Less Said Better (An Email Play)

ACT I, SCENE 1

(Three pools of light coalesce on three individuals sitting equidistant from each other in an arc across center stage.  Stage right sits an attractive woman dressed in shorts, soccer team shirt, and sneakers.  She is sitting on a park bench, net bag of soccer balls at her feet, with a laptop computer.  At center amidst satin pillows, candles and incense, a long haired man in a gauzy Nehru shirt and pull string pants sits in lotus position and observes a laptop computer in front of him.  At stage left, there is a man in shorts, Red Sox t-shirt and sneakers, surrounded by baseball equipment which he fondles like they are sacred and a laptop into which he is staring sourly.)

NANCY

(She types and speaks as she types)

From: SoccerMom247@ hotmail.com
To: CoachDaddy4u@ hotmail.com
CC: Headshrinker@marital harmony.com
Subject: The Progressive Story of Nancy and Ian.

(She shifts, thinks and plunges in typing, speaking as she does)
 
Once there was… Send! (She clicks “Send”)

IAN

(Staring, frowning at screen, saying what he is typing -)

From: CoachDaddy4u@ hotmail.com 
To: SoccerMom365822@ hotmail.com 
CC: HeadShrinker@maritalharmony.com
Subject:   The Progressive Story of Nancy and Ian

(Pauses, and with a snort, types with two fingers in staccato jabs.)
This is STUPID.
 
(He goes to tap another key and just about does before he loses control and jumps up and down in suppressed frustration. He then slightly composes himself and types, speaking as he does -)
Once there was…a couple who ----  (Then he types in a rage)  -----should be splitting up but have to do this STUPID progressive story to appease a STUPID new age touchy feely hippy court-appointed STUPID therapist!

           (He triumphantly clicks “Send”)

SHRINK

Oh well. At least that was cathartic. (He types, speaking as he does) 
From: HeadShrinker@marital harmony.com. 
To SoccerMom247@hotmail.com and CoachDaddy4u@hotmail.com 
Regarding:  This is Stupid.
Ian, take a deep breath, go to your place of serenity, and start again. Only three words at a time.  Those are the rules.  You agreed, remember?

IAN

(Looking at screen with revulsion, he pantomimes blowing his brains out with a finger gun to his temple.)

Shoot me, shoot me now.

(He mouse clicks and types, speaking as he does)  Reply all. Subject: Regarding:  I Still Think This is STUPID!  (Takes a deep breath, types)   Once there was …a couple who…   (He clicks "send," reluctantly)

NANCY

(She reads, clicks her mouse and types)  Reply all. Subject:  Sports Dork! (She gloats at her insult and then types)  Once there was…a couple who… couldn’t talk without …
 

IAN 

(He reads, clicks his mouse, revs up and types) Sports Dork, eh?   Subject:  Frigid Brittle Ice Queen!  (He says) Are we havin’fun yet??? (He gloats too and prissily adds to the sentence)  Once there was.. a couple who… couldn’t talk without… WANTING TO STRANGLE… (He hits “Send” and jumps up in victory like he just hit a home run)   And the crowd goes wild!! Rrraaaaah!               

SHRINK

Oh oh.  (He types)   From: HeadShrinker at marital harmony.com.  To: Soccer Mom 247@hotmail.com and CoachDaddy4u@hotmail.com. Subject:  Progressive Story of Nancy and Ian.   Ian.  Nancy. You’re in your dark places.  Unbind yourselves from the ropes of anger now.

NANCY

(She reads, clicks her mouse and types)   From Soccer Mom 247@hotmail.com.  To CoachDaddy4u@hotmail.com.  CC:  Headshrinker at marital harmony.com.  Subject:  Hopeless.    (She defiantly brushes a tear away and types -)  Once there was… a couple who …couldn’t talk without… wanting to strangle… the life out …

SHRINK

Oops, too late.

IAN

Out of what?  Each other?  Me?   (Typing and speaking -)Subject: Strangle Me? Fine.  (Speaking)   I didn’t know it went this far; she wants me gone. Dead.  (He is kind of shocked.  He types and speaks) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out…of the conversation.

SHRINK

(Typing and speaking)   Good save Ian.  Go on.  Why?

NANCY

My turn.   (She types and speaks)   Subject: Re: I’m Lonely.  (Her back is turned and she is composing herself) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation. Period.  (She types and says) There’s no time…

SHRINK

(Typing)  Very good, Nancy and Ian.  Keep going.

IAN

Auuuuuugghhhhhh!    (He types)   Reply All.  To: Headshrinker.  Subject:  Shut the hell up, Yoda!   (He pounds enter)

SHRINK

(Reads, smiles enigmatically, he is encouraged)   And so I will…
 

IAN

I hate this I hate this I hate this I haaaattttte this…I  hate  this….Ihatethis.  DAAMNNNNIT!   (He types and says) Reply all.  Subject: Re:  I HATE this!   (He sweeps his hands down his face, through his hair and reads.)  Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time  (He types) …to…just…sit -

NANCY

(Looking at screen, deep sigh)   Time. It’s time.  (She types) Subject: Re:  Try…For Me?   (She pauses and says -) C’mon honey. You know what we need to do. I know what we need to do.  (She reads) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit…  (She types) and hold hands… (Clicks "send.")

IAN

What the fu...?  (He types and says -) Subject: Re:  What? That’s what you want?   (He thinks out loud, pacing, trying to sort this out)   I married you didn’t I?  I shouldn’t have to do all that romance-y flowers, candy, edible panties stuff anymore should I? All that crap is understood isn’t it?  Why does this have to be so hard?  You’re never there anyway with work and kids and whatever.  Try to get a piece of you and you’re tired or busy. Or I’m too hairy or sweaty. I give up. I just need to know what’s going on… (He reads aloud)  Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands…  (He types)…and…catch…up.

NANCY

Catch up.  Sure.  You are never home.  If it’s not a game, it’s practice. Or poker, or working late…This is what I want…  (She types and says-)  Subject: Re:  Touch. Yes. Just touch… (She reads) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation. There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  (She types)   They…were…strangers

IAN

I knew that. I knew it.  I’m not stupid. I just don’t know what to do, didn’t know how…I just don’t know. How could I know what she wants? Know what I want? Dammnit!  (He types and says -) Subject: Re: You feel that way?  (He reads aloud.) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands and catch up. They were strangers  (He types) and didn’t know

NANCY

Of course you didn’t know I felt that way.  I didn’t tell you.When was there time?   I guess your ESP is off. I thought you could read my mind.  My mistake. (She types and says -) Subject: Re: I do feel that way. I don’t know you anymore.  (She says)  And you don’t know me. God, by now we’ve probably turned over every cell in our bodies twice over.  We’re not the same.  How do we become our younger selves… when we just talked for hours? And everything was new… (She reads aloud) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  They were strangers and didn’t know  (She types) how to become…

IAN

(He types and says-)  Subject: RE: That’s not stupid.  (He pauses, sits, stifles a sniffle, wipes his nose and reads aloud)  Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  They were strangers and didn’t know how to become –  (He takes a deep breath and says)  Run for cover!  Incoming! (He types) lovers…like…before.  (He hesitates, and then gently hits “Send”. He says, making a sound effect.) EEEEEeeeeerrr. Boom.

NANCY

(She chuckles, and wipes a tear)   That’s so hot. He has no idea.  So, not stupid, eh?   (She types) Subject: Re: Glad you think so.   (She reads)   Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  They were strangers and didn’t know how to become lovers like before. Period. (She types and “Send”s) I want you…

IAN

(Frozen staring into the screen.  He types and says-)    Subject: Re: No words… (He types and “Send”s) I miss you.

NANCY

(She types and “Send”s)  Subject:  Re: Less said better.  Come hold hands…

SHRINK

(He types and “Send”s)   Subject:  Ian and Nancy.   My work’s done.

IAN & NANCY

(Simultaneously they type and “Send”)   Subject:  Shut the hell up, Yoda!

(Blackout)

Ponytails: The Life Cycle of A Girl's Soccer Team

 

The ponytail just fell into her hand.  What else could she do?  It happened so fast.

After a hard breakaway bump-o-matic,  squinchy-faced,  stretched-out gazelle sprint, they were alone in the corner with the ball.  They toed, touched, and trapped the ball between them with cleat-clad feet, teeth gritted with spiraling frustration.  

Tardy teammates were no immediate help, jogging, seemingly in slo-mo (but not really), to catch up/mark up.  By some trick of physics and raw passion, slow motion and hyper action co-existed on that field. 

No one moved in to provide “a little help here” for either player.  Everyone knew the two girls in the tangle were due to duke it out.  It was expected.  Even the Field Marshals noticed the defender had taken a dirty barrage of low blows, trips and hooks from the striker from the first touch.  It was inevitable they would lock up once the defender decided to defend herself.

Circling like a flock of ospreys, all the players moved into position transfixed by the potential of this open-air clash.  They were ready to dole out the leverage should the ball squirt free from the girl gladiators.

The defender’s only immediate companion, a crouched, captive and queasy goalie, shouted and prowled the pitch ready to bat it away, or worse, helplessly watch it fly by her outstretched glove encased fingers, should the defender lose this battle. 

 On fire, in an Amazonian warrior fury of jabbing elbows, lethal knees and streaming ponytails, they connected skin to skin in resounding bitch- slaps causing the spectators to intone, “ooooooh.”  The trick of physics made this dancing dust-up seem like forever.

With every panting breath:  This is for coach. This is for mom.  This is for my team. This is to bond us, best friends forever.  This is for all the training and the money and the sweat and the tears.  This is to win State Cup.  This is for my future…

Turn it and burn it.  Turn it AND BURN IT.  TURN IT AND BURN IT!

The ponytail fell into her hand. A column of hair smooth and whippy and tempting in her fingers.

She couldn’t resist in the nanosecond it took to decide.  A sacrificial offering.  A retaliation. A stop to this stalemate.

She yanked the ponytail. 

They disengaged.

And the whistle blew.

And in clear ringing syllables here it came. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” shouted the striker. 

The defender raised her hands to her face in shock.

For a beat, only the chattering of the green parrots nesting in the field lights was heard.  The rubber band, stretched beyond its capacity, had snapped. The play was over.  Both received yellow cards from the referee with a stern warning. The defender for the hair pulling, the striker for the language.

What the fuck was wrong with the defender became abundantly clear as she and her team lost two games and tied just one during this high-end tournament where scouts were taking note.  They should have won, they have the skills, strength and talent.  At times they have played brilliantly as linked and like-minded as if they were sisters from other mothers. But when it counted, like this tournament, when there was pressure, they could be angry and distant from each other giving opposing teams the gaping chink in the armor.   The defender knew she’d be alone in the box dancing for her life, and what did it matter.  What was wrong?  Everyone could see and hear the cracking fractures.

 

At the volatile age of 15, her team mates don’t share the same vision of the sport.  Boys, hormones, cars, malls, cell phones are carving chunks out of the girls she had come to love.  The need to make college soccer scholarships materialize or never see higher education is exacting its pound of flesh in this repressed economy.   At 15, real life is forcing choices.   Real life is shouting in their faces to grow up, choose.   Do you play this game, or do you play more grown up games now?

The team?  It is splintering. 

“If we split up now, I know I’ll never see some of them ever again. Starting over with a new team is so hard.  I am so tired.  I am so sad."

And for a defender who thought her beloved team would last forever, grief gave way to an angry yank of a ponytail.

photos by Linnnn

Soccer. Sock Her.

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. 

Officer Krupke, I'm Down On My Knees

I got popped for speeding. I paid my fine online swiftly, felt like ripping a band aid off a furry spot, or even an energetic bikini wax, to ameliorate the pain of supporting Brevard County’s latest public works project. There goes all those quarters and nickels and Canadian dimes I saved up for a new reclining chair and the co-payment on the colonoscopy I am supposed to have as a freakishly undignified reminder that my last birthday makes me old… Whatever.

Now the “points” problem. It's going to take me 4 hours to complete this Florida Driver Safety Course online. I thought when I tuned into the Course, well hell, I can just skim this stuff, take the module quizzes and be done with it in no time. But no. Those wily imps, the Safety Course people, have affixed a timer, an infernal speed bump, to each module so that you cannot skim, skip ahead and just merrily guess your way to completion in a fraction of the time like I did in college. No Way. You've been a bad bad girl! Time out!

From the Course: "The operation of a motor vehicle takes a clear and focused mind, uncluttered by thoughts of aggravation and distress..."

Well, Officer Krupke, try this on for size -

"Mom! We’re LATE! Coach's going to make me do pushups. One for every minute we’re late! And laps too. Everyone will yell at me for being late. I'll sit the bench first half. Then I’ll pull a muscle from not being warmed up…”

"It’s not my fault you overslept and didn’t put out your things last night like I told you to not less than four damn times little missy. But oh no! Miley frickin’ helium head Cyrus and those fat kids living in the hotel show just couldn’t be missed…”

“My socks are dirty looking, did you wash them? My hair is awful. A-W-E --- - no how do you spell awful? OMG I can't find my cleats, we got to stop at the Sports Authority and buy some...”

“It is your responsibility to keep track of...WTF? You’re playing in your bare feet I don’t care now"

“Can't you drive any faster? God, you drive like an old lady!"

The Safety Course Voice: Must you always be right? (YES) Do other people upset you, particularly when they don't do things your way? (YES INDEEDY THEY DO!) Try cooperation instead of confrontation; it's better than fighting and always being "right"." (MAKE ME!)

At this point the Safety Course Voice begins speaking to me in a just-put-the-weapon-down-and-come-on-out-of-there-with-your-hands-up voice:

“Good drivers have a quiet level of efficiency in their actions. What do you do when emotional distress has taken over?

1. Take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds and then let it out. (Done) Go for a walk. (Can't. Got to roll. We are now officially really late.) Do anything non-violent. (Check! Chewing soda straw to smithereens.) Do not get in your motor vehicle and drive angry. (Whoops! Too late!)

2. Try to displace yourself from what it is that is upsetting you. (But she’s right there---> Can’t you see her there in the passenger seat?) Take a time out and go sit in your room. (Going to my happy place....Connecting in Atlanta.)

3. Take a moment and recognize your anger for what it is, some hurt, real or imagined. (Huh? Can’t hear you because of the blood rushing through my ears.)”

“With severe emotional pain, the driver could turn to substance ______ to hide emotional pain.
_use
_abuse
_neither
_both


Exhaustion can manifest itself in your life in such things as:
_migraine headaches
_insomnia
_both a and b
_neither a or b”

This is when I spontaneously consider this: “At what Blood Alcohol Concentration (BAC) are you considered impaired?” Sports Authority is next to the ABC store. Then I punch in all the data into the mental calculator and decide the beer goggles are not worth it.

Hey look! The Safety Voice has calculated it all out like I did:

“Towing - $150
Lawyer - $3500
Fine - $250 to $500
DUI School - $190 to $285
Insurance - $1500
Lost Wages - $1000
Court Costs - $450
Substance Abuse Evaluation - $75
Treatment - $400
License Reinstatement - $155
Cost Recovery - $350
That "one" 5 oz. glass of Pinot Grigio costs you in the neighborhood of $8000.”

Check. No green light for the coping liquids. Only at home when the keys are missing.

So migraine it is... here comes the aura, wham, and it's black. Just as black as the inexpensive cleats my daughter does not want, nor even glances at, perched like adorable enthusiastic “pick me, pick me” mutt dogs in the pound on a rickety folding table to the right. After screeching into the Authority, leaping out and scurrying barefoot into the just opening store, she sees with supernatural laser eyes, yes, the pure white shimmering aura of the sacred Nikes elevated on an altar of just Windexed plexiglass.

“I LOVE these.”

“Get them; just get themmmmm (my devil voice in lowest octave) GGEETTT THEMMMMMMMMM!”

“Mom you're scaring me.”

Deep breath, charge card, and the birds are released, cue the balloons and angels sing.

11 minutes more to go on this Florida Safety Course module. So carrying on…

Back in the vehicle we call Ursula, we peel out and step on it to make time. Ursula bleats at us incessantly until the seat belts are clicked. Ursula says; “Oh hell no! None of your faces are going to come to a splattering stop on my pretty windshield! Put those belts on, my bitches!”

Still we were 20 minutes away and going to be late by as much. So it's Sunday, everyone safely tucked away in church except we heathen soccer pagans, no one on the road, and I put the pedal down on a straightaway leading to the soccer fields.

She says, I shit you not: "Wow Mom you are driving much faster in this car than the last one!"

“Yeah well it was falling apart. I was trying to baby it into living longer. Remember it tried to kill us in Port Charlotte by not letting me release cruise control at 70 mph? It croaked anyway. Put your damn shoes on."

I felt assaulted, betrayed and abandoned by the Mazda 626 until I found Ursula. Now I could cook down the highway leaving flames in the rear view like I had my very own Flux Capacitor and could warp time and distance at will. Rock n roll!

Safety Course Voice, where the hell were you at this juncture. Sitting somewhere sipping tea after church pursing your lips and waving a naughty, naughty finger in my direction. I got another finger gesture in mind right now.

"One should avoid dangerous driving situations (excessive speed, running red lights or stop signs, etc.)"

I could have USED that information right then.

"If the vehicles are the same weight, the vehicle with the higher speed will have the greater force of impact. If one vehicle is going 20 mph and the other is going 60 mph, the one going 60 mph has nine times the force at impact than the one going 20 mph. This is a squared relationship. Three times the speed will have nine times the force of impact (32). Four times the speed will have sixteen times the force of impact (42). Five times the speed will have twenty five times the force of impact (52), and so on."

They told me there would BE no Math, not wired for it in any way at all, but holy hell! If this Safety Course has done anything for me that last piece of demonic natural was it.

"The belted-in occupants count their lucky stars and continue on with their lives. The unbelted occupants are carted off to the hospital or morgue for an extended stay; some longer than others."

You try it:

If one vehicle is going 20 mph and another is going 60 mph, the one going 60 mph has ______ times the force at impact as the one going 20 mph.

_three
_six
_nine
_twelve
_Oh God Help Me Sweet Mother of Quantum Physics!

"Drivers should … not let outside distractions deter them from safe driving habits. Billboards, homes, pedestrians, etc., can be observed yet should not consume one’s full attention. Drivers must realize that an awareness of the road is vital in safe driving.”

“I see the field lights, we're almost there. Maybe Coach will forgive us the pushups or laps or whatever.”

“Well YOU don't have to do them Mom, I do, so hurry.”

“I see lots of cars up ahead, it's right there on the right, we’re ALMOST there..."

"Mom, I see police lights behind us."

"Oh I’ll pull over so he can get to where he's going"

"He's where he's going Mom"

"Am I getting popped?"

Stopping. Turning car off.

"Eh, yeah Mom you are. See ya!"

She scampered like a happy bunny off to the relative safety of her team where I found out later, they wondered aloud whether I'd flash the cop to avoid the ticket.

Safety Course Voice,  a fey cavorting guardian angel right by my side, reminds me in a prissy lisping I-told-you-so tone: “Everyday driving is hours and hours of the same thing, followed by a few moments of terror. Imagine running as fast as you can into a wall. You'd expect to get pretty banged up. Do you think you could stop yourself if the wall suddenly popped up when you were two feet away from it?"

“Hello Officer. What can I do for you today?”

“License and registration please...”

Soccer. Balls. Son of...

Whaaat? Huh?!
The girls like to bounce a ball on the hood of my car because, catching me sleeping there, it is so flippin’ funny to watch me climb up into consciousness and figure out where I am. I am the notorious napping mom. I can sleep anywhere at any decibel level and with any kind of sensory fracas swirling around me. Breaks between games, water breaks, during games, makes no never mind to me.

I am the perfect hotel chaperone. As long as they leave me curled up and comfy, don’t leave the room, refrain from dipping my hand in warm water or painting me with Sharpie pens, they can slumber party their adolescent asses off.

On cold days (Yes, Virginia, it does get cold in Florida sometimes.) it is sweet when, sprawled nodding, drooling and possibly snoring in my soccer mom chair, the soccer community, as a whole, covers me up with a beach towel.

Wait. That could be so that I won’t further embarrass them. In part probably.

On hot days they rearrange umbrellas while I loll in a sweating fitful doze so the Florida sun doesn’t sear my glow-in-the-dark Caucasian hide right off. “Tori, your mama is so WHITE!”

The second half of the game is usually pretty exciting though, keeps me wide awake, since the sizing up is done and the two-level strategy is complete. First, Coach has got their number on the plays the other team are likely to foolishly repeat and the girls will now stick those plays hard to win. And, second, the girls have pinpointed the elbow-throwing-hook-tripping-fake-injury-flopping-cry-for-the-ref bimbos on the other team. Those chickies will now understand why you don’t mess with our girls until the last minutes of the game and then they best have a solid agreed upon walk of shame escape route.

This must be said, or it wouldn’t be an honest story.

For all their pride and dignity, the girls, mine included, do indeed know how to do all the bad, bad things on a field of play to serve up sneaky shadow hurts to mind and body of their opponents. Older sibs, school survival, or even to some degree, home life has given them some hard-shell pugilistic fighting skills to survive. They can throw down. But never are they schooled or encouraged to use these skills at soccer. They are coached impeccably and love the game. It is sanctuary, and they choose, until profoundly provoked, not to pull the bad, bad things out of the war bag. They know intimately the pain they could inflict in this full-contact sport, since by half-time in some of the more contentious matches fueled by hellish opposing parental zeal, at least two of them will have been sidelined or hurried to the ER by vicious physical insults. This is not a game for wusses.

The game is within the game then.

And when they are “on,” there is dazzling magical fake-out footwork, cheetah-like sprint break-aways to goal, hilariously witty field chatter, fantastically precise field changes in wide arcing V-shaped passes designed to run the other team into exhaustion, crosses, headers and goal kicks oh my…and smiles. Great big smiles.

And when they are “off,” and just cannot pull up the goods, they may complain a little, make a few mistakes, well up with trembling lower lips, but they learn what it is to lose gracefully. To come back next time loaded with new resolve.

The long drive back home is evenly sprinkled with tears and giggles. Sometimes we hit the nearest beach to wind down.  McDonalds or Cracker Barrel embrace, with cool, cool air conditioning and the scent of deliciously greasy food, our sweaty sunburned and stinky selves for quick roadside meals. Sometimes for me it is an entertaining diatribe from my daughter outlining just how uncool I can be, complete with solid examples of my public behavior she deems really embarrassing. To which I respond with eyes all wide and innocent, “So what’s your point?”

Ann Coulter, praying mantis that she is, can indeed sit and spin. Soccer Moms, with all our SUV-loving-sidelines-prowling-kid-dedicated-crazy-love-committed activities are doing a crapload more real stuff than she is, or will ever do, to instill courage and dedication to this generation of kids. I can’t see anyone naming a soccer sport complex or much else after her, but they might just name one after a Soccer Mom. Mark it!

Soccer. Balls.

Ann Coulter can sit and spin! I am a card-carrying Soccer Mom and, as such, I put the full weight of my grandmother’s very potent stink-eye curse on her for co-opting my lifestyle as political fodder for her douchey attempts at national attention. Everyone, like Coulter, who thinks being a Soccer Mom means I voted for Clinton or Obama merely because they turned me on in a naughty way can just stick it. I voted for whom I voted unrelated to whether I bought into some kind of celebrity cult of personality and would like to “do” the man who was to be the Commander and Chief of this country. That’s my private business and not hers. To be totally frank, nothing icks me out more than a politician. I hold my nose and pull the lever when I vote, because they are all repulsive, incompetent and power mad. And none of the Soccer Moms I know have the time or the inclination to give a damn either.

We have our own thing. Right in our faces that no politician or pundit will ever understand: Kids to raise responsibly and prepare for the incessant assault of adult life with some small modicum of courage. End of story. How dare you? Get off our backs. Bitch.

I dig soccer, especially since my daughter kicks ass so very well on the playing field. She and her team could run down Ann Coulter’s emaciated skeletal butt, drop her, and I would  (inappropriately) celebrate the resultant red card. For the unschooled, red card means you did a bad, bad thing and must bench yourself. Oh, what a difference if this guy refereed our games.The penalty card process would be so much less painful!

Another great visual? Coulter pursued by my beloved pack of girl soccer players, her fake blonde hair, Chanel knock-off shift dress, stiletto Jimmy Choos and skinny legs flailing as she cartwheels…

But this didn’t start as a political rant. Or did it? Why did I go there? It’s coming…

Club soccer for kids is an accidental lifestyle. It so totally sneaks up. It is getting her to practice for two nights a week, suited up like an Amazon gladiator rain or shine, to perfect the arcane skill of reading her teammates’ minds and reacting effectively to push through the end result – ball in net, hurrah! It is being humbled by a Dad/Coach who does this whole coaching thing with enthusiasm and joy for free. It is waking up at the butt-crack of dawn for a tournament somewhere around 150 miles away and preparing the car to be the home-away-from-home headquarters for a weekend complete with gallons of sunscreen and Gatorade, various chairs, umbrellas, coolers, first aid kits, and so on. It is noodling MapQuest and Priceline for the best routes to the fields of battle and best deals on non-roach-infested-free-of-pimps-and- bullet-holes- in -the -ceiling -hotels.

It is fundraising. It is the knowing when that painful purple bulge makes your knee/elbow/finger/nose broken or just sprained badly, where the nearest Emergency Room is, and whether the insurance is all paid up. It is making sure all the girls get their chance to play no matter what may be obstacles at home, some of which can be heartbreakers. It is throwing down on the sidelines with crazy-beer –addled –lithium-deprived-religiously righteous (racist) parents of opposing teams and all the hilarious outcomes of those awkward skirmishes.

Tori plays defense and is the last line of resistance against full-on assault to the goalie so she takes it very seriously. No one gets by the Wall of T, and in the rare instance they do, she atones. Atones hard and fast. I get so alarmed and proud when her “mark” on the other team is a third bigger than she is. Sometimes I wish we could check birth certificates and chromosomes of these precociously developed giantesses, but whatever. She still buzzes the ball around them like a little gnat with great legs sending it back through to her mids and strikers for an attempt at a breakaway goal. It always seem to be the number nine player on each opposing team that is large enough to, when the ref isn’t looking, snag Tori, shake her like a Polaroid picture and push her to the ground. “Numbah Nine, Numbah Nine!” Tori just tucks, rolls and pops back up in a run, keeping any injury to herself until after the game, when I can freak out in a satisfying manner at the Technicolor multi-lobed bruising or bleeding cleat-induced striations where she got spiked. Get the girls together and it is like that scene in Jaws when they compare scars. “You think THAT hurt, check THIS out…!”

Our team is a standout for three reasons: They win in a big way, they lose in a big way, and they are the most colorful team in the competition, usually. Colorful is an understatement. They are every shade of passionate African American girl imaginable, feisty fiery Latinas, and a smattering of dazzling Filipinas all blended together with a minority of strong white chickies, like my daughter. Amazing variety and beauty all wrapped up in this talented group of friends and teammates. Tough too. But such a bunch of powder puffs as well, styling each other’s hair and sharing cool clothes and juicy text gossip with each other.

Coach Hugo, a brown bald Guatemalan man-angel with smiling eyes, does not mince words, either Spanish or English, when the tide needs to turn in a game. We know he is irked when he is standing with legs locked, arms akimbo in full King of Siam Yul Brynner posture shouting in espanol. When the team is winning, he sits grinning from ear to ear nodding and chuckling like Buddha. We read him and the girls do too. It is not the usual uber-dominant lockstep it’s-my -way -or -the -highway cliché Bear Bryant OC coach/team dynamic. The girls are empowered to fuss, joke, quip, and prank their Coach, but when it is game time, they respect him. When there is injustice or unfairness or intent to deliver harm to one of his players, he is “en fuego” for his girls pacing like a Mayan leopard man on the sidelines, challenging all in authority to do the right thing.

Because sometimes the right thing is not forthcoming.

Our team senses and actually hears out loud from other teams, parents of other teams, refs and even tournament organizers, that they are notorious before the fact. They hear parents from other teams postulating that they have been taught/schooled/coached to play rough. Dirty. To fight. Injure. Curse. Disrespect.

So the predominantly Caucasian refs , coaches and parents of opposing teams, and teams come loaded for bear. They announce loudly provocative little tidbits like, “You know that’s just the way they are brought up. It’s their culture to play dirty!” And even more crude, “Wow! Looks like a prison break out there on the field! ”

Nothing could be further from the truth. But the fix is in and it is open season. Funny how we are surprised every time it happens. We’d like to wish it away; hoping human beings have evolved past it but no cigar!

The team absorbs with self-control every bad call intended by misguided local power refs to keep “control” of the game. They take, with teeth gritting and escalating fear of being injured permanently, every cheap shot delivered by opposing players indoctrinated by their parents not to take any shit from this rogue thug team. We watch referees pull aside and stand face to face with our girls, lecturing them incessantly until, provoked, they utter one exclamation of discomfort or shrug in disgust and, yep, the penalty cards are displayed dramatically to keep these barbaric girls in line. Parents from the other team shout like deranged thumbs-down lead-poisoned drunken Romans in the Coliseum. “Give her a card! Give her a card!” With grim faces our beautiful, sweet-natured, proud girls hang on to their dignity best they can for teenagers and resolve to endure long enough to outwit and outplay the seething crap pile of prejudice looming over them until about half-time.

Then the gloves come off.

(To be continued...)

What the Funk?

I-4. Wekiva Springs. 70 miles an hour. Rain storm.

We looked at each other, eyes bugging out and watering, in four-alarm panic as the stink permeated the confines of my small rice-burner car. This was an aroma like no other we had ever encountered.

It beat the smashed skunk we rolled over and pasted to the undercarriage a few years back. Had to sacrifice a spatula from the kitchen and slide in under the car nauseatingly close to the splattered remains to scrape bits of that critter off the axle.

It far outpaced the stench we created by storing used cat litter in a sealed can until it was “full enough” to dispose of on the curb. My idea, I admit it. Not a good one, but impressive to all who encountered it.

This reek outdistanced in sheer back-of-throat-gag-impact of the dead deer carcass someone threw in our neighbor’s yard a few Christmases back. It looked like some darkly gothic Christmas gift, all festooned with vultures picking away. They stripped it in an hour. Nature’s garbage disposers are efficient…

This noisome odor shattered the puke-inducing record of my parent’s refrigerator when it ceased to be cool and croaked in a spectacular way with a few bags of my brother’s fish bait inside during the heat wave a few summers back. Cleaning that up, I looked like a deranged Bedouin with kitchen towels wrapped around my head and swim goggles on my eyes to ward off the visible fumes created by maggot-infested bait fish and Eggo waffles.

It actually beat the famous acidic cloud of funk my son can create after incubating Hormel Chili with Beans somewhere in his lower intestines overnight.  Pulling the lid off a can of that is like pulling the pin on a stink grenade!  We hear the "click! shuraack!" of the can opening in the kitchen and make plans to evacuate! T-minus a few scant hours until emission. Best to be out of the house or suffer the indignities of the hi-larious "chase mom until cornered, lift a leg and attempt to alter her olfactory reality" game.

But, as usual, the origin of the fetid miasma gassing us to unconsciousness in my car was a mystery. No one in their right mind would cop to this!

“Mom! What IS that?” she said.  Here it was...my stunningly beautiful blonde daughter glowing with good health and looking adorably quirky, her hair pulled back in her signature Tinkerbell-on-crack soccer hairdo, had removed her soccer cleats. A pervasive layer of tangy aroma wafted past. She then rolled down her soccer socks in preparation to un-velcro her shin guards. Another thick yet piquant odor pancaked down on the first aroma enthusiastically arousing my gag reflex and bringing water to my eyes. And to seal the fruity yet feisty vintage of this bacterial bacchanal, her soccer backpack, oozing with used soccer uniforms, spare cleats and more socks, gaped open next to her like an alien mouth orifice emitting what looked like its own exhalations.  A primeval perfume, it possessed three distinct notes:  Tangy, piquant and hideously vomitous.


The windows fogged in a sheen of toxic condensation. The air conditioner gasped and recoiled.  I pulled over.

Dr. Frankenstein said it best: “It’s ALIVE!”

The Supreme Soccer Stench trumps all. It came from the most unexpected place. It symbiotically set up its own  unique bio-system in my daughter’s soccer bag, home of vinyl cleats and polyester socks and sweat under cover of darkness and in perfect camouflage. And, it competes with similiar demon spawn in every other soccer bag toted around by the team according to reports from reliable sources (parents).

The bag goes in the trunk now.

Good Night Booby Boy Wherever You Are!

No corner of Florida is immune from my presence lately being the chief chauffeur for my kids.

We see some great stuff travelling around, most particularly is the ritual of spotting a certain young boy every morning on the short hop to school. We have seen this little guy grow at least six inches since we first noticed him and I think he has cycled through at least three bookbags over the last years. Here's the drill: After avoiding the camera light on Dixie Belle, which is relentless in its pursuit of speeding me, my daughter and I snap our heads to the right and every morning, unfailingly we are treated to our profound delight by the same scene with only slight variations from day to day.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of a collection of condominiums, is Booby Boy waiting for the bus. He is accompanied by a proud and buxom smiling lady in hospital scrubs who we can only assume is his beloved, and I mean beloved, Mommy. They wait together for the bus wrapped in their own personal bubble, talking, laughing, gazing into each other's eyes with Booby Boy's bespectacled blissful face in full contact, fully engaged, in his Mom's cleavage!

We analyze the scene every day, musing on how much he's grown, how her scrubs went from pea green to a cheerful print and maybe she has a new job, how disturbing yet delightful that this boy is so joyful every day during these stolen moments from an obviously very busy day, that we can salute a kid who is developing such a profound respect for breasts, that we feel so guilty for anonymously hijacking their small slice together, how hard is the single Mother's life.

At night, we wing by there on the way back from soccer practice and the sidewalk near Dixie Belle seems mournfully vacant. My daughter and I routinely and simultaneously fall silent and glance over trying to glimpse just the smallest hint of Booby Boy and his Mom. Unrequited we sigh, look at each other and intone in unison, sometimes in harmony-

"Goodnight, Booby Boy, wherever you are!"