We laid there, face down on the bed. Tears streaming out of our eyes. A few minutes before, Chris and I didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry.

So we laughed so hard, we cried.

When I signed my son up for pee-wee soccer, I never knew it would be such an emotional event for everyone involved. And also for those of us sitting on the sidelines.

I watched my son’s soccer game this evening. I watched him dance side to side, doing the cha-cha with his sunsetting-shadow on blades of grass. He moved, he grooved. And when the ball came his way, he stopped. Like a deer in the head lights.

I glanced to my left, a little boy was picking fuzz off of the netting in the goal. The kids ran, one broke away, he sprinted down the field. He kicking long and hard…and tripped over the ball, crashing down on top of it. But wait, he is up again, he kicked. SCORE! Little-fuzz-picking-boy never noticed, he is now playing imaginary spider man in his goal-webs. The game went on.

Blond-haired boy walked in circles in the middle of the field. Parent’s shouting, “run for the ball!” “Where is the ball?” he called. Just then the shin-guard toting peloton of kids swarmed around him. Ball goes right. Ball goes left. Ugh-oh. Traffic jam. Peloton moves on toward the goal. The boy is left standing, completely unaware of what happened. “Where is the ball?” he asks.

There is a reason it is called bunch ball.

Oh wait! My son is moving. He is running! He is going for it! The peloton of shin kicking, tumbling, tackling, pee-wee soccer runners heads his way. He freezes. Eyes go wide.  They sweep past him. Dandelion seeds float along in the wake. They close in on the goal, they are less than a foot away. Everything stops. All six crowd around the goal, but no ones kicks it in. I hear the coach, “Someone just kick it in!”

There is a reason the rules specifically state:

There will be no yelling at the referees and no aggressive parents tolerated during the game.

I find myself wanting to get aggressive. Maybe I will just charge the field and kick it in the goal myself! And I find myself saying placating things like, “Just have fun.” But mostly I find myself tied up and twisted into a ball of emotion and desire and hope…if only he would just kick the ball. I don’t care if it is in the wrong direction. Just kick the ball. I want it so bad, I am pretty sure the first time he does…I will cry.