I wouldn't go so far as to describe what my daughter does on Tuesday and Sunday afternoons as youth “sports," but it's a dedicated activity time where the Parks and Rec Association takes our money and, for 35 minutes, absolves us of our tire-out-our-kid responsibilities.

In fact, I can trace my unwavering self-confidence back to a single moment of my youth sports history. Lore might be a better word for it…

I played a lot of soccer growing up, and I was lucky to play on a team that won every single game, often at great cost to the emotional wellbeing of our competition. I blame the coaches. My dad was not the head coach, he was an assistant, but he was certainly culpable.

We would clobber other teams. Winning games 15 or 20 to zero. Any normal coach, after seven or maybe eight goals, would pull the team together and say, "All right, boys, that's enough; you've made your point." Our coaches allowed us to be unrelenting, often encouraging more bloodshed. 

And there is something beautiful in that.

It’s late fall, I’m in 2nd grade, and our team, the Asteroids, is facing off against our biggest rival, the also-undefeated Fireballs, in the last game of the season. Not sure who was responsible for naming the teams a few years prior, but rocks (either in space or on fire) were en vogue. 

We’re in a bad position come half time. Down 4-1. 

The second half was nothing short of a Miracle on Grass; our star player scored two more goals (hat trick). Simon, the kid who had never scored a goal–in all previous seasons or future ones, for that matter–scores a goal to tie the game 4-4. 

With 15 seconds left, we get a corner kick into their box. I guess this referee had a flair for the dramatic because he cued the parents to start a count down. 10 seconds–all the parents, who had donned face paint, are shouting the remaining time. 9 seconds. The ball is in the air. 8 seconds. It lands at my feet. 7 seconds. I have a chance for a shot. 6 seconds. A little move to the right. 5 seconds. I take it. 4 seconds. That fucker is going in. I can’t believe it. 3, 2, 1. Game over. We win. Parents storm the field. I experience a high unlike any other. 

I’m still waiting for that feeling to come back. 

Generally, self-confidence requires some amount of construction, spanning years, built key-moment by key-moment. Not for me. I got a lifetime of self-confidence in a 7 second undefeated end-of-season, rival-beating goal. I suppose that makes me worse than the dad who keeps retelling his high school glory stories. I peaked in elementary school.

But this newsletter isn’t about me. 

So I’d like to share a bit about my daughter’s early experiences with sports, every Sunday (for “Ninja Play”) and Tuesday (“Soccer Shots”). 

Brandon, who runs Soccer Shots, is incredible. For starters, he looks like a bad boy version of Timothee Chalamet; an angular face but not quite as androgynous–guys, it required every ounce of restraint for me not to share his picture. The doppelgangerness of it is uncanny. 

He engages with the kids on their level. They’re laughing and running the whole time. He regularly reminds them to take water breaks. He knows exactly what parents care about, and he translates it effortlessly into high energy, fun-but-structured coaching. 

Also, the kids are getting noticeably better at soccer. 

Brandon is A+.

For a class of kids under 5, they spend an inordinate amount of time stretching and warming up. I get establishing good habits, but I don’t think anyone is gonna pull a hammy out there. 

The activities are hastily constructed obstacle courses that have no discernible connection to stealth. Sometimes it’s just running laps around a baseball diamond. Which, I should clarify, is totally fine with me. But it’s not exactly the activity we were sold. 

Ed phones it in. Case in point: every class has 10 minutes where he just blows bubbles and then encourages increasingly dangerous ways of popping them. 

“Now we’re going to karate chop the bubbles!” 

“Now… pop them with your head!”

It’s like watching a miniature mosh pit. 

Ed can sense the parents’ collective concern, so he hedges:

 “If you jump, just, uh, jump up!” 

Yeah, ok, good advice. Given how much these kids fucking love bubbles, it’s just a matter of time before heads collide.

Specifically… stretching pizza dough. The kids sit in a line in front of him, and he tells them to get different ingredients. It’s his signature move. 

“Reach up and get the dough! What comes next?”

“Cheese!” the kids yell.

“NO! Next comes the sauce!” He gets a bee in his bonnet about the sauce every time. Kids don’t think about the sauce Ed!

“Now what ingredients do we put on our pizza??”

This little wild kid always runs up and screams “PEPPPEPEPEPOOOOOOONIIII” right in his face. He doesn’t love it, but it’s an acceptable topping.

“What else do we want on our pizza??”

“Candy! More pepperoni! More cheese!”

“What else??” He wants to give every kid a chance.

“Hair!” 

I look up from my phone. All the kids are giving this one boy a very suspicious look. His dad is clearly embarrassed.

Ed moves on. I would too.

He addresses my daughter, “What do you want to put on the pizza?” 

Before she can get a word out, hair boy interrupts:

“Skin!” 

The dad is grimacing.

The session closes. Carson asks me, “Why did that boy want to put skin and hair on his pizza?” 

Fuck if I know, kid. 

Thanks for reading! Hope you laughed. See you next time.

-Will

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