Game Day

Watching your young sons grow into men and your your young daughters grow into women is part of the deal, of course, with parenting, and it's easy to detect the combination of lament at lost childhood and pride at emerging adulthood in any parent's voice.

This is a very quiet and hot Saturday morning in the city. The fan's on overhead; the back door is open, and I can hear a few birds in the back garden. A lazy, slow-moving haze lightens what would otherwise be our bright blue Northern California sky.

Neighbors rush around, getting ready for their weekend routines. I remember back in the years when I was employed the stark difference between weekday and weekend -- a difference for me that has largely evaporated.

Now every day has a great deal of sameness to it. Every night as well, which is not a good thing.

But today is one I've been anticipating for a while. My 17-year-old starts his formal coaching career. His U13 girls' team held their first practice last night and they were energetic but definitely rusty. He had them running and passing and receiving and defending for an hour and a half.

They listen to him, which is a good thing. But afterward, he said to me, "The thing about girls is they talk so much. And not about soccer. It's hard to keep their attention on the game."

Nevertheless that is his job, to keep their attention on the game. He's not taking over a winning franchise, since in previous seasons these girls have won six, lost thirty-five and tied two games. So that's a .163 winning percentage.

But he seems up to the challenge, which includes coaching his little sister, who plays defense on the team.

A few hours from now, I'll be standing on the sidelines with many other parents out at the Polo Fields, all rooting for our kids. But I'll probably be the only Dad with both a player and a coach in the game.

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