My First Soccer Parent

The year was 1992. Tug (my college roommate and co-coach) and I were attending our first out-of-state tournament with our U13 boys team in Joplin, Missouri. I didn’t know it then, but Joplin is to country music and trailer parks what St. Louis is to soccer and beer. It was also my first sustained interaction with a soccer parent being, well, a soccer parent.

Our digs in Joplin was similar to every hotel my family stayed at throughout my youth. The hotel featured a square layout with an indoor pool in the center. The first-floor rooms all had glass sliding doors facing the pool. The second floor had a balcony, also facing poolside. There was a putt-putt course with three holes, a small arcade and a pool table. No air hockey, which Tug and I immediately deemed nearly a deal-breaking omission, though the bar with live music on weekends helped to temper our critique.

The tournament was early in the season, so Tug and I hadn’t spent much time training the team. We figured it would give as a good opportunity to get to know our team as players and kids. As it turned out, we won two games and lost one and didn’t advance to the finals, which, though I didn’t know it at the time, is always a preferable outcome. Traditionally, youth tournament finals are wars of attrition that end around 4 or 5 pm on Sunday, followed by the trophy presentations, which includes a boring speech by the tournament director complimenting both teams on their hard work and asking them to come back next year, a boring non-heartfelt speech by the losing team’s coach, a boring heartfelt speech by the winning team’s coach, lots of posing for pictures guaranteed to create confusing conversations years later (“The Joplin, Mo Invitational? Nope don’t remember it. Oh, wait, I do remember the hotel with the pool in the center, nice place, but sadly no air hockey.”), a quick stop at Hardees or Taco Bell and the return trip home, which feels like it takes two hours longer than the to there trip.

After the Saturday games and dinner, a dad asked us if we wanted to meet in the bar for a beer – his treat. Being cordial young men, we said yes, of course.

Sitting at the bar sipping my first free coaching libation, I thought, this coaching gig is pretty sweet.

On stage a country/rock band featured a little person named Gus as its lead singer.

“He’s quite agile given his physique,” I mentioned to Tug.

“Pretty similar to your physique big guy, except you have less rhythm,” he observed.

I leaned back listening to Gus belt out Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried.” He sounded pretty good.

“Do you think this guy would be in Nashville at the Grand Old Opry if he wasn’t a little person?” I asked.

“Does he have his own songs? I mean, if you’re gonna make it, you gotta have your own songs.”

“Right, so let’s say he has his own songs. He’s Johnny Cash but a little person. Would he make it big?”

“Nope”.

“Nope? That’s it. That’s your final answer.”

”Yep. It’s all bullshit. It’s always been a beauty contest and it’s even worse since MTV.”

“What about the novelty of Gus being a little person?"

“Nope. You know the C and C Music Factory with the hot chick singing “Everybody Dance Now.” The voice is really a very large woman named Martha Walsh.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hey this guy’s really good,” the parent chimed in.

“His name is Gus and we were just saying that,” I responded. “Do you think Gus could make it as a country music superstar? I mean he sounds great, right?”

“I have no idea. Hey, cheers. Thanks for coaching the kids.”

“Yeah, thanks again for the beers.”

“No problem. You know, watching the games today, I think my sons a really good passer.”

Holy non-sequitur, I thought. Here I am genuinely enjoying the show and conversation, and all of a sudden you’re going to ruin our night by telling us your son is a really good passer? Your son who actually is a big lazy bully who probably hit his athletic peak in seventh grade. The only reason he seems like a good passer is because he never runs, tackles, heads the ball or performs any other soccer-related activities that require the slightest amount of effort. He doesn’t have many playing years left, so just sit back and enjoy what you can while you can Mr. My-Son’s-a-Good-Passer-of-the-Ball!”

I kept my mouth shut. I’m proud to say that even at 22, I had some self-restraint.

Beer-buying-dad stared at us intently. It all felt a bit pathetic. Tug looked visibly uncomfortable. At a loss for words, I nodded, which, regrettably, was like pouring gasoline on a fire. As it turned out, his son had quite a few other soccer-playing virtues, which he spent the next forty-five minutes describing in detail, while I nodded, slugged down the free beers and kept an appreciative eye on Gus up there on stage.

Gus finished to a big ovation. A new country crooner took the stage. He lacked the charisma or vocal chops of Gus. He invited his son on stage, told a story about his son and said something about working two jobs, not sure why. Then the dad and son started singing a duet, in the middle of which dad started crying uncontrollably. At 22 years old, I didn’t feel my heart being warmed. Instead, I found myself wondering if his son used to be a good ball passer.

For nearly 30 years this event, this story, has floated around in the back of my head. I love the visuals - the setting, the town. It feels like a Cohen Brothers movie. In most versions of the story, as I remember it, I find myself scoffing at beer-buying-dad and think him pretty inconsiderate and ignorant for believing we might have overlooked his son’s obvious athletic skills. But today, at 51-years-old, I’m feeling a bit more empathy for beer-buying dad.

Maybe dad was a little inconsiderate and obnoxious; maybe he was living vicariously through his 13-year-old kid. But geez, when push comes to shove, half of his DNA was wrapped up and exhibited in that kid. Like most parents, he really wanted to know what the coaches, not to mention teachers, friends and other kids, thought of his kid. If they weren’t going to volunteer the information, then it was up to him to tell them what they should be noticing. And that said, maybe 22-year-old Rob was a bit righteous and arrogant. Maybe he was too young and clueless to appreciate the all-consuming love that can distort a parent’s view of his child.

Maybe 22-year-old Rob was a little inconsiderate and obnoxious.

Not long ago, I spoke with Tug, who still does some coaching, about this story and about his own soccer-playing kids. “When you watch or coach your own kids do you see their faults and accomplishments the same way you see the faults and accomplishments of the other kids on your team?”

“Good question,” he said thoughtfully. “When I’m coaching, I can see the faults of the other players crystal clear. But my kids, I see them through rose-colored glasses.”

“I guess that’s the way it should be,” I offered.

“Or just the way it is,” he responded.