I yelled today at Hazel's soccer game. It was her last soccer game, and I yelled.
The game had been rescheduled twice, since Mother Nature can't make up her mind about letting winter go, so we were glad to finally put a cap on the spring soccer season.
We sat down to watch the game and were immediately made aware of that mother. You know that mother. She was yelling at all the girls on her daughter's team: Where should you be? You should be covering her! Number 8! Get down there! Do not let anything get past you--do you understand? That mother.
Hazel was put in as goalee for the first half. Jed and I enjoyed watching her play in the net, while whistling and digging her cleated feet in the grass. She'll run with the rest of the girls when she's a forward, but since she's not really competitive, she ends up just jogging along a few paces behind the others. So goalee has been a fun, new experience. My only care has been that she have a good, happy experience playing soccer, so when she tried to pick up the ball a few times as goalee, I was pleased.
The next half she was a defender. When the ball came her way, she picked it up--forgetting she wasn't the goalee. Again, Jed and I were just pleased that she made contact with the ball. As the coaches set up a penalty kick for the other team, a cute girl on Hazel's team said, "She can be goalee if that's what she wants to be!" To which Jed replied, "I love that little girl."
So, Hazel dropped back to goalee again. Soon after, she went to pick up a ball--but picked it up outside of the goal box. The coaches weren't concerned about it (remember that they are 6 and 7 years old) but that mother took matters into her own hands and set up a penalty kick--pointing out for all to note that Hazel was outside of the box. I started to feel mother-bearish, not wanting Hazel to feel embarrassed by her big mistake and I was ready for that mother to move it along.
And then, not 1 minute later, that mother's daughter tripped a little bit and grabbed the ball with her hands. That mother didn't care to call a penalty this time.
And now from Jed's point of view:
Yeah, this lady's antics had been noticed by the other parents on the line, and within earshot there were heard a few snorts of gentle derision: Hey, if I'd known we could step in there and ref, I'd have jumped in a few minutes ago. Chuckle, Chuckle.
But when the little darling grappled with the ball in her hands and her mother was suddenly buttoned up, the murmuring began in delicate ripples. The dads, a mom-- everyone wanted to know if someone was going to call that hand ball. But Jayne, Miss Friendly herself, boiled over. She went from zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds. What started as a giggly gafaw erupted into a bellowing "Aren't you going to call THAT hand ball?!"
It rang out over the field and bounced around the valley foothills.
Back to Jayne:
Yeah, I lost my cool at my six-year-old daughter's game.
I guess that makes me that mother.
P.S. From now on, we won't need to label whether it's Jed writing or me. You'll be able to tell it is Jed if phrases like, "few snorts of gentle derision" are present.