Blame it on Soccer

I was on the phone with a good friend of mine from the Sandhills of North Carolina recently and, since all 10 of you guys who read this crap are hoverin' around yer 50th birthday like me and him, I thought you'd appreciate what genius was borne from our conversation.

Symbolic for the end of America!

Of course we got around to talkin' sports pretty quickly 'cause there ain't a situation in anyone's sorry life that can't somehow be analogized with some kinda goings-on in the sports world. Needless to say, once we got 'round to talkin' 'bout "Generation Me" and how our country's becomin' a band of Socialist Wimps  'cause we don't have anybody left who wants to or knows how to compete, he immediately blamed all our societal ills on soccer!

It took me a few seconds to consider his terse yet brilliant statement before I was in complete agreement. We spent the rest of our lengthy phone conversation bolsterin' our argument knowin' that if this politically incorrect truth were ever uttered at one of those maggot-infested, feel good, new age, hooka smokin' parties, we'd need some ammo to fire back at all the Commies who were bound to pitch a disagreement fit. Here's where bein' near 50's gonna help you boys understand where we're comin' from. If you grew up in the South it'll make even more sense.

My friend and I grew up in neighborin' counties in North Carolina. Durin' the fall we participated in the great game of football cause there wadn't any soccer to be found. We didn't know it then but it was probably the best thing that never happened to us!

Great game to grow up on!

We started out playin'  in the 5th or 6th grade. Our Dads usually carried us to practice 'cause Moms couldn't stand to watch us play knowin' all along there's a good chance somebody's gonna get hurt. 'Bout the only time Moms showed up were at the games and even then they were as nervous as a needle sharin' drug addict waitin' for the results of his AIDS test! Somehow, in those days, Dads were able NOT to work 12 hours a day and 8 on Saturday so they could be there for football practice.



Football is a guy's game. We had male coaches and our dads watched from the sidelines at practice. There wadn't no snack list to sign up for. I think we had one water break 'cause at the time they thought drinkin' too much water would give you cramps.  The water on this break was kept in a couple tin buckets on the ground at the end of the field. The whole team drank from one of 3 or 4 community ladles hangin' from the sides of the buckets. You didn't dilly-dally while takin' yer turn and risk takin' a ration of shit or gettin' yer ass kicked by one of the other thirsty kids in line. And if you weren't at the front of the line you were gonna be treated to an unforgettable fusion of luke warm tap water, football sweat, Kentucky fescue, and Rowan County top soil that found it's way into the bucket during the fray!

Tough sport

I think the football experience taught us a thing or two about bein' guys. It's a
tough sport played by tough folks. It's physically, mentally, and emotionally challengin'. Whatever little problems you thought you had goin' on didn't seem so insurmountable after some of the football practices you made it through. Yer coaches, dads, and even yer teammates didn't much appreciate whiners. It was frowned upon if you got hurt and couldn't go (probably our first lesson in learnin' the difference between bein' hurt and bein' injured). Nobody liked a crybaby so the feeble didn't last long.

Look, a trophy for winnin'!

We were taught how to compete and that playin' to win wadn't a bad thing. They used to give your team a trophy for bein' the league champs, or one to the person who was the MVP, or some kinda recognition for doin' somethin' else great. Losin' sucked and it was OK not to like that, especially since yer next practice would reflect how much yer coaches didn't like it! We got hollered at by coaches at practice and then again when we got home if the old man happened to be there to see the horseshit effort you yer givin'! They didn't give trophies for just showin' up.

And all this was OK. Actually it was good; very good!  We had family and other folks in our lives who cared enough to have expectations and teach us how to be better than we thought we could be. Hard work, grit, belief in yourself,...you know, the stuff that made football and America (at one time) great! And now fast forward to the spread of soccer throughout our society ...

The problem with soccer is every little peckerwood (boy, girl, LGBT, etc...) plays it whether they want to or not. Guys don't learn how to be guys, girls don't learn how to be girls, and LGBT's...well, they don't get to learn how to be whatever they're tryin' to be either. I'm of the naive, idiotic, outta touch belief that guys and girls are different. We both bring somethin' unique to the human table and our uniqueness should be celebrated and cultivated. One way NOT to do this for us guys is to make us play soccer!

These kids may be less than 2 years old!

That's right, all the Momma's and Daddy's go down to the Community Center to sign up their little n'er-do-wells for the 2 year old soccer league. Then they make a trip to Dick's Sportin' Goods to spend a $100 or so buyin'em a pair of cleats, socks, and soccer shorts that'll match the team shirt. Oh yeah, let's not forget the little shin pads so Precious dudn't get his or her shins bumped from those power kicks in the 2 year old travel squad league.

So now it's time fer the first practice and all yer parents, Mommas too,  show up to see what crazy-ass coach is gonna teach their kid how to kick the ball. Well, the head coach just happens to be Rusty Cox, the organist over at the First Presbyterian Church. His assistant is Anita Bush, the 50 somethin', lesbian spinster who also umpires the co-ed softball league when she's not workin' the soda counter down at the drug store. Before the first practice Rusty has a meetin'  with all the parents to make sure everyone understands he's read the book 'bout how to coach soccer several times and could care less about winnin' or even keepin' score. He just wants the kids to have fun and do their best. He also informs the parents about league rules that insure everyone's little Precious gets to play a guaranteed number of minutes every game. Of course, almost all the parents are thrilled with Rusty and Anita's shared demeanor and attitude 'bout the game (the Dads have to be 'cause the wife's there and they don't want to seem primitive and barbaric by callin this what it is, "WIENERVILLE). "Oh yeah,", says Rusty, "don't forget to sign up with Anita for the apres-practice snack list before you leave".

Need I say more?

So practice starts with a few moms and/or babysitters wheelin' up in Ford Aerostars to dump out a load of young'uns who could care less about bein' here. Coach Cox and Coach Bush are out there pattin'em on the back and tellin' everyone how great their doin' even though three of'em are chasin' a butterfly, one's already into the snack bag, another one's askin' the babysitter if they can go home now, a couple others are sittin' in the grass at the other end of the field plannin' a jailbreak from kindergarten this Friday to go on a weekend bender at the beach, and the remainin' 6 have the ball surrounded and are kickin' hell out of it without it goin' anywhere except into the shinpads of the kid on the other side of the circle they've formed!

My favorite part of soccer!

After about an hour of this nightmare and the mandatory granola bar, orange slice, and juice box snack everyone heads home. On the way mom or the babysitter tells their future soccer star, "You were awesome!" and, "Wadn't that so much fun?"  Dad finally shows up at home from workin' late (or sayin' he was workin late so he could stop by Johnny's Hideaway and have Buster serve him a couple cold ones on the way home) and gets the news from Mom that little Renaldo is a soccer prodigy (even though this was the kid who couldn't keep his snoot outta the snack bag). Now Dad has to pump a bunch of ego-inflatin' accolades into Renaldo's growin' balloon of self-worth cause momma dudn't want Renaldo thinkin' he sucked at soccer and Dad's startin' to feel a bit guilty about the saloon stop. Renaldo would be better served if mom and dad would just tell him to set his sights on gettin' a job with the Food Network replacin' Andrew Zimmerman after he gets food poisonin' ingestin' a diseased wharf rat carcass while on location in Luanda.

Looks like everyone has
his/her season-ending medallions.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, this same scenario plays out every day at practice and after every game until the end of the season when they have the obligatory party to hand every kid a trophy to commemorate the 0 win, 8 loss, 2 tie season!






Good grief!! No wonder we're a mess! What're we doin'? We've turned all our guys into a bunch of wimpy Dr. Phil patients who don't know how to bow up and get'er done when they need to! I don't know about you but I think it'd be helpful if we went back to some basics:

Dads
1- Take yer boys to football practice.
2- Chew their asses if they need it.
3- Tell'em how good their doin' if they deserve it.
4- Don't confuse #2 and #3.
5- Be sure your kid knows you love him.

Moms
1- Don't come to football practice, just show up at games.
3- Don't call yer son's coach to complain about'em not gettin' to play.
4- Don't call the other team's coach to bitch about'em runnin' up the score.
5- Stay outta Dad's way when he's executin' #2 and #3 on his list.
6 -Make sure your kid knows you love him.

Now, dudn't it make perfect sense why soccer is the root of all our problems in the formerly great US of A? I thought you'd see the light.