Jostling for position in Women's Soccer can lead to uncomfortable contact - an elbow to the boob, a kick to the crotch (which my kid calls a C.P. -you figure it out!), a hand on the butt, shirt tugging, and even the occasional pantsing leaving the shorts down around the ankles. Better hope you're wearing the nice underwear with no holes in them on days like those! All of these things, if the referee is watching closely enough, could net out a yellow card penalty.
Another area of physical contact is during a full-on breakaway when defenders run shoulder to shoulder with strikers. They nudge and bump roller derby style trying to snake a foot in to take the ball. Obvious tripping and hands-on pushing will, again, catch the referee's eye if carried to the extreme and someone's going to be picking splinters out of her butt from sitting the bench.
I am not a whiny soccer mom who screeches from the sidelines at refs who prefer to "play on" when the rough stuff turns up on the field. Get up. Get on with it. Unless you are bleeding or broke something. It's the nature of the beast.
But when does this contact become assault?
Watching Women's College Soccer has become habit for Tori and me lately because she is playing Varsity Soccer as a freshman at Boone High School. She is good at the game. Apparently college scouts begin to observe potential players in their freshman year of high school and begin the four year long odyssey of recruiting. They ain't messin' around!
Although she wants to be the next Anna Wintour and edit Vogue, she looked at me all solemn one night after a lengthy discussion of why sports scholarships are gifts from God, and said "I want to keep my options open, so ok." Score a scholarship and Tori will, when all is said and done, play college soccer.
Then I see this -
Tori or any of her team mates are tough enough to take the normal, even rough play shots that are part of the game. Soccer is a contact sport. If you don't like playing a contact sport, swim or play tennis. But don't come crying to coach when you get a little manhandled every once in a while.
However, this kind of assault and battery deserves a special look. Why wasn't this woman escorted off the field in handcuffs by local police? How was she allowed to continue playing after the first blatant assault she doled out? The disturbing expression on her face as she delivered the pain and mayhem was especially horrifying. Had my daughter been the target of Ms. Lambert's violent and extremely dangerous attentions to the degree seen in that game, after controlling with every ounce of my being the overwhelming urge to bitch slap the thug skank myself, our next field of battle would be in court.
Mr. Blitz and Dr. Boo-yah conspired mightily this muggy autumn to squash a pesky but potentially virulent insurrection at Boone High. After all, 'tis the season for school administrators to either exert the kind of pressure that makes diamonds out of worthless lumps of teenage coal, or missing the one pivotal opportunity, retreat to various offices and golf carts for the rest of the year to lick their wounds and plot for another day. There is no middle ground. One shot. Either dominate totally and very publicly or just watch the rag-tag parade slouch by until the next school year and they could begin again. Blitz and Boo-ya went for the Hail Mary this time, and the touchdown is a matter for the refs and the playback to decide.
The game deciding play? The Statue Man.
Most of high school is a swirling watercourse of sometimes toxic events, including lesbian bitch-slap fights, nut job tazings, jocks and cheerleaders, atomic wedgies for all (both literally and figuratively) and tangy smoke filled restrooms. But once in a while, in the meandering flow, an odd eddy forms and the world just arranges itself around it. That would be The Statue Man.
An unassuming shaggy-haired white kid, he arrives at Boone football games trailed by a cadre of fans who know what he’s going to do. He is always accompanied by his cohort/cameraman. He strolls to a good spot, like the grassy knoll (that’s what they call it) near the bleachers and a crowd forms.
He freezes in place.
The scene unfolds under the disconcertingly constant gaze of the camera, and the intimidating stares of Mr. Blitz and Dr. Boo-yah, as he adopts whatever statue position is imposed upon him by passersby. Anyone who walks by is allowed to physically move The Statue Man's arms, legs, head, facial expression or clothes to suit their whims. They sometimes add or subtract clothing or props decorating him with found items. He transforms in just minutes, depending upon the mob energy surrounding him, from triumphant Poseidon, with arms and gaze flung heavenward, to abject slave kneeling with his shirt pulled up over his face. Until someone else decides to change his scene. He's a life-size Gumby but without the green slanty head, and his monkey-cam co-conspirator is not Pokey.
The Statue Man maintains this act of supernaturally-disciplined all-consuming performance art throughout the length of an entire football game. Some brave ones, unconcerned with whether it's cool or not, actually join him and stand still for short blocks of time just for fun. One such pioneer dork says that he strikes poses gleaned from his Art History Class. Rodin’s The Thinker, for instance. Or Tutankhamen. Or the Sistine God. Or Dr. Evil. Whatever.
Think long on this: Post adolescents standing still. Contemplating art and society and metaphors and funny movies. Miraculous. Awe inspiring.
And yet The Statue Man goes against everything Public High School in the United States of America has adopted as appropriate behavior. No, a student cannot deviate from the norm by adopting disruptive behaviors or by promoting physical contact. What if someone touched him in a “bad way?” What if one of his actions offended someone’s religious/cultural/racial beliefs? What if he “shot a bird?” What if the kids got over stimulated and a fight broke out? Or a riot? Or, god help us, a LAWSUIT?
“Young man if you stand still one more time, you will be escorted from the premises.”
This was the decree issued by Blitz and Boo-yah at the conclusion of the game before Homecoming. It was all over Boone High that Blitz and Boo-yah had suppressed The Statue Man. That they didn’t want Homecoming to be spoiled in any way by an “incident” so they nipped it hard. This was the pivotal event this year to cement their dominance. Or so they thought.
The unassuming shaggy-haired kid arrived at the Homecoming football game as expected, followed by his posse and paparazzi. He confidently took his spot on the grassy knoll and froze. Mr. Blitz and Dr. Boo-yah circled like sharks in well-chummed waters working up the nuts to make good on their decree.
But a funny thing happened.
The Statue Man suddenly had a buddy. A kid froze right next to him and submitted to the manipulations of anyone passing by just as The Statue Man had. Then another joined. And another. Then 10. Then 20. A silent I AM SPARTACUS littered the grassy knoll with Statue Men and Women. They were not kids just pushing back at “The Man” from some anarchist-esque rebellious place. They had stepped over the line to assume the positions of grown-ups; men and women with opinions, causes, and, yes, passions.
Blitz and Boo-yah were at a crossroads. Blitz, with strict authority, swiftly and commandingly took the lead. Scowling, he approached The Statue Man closely, invaded his personal space for just one intimidating moment. He brought his hands up, dug his heels into the ground for stability…and froze.
Blitz struck a pose.
Touchdown.
"Let's see if they can keep us from standing still!"
