Keep It Positive

With few exceptions, I've never been one to scream at or bait soccer referees. Heck, I was 30 before I got my first red card (defending myself against an opponent actively trying to bash in my skull) and have only had one since (for actively trying to bash in an opponent's skull). I naturally assume all referees are inept and/or crooked.

The exceptions are pretty funny, though, in retrospect. I once got a yellow card as a high school coach for "inciting the sideline," which I did by not uttering a single word, but, rather, kicking at the ground and spinning away from the field after the seventh or eighth strait call that went against my boys. The ref actually stopped play to book me, then gave the opposition--our cross-town rival--a free kick in a dangerous position from which they scored the only goal in a 1-0 loss.

The other that comes to mind is the time a ref disallowed a goal I'd scored (when we were tied and down to 10-men in a Cup Final) for "charging," a curious call since I won the ball in the air and touched nobody, a fact which caused me, for the remainder of the game, to alert the ref that I was going to win the header ("EVERY TIME!") off every goal kick or corner kick, which I did. He eventually tired of my antics and, I swear to you, offered me the choice between a yellow or red card. I chose yellow and we ended up winning anyway.

Yes, it's not as if I'm immune to emotion getting the better of me. However, I have no issue keeping my fire under control while coaching AJ's team. His U-8 team.

Kudos to me for my restraint.

Of course, when referees, even the U-8 style, seem to want to pick a fight with me, well....

I didn't have any ref issues last year. Not even close. I made it four games this year before my first run-in. In a tie game, the other team scored a goal by kicking the ball out of my goalie's hands. I protested, instinctively, saying as such. The ref turned to me and said, "He did not have clear control of the ball!"

What I should have said was, "That's not the rule." Because it isn't. If he has a finger on the ball, it can't be kicked out of his hand and the reason for this is so goalies, such as they are at this age, don't get repeatedly kicked in the head. That's what I should have said. What I did say was, "Of course he didn't have clear control! He's 6!"

Okay, my bad. After the game, I sought out the ref, apologized for my outburst, but then made my point about the safety of the children, to which he heartily agreed and actually said he appreciated me mentioning that because he hadn't thought of it.

Play on.

Perhaps that scene was reported elsewhere, because that can be the only explanation for what happened two weeks later.

This ref was strident from the start. Before he checked the kids' cleats, he gave them stern treatment, using phrases like "I will not tolerate..." and "When I blow the whistle....STOP...IMMEDIATELY." I was partially amused. Chillax, Brah.

The first issue arose when one of my players got hurt in the first quarter. As I helped him off the field, I motioned for a replacement when I was informed by the ref that I couldn't sub "until the end of the quarter."

"That's ridiculous. Yes I can."

"No," he said. "Those are the rules."

(Those are not the rules.)

Being the responsible adult/coach I am, I didn't press it and we played short for a couple minutes while my player recovered.

Then it got stupid.

AJ, as he is prone to do from time to time, wandered about the pitch aimlessly. I yelled to get his head back into the proceedings. What I said was, "AJ! You have to play defense!"

The referee blew his whistle and stopped play. Turning to my sideline, he bellowed, "Coach! Keep it positive!"

I was stunned into open-mouthed silence (Emet, bless her heart, was not, and threw out a sarcastic, "Really?" for which she earned a Death Stare). For one, what I said was hardly negative. For two, I don't think you could find a parent on my sideline who would accuse me of being negative. For three, the referee's place is not to interject himself into coach-player relations (outside of physical mis-treatment, I'll allow).

Still, I managed to swallow the four or five smart-ass remarks that rushed to my brain and returned to the matter at hand.

Then it got stupider.

I had turned my back to the play. It was an opponent's goal kick and I headed up field in anticipation of the re-start. Then I heard one of my parents yell, "Hey! He can't do that!" (What the opposing goalie, a child nearly twice the size of your average 7-year-old, had done was not to kick the goal kick, but to throw it, nearly 3/4 of the field.) As I was turning back to see what had happened, the ref blew his whistle with all his lung power and sprinted over to me, while also reaching in his breast pocket, a sure sign he was going for a card.

Again, I was incredulous.

"Coach! Control your sideline!" he said and the poor parent, as nice a guy as you can imagine is stammering apologies behind me, but also filling me in on the play that I'd missed. I related the issue to the ref, who is now firmly ensconced in my face, my arms spread out wide and my voice diplomatic.

"Do you want me to throw you out?" he said and, honestly, I couldn't hardly take it any more, so I asked if what the opposing player did was legal and since it's not, he might be able to understand why the parent was momentarily, but not harshly, chagrined and holycrap sir, you do realize this is an under-8 game and you are acting in a manner not in proportion with the activity at hand.

I avoided being thrown out AND being shown a card, though he made sure to remind me he was boss, was, in fact, one bad motherfucker in his yellow shirt.

That was really it for confrontation, though my blood, and the collective supply of my sideline, continued to boil. One last thing though, one of my players was hurt in the 4th quarter and as I walked him to the sideline, the ref told me I could bring in a sub for him.

I don't know if this was a conciliatory gesture, or if the opposing coach had informed him at half time that he had erred earlier, or if it was a pity move, since we were down three goals at that point.

Whatever. I sent in a sub.

I've played soccer for 35 years and have never reffed a game. Wouldn't wanna do it. Respect the people who take their time (incompetent and/or crooked though they may be) to do a thankless gig. Game ended. I always go out of my way to thank the refs. And I was going to do so again. Except he scurried away.

I'd like to think this was because he realized he was inappropriate. More likely, he had to hustle to his next assignment. He had another game to ruin.

Emo Dracula

As I've mentioned before in this spot, I am not a big Halloween guy. I've dressed up once in the last 25 years and that was a quick throw-together White Trasher complete with mullet wig and spaghetti stains on the tank top. Emet asked me why--though she, too, is anti-costume--and I came up with two reasons:

1) I have no desire to take the time and brain effort to craft the most awesomest costume ever, a failing that collides nicely with a fear of being laughed at for a half-ass result (or, even worse, a monumental, but ultimately disappointing effort), thereby creating a black hole of meh regarding costuming.

2) Halloween costumes invariably require you to wear something on your head, or do something unnatural with your hair and...well...I have great fucking hair and it's criminal to hide it.

So when we decided to go to a party down in the O.C. on Saturday night, in her sister's neighborhood, one of the best things about the gathering was no costume required. At least for the adults. The kiddies were fired up.

AJ decided on vampire, which is certainly popular these days, but when I quizzed him about which media-saturated famous vampire he wanted to be, he looked at me blankly, a fact which I appreciated because I'd rather puncture my cardioid artery with fake fangs than have him read that crap "Twilight" stuff.

In the weeks leading up to the Big Day, I kept asking him if he needed anything for his costume and he kept saying "No," that he and his Mom had it covered. Er...not so much. He had a cape. That was 8 sizes too big. Awesome.

That's why I was standing in a 50-deep line on Saturday afternoon getting make-up for his face, which annoyed me on the patience (or lack thereof) level and also on the fright level, as I tried to glean which of the various products would be easiest to apply. As I am artistic at a 4-year-old level, I feared screwing up the face painting so horribly that he'd have to go as a caped Al Jolson.

It was just as I'd feared. My hands are clumsy ("your fingers have no brains"), especially so when spreading toxic (oh sure, they SAY the products are safe, but c'mon) materials around your child's eyes and mouth. And with an audience even. Emet has two adorable twin nieces, age 6, who are completely captivated by AJ and they stood in the bathroom door giggling the entire time I applied the makeup. Additionally, this made me nervous since my son is, you might say, a perfectionist and a vampire is supposed to be scary in an undead way, as opposed to a Joan Crawford in "Mommie Dearest" way.

Mistakes were made (like accidentally putting a dot of black on the end of his nose), and hastily covered up with even more makeup. And, as I reached the final result, I took a deep breath and asked the girls, "He looks scary, right?"

They giggled some more. "He looks silly!"

Uh oh.

But AJ was cool. Though what he ended up with is something I like to call Emo Dracula...



...aka King Diamond (I'm sure there are at least 3 of my readers who recall Mercyful Fate). For the rest of you...



Okay, so makeup crisis averted. Time to party.

The parents took turns leading the pack of kids around the neighborhood while the others enjoyed a nice spread, the World Series and various adult beverages ( a term I used once that evening, to which AJ interjected, "He means beer!"). But it wasn't just beer. Oh no. Apparently, there is a tradition in this 'ville featuring something they alternately referred to as "Apple Jack" and "Apple Crack." It literally tasted like apple pie/cider. Except it had Everclear in it.

Middle-Aged Suburbanites Gone Wild.

Between shots and candy prospecting, AJ and I shot some hoops (see? If I were wearing a costume, I couldn't shoot hoops!), played some pool, watched the Ducks destroy the Trojans and gorged on meatball sandwiches. I was, in the moment, totally pro-Halloween, though perhaps that's because it was unclear who was more jacked up, the kids and their candy or the adults and their cider shots. And while I maintained my usual semblance of Responsible Adult during the proceedings, both AJ and I spent Sunday on the couch, with energy levels just south of zero, periodically raiding his pillowcase full of sugar. I was so lacking in motivation, that I didn't even care how bad my hair looked.

So, thanks for that Halloween and my new friends in The O.C.

That Didn't Suck

Heads-up lasted all of five hands, as I was out-chipped 4-1 and out-flopped by trip queens. But heck, not a bad run. Kudos as well to fellow blogger VBDave and his final Table finish.

My poker game is better than my soccer coaching, I assure you.

Consider the Lobster

Don't Forget to Read

Yesterday was AJ's 8th birthday. I got him a skateboard, which, in turn, got me a higher health insurance premium, less for potential injuries to him, than for the anxiety it's sure to cause me when he starts doing Ollies and Indys.

I got you something, too. The resurrection of Don't Forget to Flush.

You may not have noticed my TGOD about that precocious son of mine (and my struggles against certain douchebags) went away. That's okay! It's still a gift. Wrap yourself well.

Offsprung is back under new management and I was asked to contribute more tales of AJ, both the ridiculous and sublime. My first post won't appear until Friday (we're having a staggered start), and it's a re-working of something you have read here, but there are a dozen entertaining voices over there, including some new columns that will focus on movies, step families and pop culture for the kiddies. As always, The Playground is a great clearinghouse for parental information, support and occasional tomfoolery.

I know...you want me. You don't want the rest of that stuff. Fine. Here's a recent account that can tide you over 'til Friday.

AJ plays very patiently and nicely with his 5-year-old cousin, even though she's a little girl in every sense and her mother and I never got along that well growing up. He'll deal with an hour of playing with dolls and she'll reciprocate with some baseball or running around in the backyard. Except all that outdoor rough-housing invariably causes an injury, real or imagined. My mother, of course, can't resist administering compassion, along with band-aids. Lots of band-aids. Last weekend, she was eventually sporting half-a-dozen.

Sometime later, AJ and his cousin were jockeying for water at the refrigerator and she banged her knee on the door. "Ow!" she said.

AJ, lacking the compassion as his grandmother, a humanistic void apparently filled with snark, instantly asked,

"Would you like another band-aid, Princess?"

And scene.

The Cost

We have reached that portion of the year in my desert hamlet where the temperatures soar to Africa Hot. That's not a complaint. I get mine in January when I'm at the beach and you suckers are shoveling snow. I'll take egregious heat over bone-numbing cold every single time. As long as my air conditioner continues to work, nobody takes a crap in the community pool and the grocery store continues to sell Widmer Hefeweizen, I will abide.

Of course, I could be smarter about the weather. With the mercury past triple-digits yesterday, I played 90 minutes of soccer and 18 holes of golf. I took three cold showers. I have limited movement in my extremities. But my hair still looks good.

Next weekend, I play a soccer tournament in Santa Barbara. Though the weather will be more mild, we could potentially play five games in two days. The toughest is always the first game on Day Two. Because we're old and sore and have limited movement in our extremities. But also because we invade State St. on Saturday night like frat boys on Spring Break. Ain't maturity grand?

This is the first year we will play in the Over-40 division. Blanch. Ugh. Fuck. I can't begin to count the ways this makes me feel old in ways I've never felt before. I've probably mentioned previously about how turning 40 didn't tilt me, despite it happening right in the G.D. middle of The Troubles. I had bigger issues to obsess about. In fact, the only birthday I've ever had that administered a whuppin' was my 33rd. Because that was the Year 2000, a milestone I'd stared at as a child, the Big Scary Future, and couldn't believe I'd someday be that age.

This isn't about waking up and beginning to wrestle with my mortality. I've never really been that guy (minus that early-90s period when I was on drugs all the time and had frequent panic attacks). The simple fact remains that my life is probably half over. Maybe more so.

The future? I don't worry about it. Plan for it? Sure. Try to make good decisions in the present and hope the chips fall more or less fairly. People like to talk about their 10-year plans and shit like that. What a waste. "Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans."

I knew I was going to pay for yesterday's physical insolence. My grandfather, 88-years old and still hanging strong, wished me good luck in my soccer game yesterday. I replied, half-jokingly, "Winning is less important than not getting injured or passing out." Of course, when I got out on the pitch, I didn't shy away from anything. Soccer, golf, Emet, AJ. These are among the things that give me joy. I've no desire to push them to tomorrow, regardless of whatever consequences I reap.

So, next Saturday night, you'll likely find my teammates and I closing down the James Joyce Pub on State St. We'll pay in the ayem. Oh, will we pay. But the cost of missing out on that time is considerably more expensive.

RIP Shadow

It's been a while since seeing her name in the cell phone window gave me a feeling of dread, but when X called at an unusual time Tuesday night, my stomach immediately kinked. "The cat died," she said, through tears. AJ's cat Shadow.

AJ was already asleep in his bedroom. Thankfully. He wasn't at X's to see his cat attacked by a pit bull.

We decided not to wake him and tell him, which meant I had to carry the news for a day, until we could all get together.

His face crumbled as soon as X started to explain what had happened. He cried, tears of anger, which was slight relief. Better than inconsolable sorrow, I thought, though I knew that was destined to come, as well.

"But I only had him 8 months!" he screamed. The unfairness of it all, the injustice. Noting for us to do but hold him, smooth his hair, tell him we were sorry, too. I'd spent the day researching how to handle the affair. Encourage him to talk about what he's feeling, that his reactions are natural and okay. But that's not the way The Boy works, not when all eyes are on him. He'll tell us, certainly, but randomly, in his time. We have to be alert to listen.

Later, he blamed himself. Also natural. And he's my son. He learned that from me, the urge to take responsibility. You gain a measure of control, an illusion of it anyway, by unnecessarily picking up burdens, convinced we can carry them, to prove our strength and worthiness. I turned Robin Williams on him. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

"But he's MY cat!" he screamed.

*

We buried Shadow. AJ said goodbye. "You were the best cat ever," he said, and the tears were sorrowful then, the helplessness we all felt. I wanted to tell him the feeling would go away with time, but nobody wants to hear that, least of all a 7-year-old, even if he's going on 12. I simply said that he should remember how much fun he and Shadow had and that those memories will make him smile. Someday. Soon, I hope.