experience, kids rarely try to hurt anyone.” Obviously, they needed a willing ear and the perspective of a professional coach to nudge them away from the cliff.
“No, number seven is out to hurt people,” she dismissed my wisdom, then turned her attention to the field. “Hey seven! I can’t believe they let you out of your cage today!”
The husband was silent, agitated, and focused. His arms moved restlessly from his pockets to the air, as he watched the game and nodded repeatedly at his wife’s rants. Then he joined in, “Yeah, be careful blue team, number seven is trying to break legs.”
So much for diffusing. I started moving away as another man approached the couple: “If you have a problem with my son, you need to talk to me.”
“Damn right I have a problem with your kid. Our kid nearly went to the hospital because of him,” the dad responded with arms out, head up, posture perfect.
Because I’m smart and a wimp, I kept walking away. Because I’m human, I kept watching. A crowd gathered. Voices got loud – really loud. “Why would you come here?” “You need to leave!” “That kids a timebomb!” “Someone call the police.” “I swear, another word about my kid…” “Where’d that fat little coach with the dumb advice go?” “Call the police?! We should’ve pressed charges yesterday.” “Everyone needs to walk away.” “We’re just here protecting kids.”
There was pushing, bumping, puffed out chests and a buzzing in the air. Eventually, the game was stopped, and the police arrived. No one was hurt, at least not physically.
