The soccer ritual.
I attended an outdoor religious service near Orlando, Florida the other day. It was a denomination I wasn’t familiar with, but I was an invited guest, so I went. The service was participatory. The younger attendees split into two groups; one group, let’s call them the Reds, and the other group, the Whites, performed a ritual in the center of a grassy area. Elders in the congregation stood off to the side on opposite sides of the ritual area, chanting, “Good Job, Good Job,” at varying intervals.
Two high priests wandered among the Reds and Whites, directing the service. They also chanted, “Good Job, Good Job.” The ceremony was halted at frequent intervals while a participant went to a knee and fumbled with a shoelace; this quite often had to be repeated two minutes later, eventually requiring the deft fingers of a high priest. At the conclusion of this part of the service, the Reds and Whites lined up single file in separate groups and then the lines passed by each other, slapping raised right hands and chanting, “Nice Game, Nice Game.” Next, the elders moved to the center, formed two parallel lines and joined raised hands across the space in between, forming an archway.
The high priests signaled to the Reds and Whites to run through the human arch while the elders voiced a continuous chant of, “Nice Game and Good Job.” The Reds and Whites made three passes and then scrambled to the sideline to consume a politically correct snack: juice, fruit and granola bars. That was my first exposure to the Church of American Youth Soccer. Grandchildren Elle and Emma, of the Reds, said they had a great time. (In spite of an excess of parental involvement. I’m told the 8 to 3 rout ended in a tie.)
I heard, “Good job,” approximately 2,800 times that morning; 400 from the coaches and 2400 from the parents. I’d call that excessive, but I’m a poor judge. Old coots like me, grew up in a world where parents, for the most part, stayed in their adult world and us kids stayed in the kid world. The field where I played little league had a small bleacher section, but the only occupant that ever sat there was a teammate’s sibling he got stuck watching for the afternoon. Never a parent, because the games were played on weekdays, in the afternoon when school was out for the summer, not in the evening or on weekends in a season starting in early spring and ending when the school year comes to a close, like today. Little league was for kids. All sports were like that. We didn’t have travel leagues, night games or professionals to hone our skills. We taught each other, the older kids taught the younger, the good athletes taught the inept, and not a single thought was given to the concept of self-esteem. That came from winning and losing, and being motivated by the loosing to practice and do better. After all, it is SELF esteem, not PARENT esteem.
But still, I’m a little envious of today’s kids. I would have loved it if my “old man” had been there the day I pitched against Bonnie Silk, the best team in town, and held them to one run. Or, the first and only time, I won the 100-yard butterfly when I was on my high school swim team. There weren’t many of those moments, but it would have been nice. Yet, there is no way I can picture him standing in the middle of a field forming a victory archway with other parents. Which era is better for kids? Organized and supervised sports? Or, sand lot, pick up games with no adults involved? The jury is still out. You decide.
Cast your vote at – mlessler7@gmail.com.
