Since I am going to be at soccer games all day, I thought I would repost this one for a Sunday read. Thanks to Stim, Owl, 1_Irritated_Mother, Joan H., and Amanda G.for reading it the first time I posted.
We have our own thing. Right in our faces that no politician or pundit will ever understand:
Kids to raise responsibly and prepare for the incessant assault of adult life with some small modicum of courage.
End of story.
How dare you?
Get off our backs. Bitch.
I dig soccer, especially since my daughter kicks ass so very well on the playing field. She and her team could run down Ann Coulter’s emaciated skeletal butt, drop her, and I would (inappropriately) celebrate the resultant red card.
For the unschooled, red card means you did a bad, bad thing and must bench yourself.
Oh, what a difference if this guy refereed our games.The penalty card process would be so much less painful!
Another great visual? Coulter pursued by my beloved pack of girl soccer players, her fake blonde hair, Chanel knock-off shift dress, stiletto Jimmy Choos and skinny legs flailing as she cartwheels like some anorexic tumbleweed…
But this didn’t start as a political rant. Or did it? Why did I go there? It’s coming…
Tori plays defense and is the last line of resistance against full-on assault to the goalie so she takes it very seriously.
No one gets by the Wall of T, and in the rare instance they do, she atones.
Atones hard and fast.
I get so alarmed and proud when her “mark” on the other team is a third bigger than she is.
Sometimes I wish we could check birth certificates and chromosomes of these precociously developed giantesses, but whatever.
T still buzzes the ball around them like a little gnat with great legs sending it back through to her mids and strikers for an attempt at a breakaway goal.
It always seem to be the number nine player on each opposing team that is large enough to, when the ref isn’t looking, snag T, shake her like a Polaroid picture and push her to the ground. “Numbah Nine, Numbah Nine!”
T just tucks, rolls and pops back up in a run, keeping any injury to herself until after the game, when I can freak out in a satisfying manner at the Technicolor multi-lobed bruising or bleeding cleat-induced striations where she got spiked.
Get the girls together and it is like that scene in Jaws when they compare scars. “You think THAT hurt, check THIS out…!”
Because sometimes the right thing is not forthcoming.
Our team senses and actually hears out loud from other teams, parents of other teams, refs and even tournament organizers, that they are notorious before the fact.
They hear parents from other teams postulating that they have been taught/schooled/coached to play rough.
So the predominantly Caucasian refs , coaches and parents of opposing teams, and teams come loaded for bear.
They announce loudly provocative little tidbits like, “You know that’s just the way they are brought up. It’s their culture to play dirty!” And even more crude, “Wow! Looks like a prison break out there on the field!”
Nothing could be further from the truth.
But the fix is in and it is open season. Funny how we are surprised every time it happens. We’d like to wish it away; hoping human beings have evolved past it but no cigar!
The team absorbs with self-control every bad call intended by misguided local power refs to keep “control” of the game.
They take, with teeth gritting and escalating fear of being injured permanently, every cheap shot delivered by opposing players indoctrinated by their parents not to take any shit from this rogue thug team.
We watch referees pull aside and stand face to face with our girls, lecturing them incessantly until, provoked, they utter one exclamation of discomfort or shrug in disgust and, yep, the penalty cards are displayed dramatically to keep these barbaric girls in line.
Parents from the other team shout like deranged thumbs-down lead-poisoned drunken Romans in the Coliseum. “Give her a card! Give her a card!”
With grim faces our beautiful, sweet-natured, proud girls hang on to their dignity best they can for teenagers and resolve to endure long enough to outwit and outplay the seething crap pile of prejudice looming over them until about half-time.
Then the gloves come off.