A military commander tasked with whipping a ragtag bunch of rebels into an organized fighting force has an easy assignment compared to the challenge of coaching four-year-olds to play soccer. At least that’s how it looks from the sidelines. Kids scatter around the field like marbles spilled from their bag. Passing drills dissolve as children wander away from the group, leaving lonely, dejected partners staring at motionless balls. Dribbling exercises look more like stoned mice lost in a maze than an exhibition of ball control. My son’s first foray into organized sports provided a glimpse into the trenches where parents battle their own personalities as much as those of their children. My friend and fellow father warned me not to expect too much from our initiation into youth sports. After he described his boy chasing butterflies around the outfield during a tee-ball game, I decided to approach soccer lessons with very low expectations.

I told myself that as long as my son had fun and got some exercise, I’d consider the sixty-minute session a success. But I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed when my son’s obsession with snacks and water breaks ambushed my strategy of patience and positive support. He went so far as to stage an injury simply to close in on his quarry. After barely bumping his head on a goal post, he exaggerated the extent of the injury and, in his sweetest voice, with tears streaming down his cheeks, asked for an animal cracker from another parent’s purse. I recognized his blatant act of subterfuge and flashed him a big smile while calling his bluff. The cunning little scoundrel laughed hysterically and rolled on the turf reveling as his deception was revealed. His histrionics were similar to the way in which a professional soccer player flails around on the field in order to draw a foul after being brushed by an opponent. My son’s acting skills didn’t earn him a sympathy cookie, but I was awed by his craftiness. The tears were real!

During the brief moments when my boy pays attention to his coach and participates with the other children, I’ve discovered a secret weapon in my arsenal – his younger brother. At two years old, the boy moves the ball up and down the field with the speed and ferocity of a charging cavalry. It’s all I can do to keep him from rushing onto the field when his older brother lines up with his squad. He attacks the net, too, rather than just booting the ball around aimlessly like some of the older kids.

Soccer lessons have been at times both trying and utterly satisfying. Seeing my oldest son smile and wave as he proudly stops the ball with his little foot has solidified our alliance on the sidelines of youth sports for years to come. And when his little brother joins the top gunners on offense, I’ll have two troops to support, leaving the coaching to the commander on the field.

---

MATTHEW KAISER shares humorous stories about the light side of life on his blog, deliberatelyunintentional.blogspot.com. He lives in Springfield, VA with his beautiful wife and two young sons. You can reach him at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it