The Reluctant Soccer Mom

Soccer is not my favorite sport.

I've never watched a game on television, and until three years ago, the only soccer players I could name were Pele and Mia Hamm (Now that David Beckham lives in the same state as me, I've added his name to my mental filofax of famous soccer players.)

I'm married to a man who loves sports, but even for him, soccer is a stretch. Baseball, football, basketball, Indy cars--these are the sports that rate with Craig. But for some reason, our Saturdays from September to November inevitably revolve around that small black-and-white soccer ball.

It started with my son. We enrolled him in an indoor pee-wee soccer class through a local YMCA when he was three years old, simply because it was the only sport available for his age group at a time that fit our schedules. I have never laughed as hard as I did during the four weeks he took that class. Those little guys had no idea what was going on, but they ran their hearts out and had fun.

Two years later we signed up for AYSO, otherwise known as, All Your Saturdays are Ours. My husband even volunteered as a coach. I couldn't believe it. I was officially a soccer mom.

Now, I'm not sure who came up with that "soccer mom" moniker. But I'm pretty sure it's meant in a rather derogatory way. I'm also pretty sure that whoever came up with the name has not experienced the joy of a child who loves to play soccer. I love my son, but he's no athlete. He's not the one chasing down the ball or making all the goals. Sometimes I wonder why he even insists on signing up for it every year. I finally asked him why he likes to play soccer.