Mommy coaches soccer 'til her head pops off.

Ah, my blog. I've missed it in a distracted, unacknowledged way. I realized many many posts ago that this is not where my fortune would be found, and so I wrote for practice and for friendship. Blah blah blah, repeating exactly what every other person who ever wrote, then quit, then wrote again on her blog ever said, blah blah blah...

I like it. I like the subjects I can write about here, that seem too personal and flip for fiction. So yeah, a half hour, I get to talk about assholes (big and small), cute track jackets, the guy who just now walked by me who looks exactly like motherfucking Christian Bale I'm not even kidding you (and too bad I had a mouthful of lemon bar or I would've surely said something clever) (oh never mind, he walked by again. false alarm) (holy shit dude, quit walking by me). I feel like doing it again, is what I'm saying. I think I want to blog.

So here we go.

You know how it's kind of a funny old joke when a former athlete coaches his/her kid in their former sport and has all these crazy expectations and gets very/too invested in the kid's performance and the outcome of the games, even though the kid probably can't even tie her shoes properly yet? Oh, what? That's not a funny old joke? Good, because I was starting to feel like the butt of it. Me = too much. Madeleine = not so much. It kills me. I just want SALDFJDLSFJKWNCNAV KL FUCK!!! That's how I feel each and every minute of every game and practice. The anxiety I feel when I see her dribbling the ball towards the goal and another tiny little girl from the other team runs toward her, makes a feeble attempt at taking the ball away, and Madeleine slows down and lets her take the ball away - let me repeat, lets her take the ball away - I lose my shit. And I just spazzy sweated all over my keyboard thinking about it. At least the fucking not-Christian-Bale guy will quit stalking my table (but he's really not, because I just realized he works here and is Doing Something). That happens. And other, equally maddening things happen, like her not wanting to play when it's really cold. And her falling down. Yes. Believe it or not, I lose my shit when she falls down.

And I try to keep it all on the inside. But it's boiling and festering, and I know as a good coach you should always couch a criticism inside some positive feedback so mine comes out through clenched teeth like this, "Well you did a really nice job on your throw-ins today and I sure wish you could be a lot more aggressive and dribble the ball when you're out in the open and not pass to your teammates directly in front of the goal and the weird thing you do with your arm when you're running probably slows you down and thank you for helping me pick up the granola bar wrappers." It's probably not what the YMCA had in mind for a positive youth soccer experience. Please don't tell them. Or maybe you should, but just don't tell that guy who may or may not be handicapped, because I'd hate to be fired by him.

I have to quit. I have to. I have to. My throat is raw after every 40 minute game, which is some indication that perhaps my "encouragement" is a tad too vociferous. The only other times I get that hoarse is when I'm drunkenly heckling the opposing kicker at Griz football games, which is a 3-hour whiskey-fueled affair.

I just reread that last paragraph. I can't - wait, what? - is that? - I mean, wow.