Both of the kids' teams played valiantly.
Both, in the end, lost.
1-2 and 0-2.
If I were a choreographer, programming Silver Terrace pitch would be a grand challenge.
This can be pretty serious business -- kids' soccer. Those not involved probably consider it trivial, and sometimes, of course, it is. Plus, many no doubt consider soccer parents as a class of people who need to get (their own) life, rather than the vicarious fusing with their childrens' lives.
Maybe, by my age, any potential feelings of merging with my kids' identities is a ludicrous thought. A non-option. As an elderly, white-haired man with a pot belly, who can no longer even run ten feet, let alone 100 yards, is simply a proud observer. Until a few years ago, I could still play sports, especially softball, but simply am no longer able to do that.
Watching these kids, mine as well as others, is for me simply an opportunity to observe beauty in motion.
Both of "our" teams were back on defense most of the time.
My own kids were primary defenders.
Other observers.
One, a non-player, ultimately became bored.
One game over, others began, out at Lowell High School.
By mid-day, the rains had moved in and they stayed, softly, all afternoon.
The fog deepened to the point that the entire field darkened.
This was a cold time in the city.
With the girls' season ending before our eyes, it was stirring to seem them fight a bigger, more experienced team with so much commitment right up to the end.
Another sibling observer.
As they lost the game, finishing 0-10, and outscored, 2-36, the girls were crying.
As we walked to my car, I got Julia laughing again by imagining a tree we passed as the "Whomping Willow" at Hogwarts. A Beach Boys' song on the car's CD -- "Don't Hurt My Little Sister," sealed the deal.
She was all smiles as we entered my warm flat.
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