Fashionista Soccer

The First  Soccer Game.

 

 At times I thought it wouldn’t happen. First the practice was on the wrong night; she didn’t like that. It didn’t meet her schedule requirements.  Then she found out the uniform requirements:  soccer cleats, a team shirt, ( a color not of her choosing), and shin guards. “What are shin guards Mom?’  I explained apprehensively picturing a battle when asked to wear said uniform.

The first practices were accomplished with much enthusiasm, I  started to relax.  Her older sibling had already begun to question her about the first game. Did she know what position, color of her jersey and other little details?  And then they ask the dinger… “What are you going to do with your  hair?”  My heart sunk, No- not the hair?  Don’t talk about the hair. Shoulder length, thick, a mass of tangles after an hour of brushing, lectures from my 78 year old mother how I don’t take proper care of it.  Not the hair!  I gave the siblings the look that warned them to quiet down or lose their inheritance. She looked  inquisitively at all of us.  I looked away,  practicing ambivalence.

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Saturday morning arrived, along with, it a head full of extra hair.  I sighed and tried to pay no attention. Let her do her own thing, including her choice of athletic shorts, pink with her Atomic yellow jersey; the yellow that can be seen from the Space station on a cloudy day.  Upon arrival at the field she happily marched to the field and joined her team.  She was playing defensive guard.  Now here I readily admit I am a football fan.  I’m the graduate of an ACC team and fan of the Football team and a parent of a High School Football player.  I know the game of foot ball, soccer not so much. 

I do know enough that when the ball comes toward you, fixing your hair, adjusting your jersey, and checking the alignment of the stripes on your shorts is not in the soccer manual.  From my chair on the sidelines, I yelled, “Puddie!   The BALL, here comes the ball!”  My extra hot Mocha did a little bobble as I laughed, shifting in my chair.  My daughter looked to me, back to the field, and with a look of surprise, took off after the ball. 

Successfully kicking and blocking the ball from entering the zone, she looked back to me for approval.  Seeing my smile, she struck her fashion pose and proceeded to dance as if she had the radio tuned to Taylor Swift.  “Puddie… the game!”  The dancing stopped, but not without flashing me that smile that told me she was proud of herself.  The “see what I can do?” smile.

We will make it through the rest of the season with her fashion sense, creative hair styles and immeasurable patience from me.  She will learn many lessons about soccer and me?  Touchdown Puddie!