Sunday, September 14, 2014

Our Newest Soccer Guy

I love the uniforms for the 3-year-olds: the jerseys go to their knees, the shorts go to their ankles, and the socks go their bellies. 

After sitting through six seasons of his big brother's soccer games, it's finally time for Tate to get a chance. 

I decided to coach his team this season. (I figure my lack of soccer skills doesn't really matter when they're this young.) It's been a while since I've coached the three-year olds. Here's how it goes:
  • We start with some stretching which, at this age, just means touching toes and jumping up and down. A few kids follow along; most just stare at me blankly. A few kids cry. 
  • Before we start the game, we huddle together to do a cheer. It takes about 3 minutes to successfully say "Go Black Fire!" (Tate chose the name.)
  • The game starts and it takes a few more minutes and some prodding before the kids realize they need to kick the ball.
  • It takes about just as long for about a third of the kids to start crying.
  • I substitute a few kids out, but the kids I try to bring in don't really want to come in,
  • By half-time, about half the kids are crying.
  • A little while later, Tate scores a goal and I, as a coach, am objectively pleased (and as a Dad, incredibly proud--that's my boy!)
  • After half-time, instead of leaving a few kids on the sideline, I bring them all in, realizing that attrition will quickly take its toll as kids decide they're thirsty or hungry or they want to play with their little brother or pet their dog. 
  • Throughout the entire second half, a little girl cries and tells me she just wants to go the playground; I tell her that her mom will totally take her after the game.
And then the game ends and it feels like we've narrowly survived the battle. 

But then something magical happens. 


Somehow, a lukewarm Capri Sun and a bag of smiley face fruit snacks makes it all worth it. 

And we live to fight another day. 

Friday, September 05, 2014


Just got back from a quick work trip to New York. Our PR agency is out there, so we did a face-to-face meeting to plan the next year. 

Though we arrived Tuesday evening and were back on the plane by Thursday evening, my boss and I were still able to fit in a little fun.

We headed to Times Square in hopes of scoring some discount tickets to Book of Mormon: The Musical. No luck. So we tried to take in the touristy sights and sounds without making eye contact with the guys in the creepy Elmo costumes or the girls wearing nothing but body paint.

Then we played some guitars that we could never afford and ate dinner at a restaurant that sold drinks that were even more expensive than the guitars.

After a full day of meetings, the ladies from the PR agency took us to a Yankees game. (It sure was convenient that my boss and I were able to find time in our busy schedules to go to New York on the very day the Yankees were playing the Red Sox. Wink. Wink.)

Taking the subway to the Bronx for a game -- at rush hour -- meant every part of our bodies had the opportunity to touch every part of every other body in the train. Delightful.

But it was the perfect night to watch baseball, to see Derek Jeter in his final season, and to eat an overpriced hot dog.

After another half-day of meetings, it was time to buy some souvenirs for the kids, eat some gelato in Madison Avenue Park, and hail a cab (a first for me) and head back to LaGuardia airport.

It was a nice little getaway, but it was even better get home to my little monsters (and the beautiful wife who has to put up with them).