We started out with back-to-back games with the Boy. They won the first game 2-0 (I think — maybe it was only 1), but lost the second game 1-2. They scored first, but on the very next possession, the opposing team equalized. They scored one more in the second half to pull ahead. We had one shot that hit the goal uprights but didn’t go in, and we had about 4 more close shots on goal, but none of them went in.
In the afternoon, it was yardwork.
The Boy’s soccer team won 2-1 with a literal last-minute goal.
The Girl’s volleyball team won all three of their games in straight sets.
A good day in sports for our family.
We spent the weekend in Atlanta — it was, in short, an emotional roller coaster for the girls on L’s volleyball team.
The first day was excruciatingly tough. They lost their first game in straight sets, but it was even more discouraging because they were winning set 2 by 9 (14-5) before ending up losing 19-25. That means the opponents outscored them 20-5 at that point.
The second game didn’t start any better: they lost the first set 13-25. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a tough loss. It prepared them mentally for the loss in the second set 14-25.
By then, they were wasted — done. The third game went down just like the second game: 12-25 and 14-25.
Today, we parents all wondered how things would pan out. I was worried that they might not win a set the whole weekend. The teams at Atlanta were just much stronger, as a whole, than what they were used to. In addition, they were broken mentally. How would it go?
The first game started out just as we feared: they held it together but at 19-19, it seemed like they were falling apart. They pulled it back together, though, and took it into extra points, but they ended up losing 26-24. So close. Set two — would it continue? At one point, they were down 10-16, and I thought, “Well, there’s another one. And if they lose this set, I’m afraid the day is done.” But they kept fighting and ended up taking the set 25-22. They cheered like they’d won a medal.
In the third set, they were tied at 14 and L made a huge hit to put them within one point of winning their first game. But it wasn’t to be: the opponents tied it up. The next play, L made another monster kill and they had another game point. Again, they lost the next point. It kept going like this, but the finally managed to convert a set point, winning 21-19. It was as if they’d won gold in the Olympics.
The final game of the day followed the same pattern. They lost the first set 20-25 but tied it the second set after almost letting a 23-19 lead slip through their fingers: they won 25-24. And finally, in the third set, they dominated: 15-6.
We’re on a new team this year.
We were hoping for a change for how things went last season (i.e., not winning a single game and drawing only once).
Sadly, it was more of the same: 0-2.
The sprint soccer season has begun — first practice was tonight. E is with a new team and a new coach. We’re playing on fields only 5 minutes away from our house rather than 20 minutes away.
E’s first impression: “The coach is good. And the kids are nice to me.”
I also had a good impression from what one of the parents said. Here’s hoping this season will be better than the last, which was not terrible, but certainly had some drawbacks.
The girls spent the day in Tennessee playing volleyball — well, one playing, one watching.
The boys woke to the promised dusting of snow,
and ended the day with a dinner of chili, corn chips, and ice cream.
“That was a pretty good day,” the Boy concluded.
We all dream of being a hero. We can say we don’t, but we all have those little fantasies that at least once, we save the day. E is no exception, and for that reason, this fall’s soccer season has been disappointing for him. It’s not that he hasn’t felt like a hero; he has positively felt like he’s added very little to his team. In one game, an attacker beat him when he was a defender to score the first goal of the game, and I could see from his expression afterward that he felt horrible about it.
It certainly doesn’t help that his team has won only one game this season, and that was only by forfeit because the other team didn’t know about the game time change somehow and no one showed up. They’ve been beaten and they’ve been positively trounced.
“We’re never going to win,” has been the Boy’s refrain as we head back to the car. The other boys feel the same, I think.
Last week, for example, while we were camping, only five of the players showed up. They played anyway, and the asshole coach of the opposing team played all seven positions against our five boys, so the poor boys got beaten, though not as badly as one might expect (7-4).
Today, too, we were shorthanded, but a boy from the other team joined our team, and we played at even strength. (That coach showed class unlike the classless individual from last week.) We began relatively unremarkably, with neither team really dominating. Then, about ten minutes into the first half, E broke free with the ball and headed straight to the goal, firing a rocket that went right by the goalie and sank into the back corner of the net.
“E just scored!!!!!!!!!!” I texted K with probably the biggest grin smeared across my face. Last season, his first with CESA (the local soccer league), he hadn’t scored a single goal all season.
By the end of the first half the red team had equalized and then pulled ahead, so we went into break under a bit of pressure.
“I was sure we were going to lose,” E explained later. When red scored a third time, E was convinced that they were going to experience their next inevitable loss. But shortly after that, the Boy broke through the defenses again and scored his second goal, pulling his team to within one. Just a few minutes after that, he was through again, but he stumbled a bit and sent the ball well wide of the goal.
“How amazing that would have been!” I thought.
Just moments later, the Boy broke through, outran two defenders, and shot a lovely looping curve into the net. Three goals in one game — a coveted hat-trick. To top it all off, I finally had my camera up while he scored — in the other two, I’d dropped it to my side and just cheered him on, but the final one, I kept firing away.
But of all the shots from today, my favorite is the one just after his first goal when he’d just gotten a big congratulatory low-five from a teammate. Head slightly down, a little spring in his step, he walked back to his position. I look at the image and wonder what exactly he was thinking, wonder just how much it might help his confidence, wonder if it might not be the best thing that’s happened to him in ages.
It’s a slow pace — just over 10 minutes a mile — but it’s the first time I’ve run five miles in thirty years.
When a world-class athlete who’s won the World Cup twice, the world championship twice, and has three Olympic gold medals and a bronze — when this guy stops by your grandma’s house, you get him to sign anything you can find.
And why might this guy drop by your grandma’s house? Because your grandma is his aunt,
making you his second cousin. I think. Some kind of cousin.
The Girl finished her summer volleyball season tonight by winning the grass championship for her age group. Her partner was a young lady she met while playing club ball this summer and with whom she immediately bonded. Birds of a feather and all that.
She was also my student last year, which made for some amusing situations.
“What are you doing, M?” I might ask when the team was taking a break between games.
“Studying for your test, Mr. Scott.”
When Papa was in his late thirties or early forties (I can’t really remember), we had a family membership at the local YMCA, and he liked to play basketball. He didn’t like playing with men his age — too slow. He played with the twenty- and twenty-one-year-olds. It was hard and aggressive, and while I can’t really remember how good Papa was at basketball, I do remember how tenacious he was, how he never gave up.
One time he was breaking for the basket, forcing his way through a couple of defenders, when he leaped, shot, landed on his ankle at an angle, and fell in agony with a snap that everyone heard.
As Papa lay there on the floor, rolling about in agony, one of the other players leaned into the group huddled about him and said, “If it’s any consolation to you, sir, you made the basket.”
Tonight, L made a block that won the point but resulted in an ankle injury. A young lady on her team told her, “But L, you won the point.”
E had his first swim meet today. The team’s first meet was last week, but in classic E fashion, he wanted to go check one out before participating. For today’s meet, he agreed to swim one event: 25 freestyle. “I hate backstroke, and I really don’t know how to do breaststroke,” he reasoned. “And butterfly…” His voice trailed off to indicate it was a fantasy.
Since I’m finally able to find a little time with him at the pool, we spent a little time there these last two mornings working on improving his stroke. His kick was just knee action, which resulted in a lot of splash and very little propulsion. He sunk his chin into his chest, creating a large surface to plow through the water. He wiggled his upper body from side to side to compensate for his stroke rather than rotating his shoulders along his verticle (when standing of course) axis. All this combined resulted in a very inefficient stroke, so we worked to improve that a bit.
His event had three heats today, and he was in the last heat. I could tell as heat two prepared to go that he was nervous, having serious second thoughts about the whole project.
I’m fairly certain that if I’d walked over then and asked if he wanted just to ditch the whole thing, he would have enthusiastically agreed.
I thought he might be worried about the crowd. “I don’t like the idea of doing something I’m not very good at in front of so many people,” he confided in me this morning.
I thought he might be worried about coming in dead last. I feared he would: he really doesn’t have much swimming experience other than playing around, and some of those kids his age have clearly been swimming competitively for years.
I thought he might be worried about the starting blocks: I didn’t know how many times he’s used them, and to my knowledge, he hadn’t used them at all this summer.
It turns out, though, that he was most worried about being disqualified. “A and O told me that if you pull your head straight out of the water to get a breath instead of turning to the side, you’ll get DQ’ed,” he explained. “I really didn’t want to get DQ’ed.”
I assured him that was not the case even though it could very well be the case. “Whatever the case,” I thought to myself, “we’ll never know if he gets DQ’ed unless he’s a contender for one of the higher places.” In the end, he got second place in his heat. Granted, there were only two swimmers, but we laughed about that. “I’m just proud of you for conquering this fear,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he smiled, hugging me and telling me probably for the 100th time today, “I love you, Daddy.”
Both the kids had tournaments this weekend. The Girl’s tournament was outside Atlanta, and it was her first time in competitive sand volleyball.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“I got sand in my mouth,” was the first impression.
The Boy’s tournament was local. They made it to the semifinals then lost.
“We should have won” was the sentiment. How to get him to accept “win some, lose some” and still have the fire in the belly?
Today I got to watch E play soccer for CESA (Carolina Elite Soccer Academy) for the first time. His first game was a couple of weeks ago, but L and I were in Knoxville for a volleyball tournament. Last week’s game got rained out, so this was the first time I got to watch him play.
In the first half, he played for about half the time as a defensive player. He was a little less aggressive than some of the other boys, but he soon gained some confidence and went after the ball.
In the second half, the coach put him in as an offensive player. He had one break and pulled back for some odd reason, turning to look (or so it seemed to me) to see if he had any backup. But he was alone, and ahead of all the defenders.
I meant to talk to him about what happened, but we never did.
The last Sunday of the month means only one thing: Polish Mass. Of course, it’s only been Polish Mass in name and spirit for several years now. The local parish priest conducts the Mass, and he’s from Columbia. He’s learned a little Polish for the Mass itself, but otherwise, he’s a complete non-Polish-speaker. The “Polish Mass” part comes from the community that gathers.
This week, though, there was a little something different: the new parish center, complete with gymnasium, is now open. Several families headed over after Mass to try it out.
