The Return of Soccer Daddy

I watched my son play soccer in a junior high gym last night. It's soccer for four year-olds, so no score is kept, there are no winners or losers, and everyone participates. It was cute watching them run, kick, get bored, dance, poke, giggle, roll around, and sort of play the game. I did enjoy it and so did they. It's supposed to be fun for the kids...but somewhere down in my gut...buried deeply...and imprinted with a jackhammer...is my man-soul, which rebels against the kinder gentler sporting events for preschool. I watched, clapped and cheered for all the kids. But, in my secret soul of souls, I wanted my boy to outrun, outplay, and outscore his peers. I wanted him to kick butt and take names. I wanted my progeny to be the king of kings manchild who all the other four year-olds know is the soccer wunderkind. I want them to whisper his name with awe and deference...Awwww...whadda loada crap in my brain. Goobs is the one on the sidelines who'd rather roll around with his two buddies and have a tickling match. It ain't gonna happen and who cares anyway. He'd rather sing and do a dance in the middle of the field as someone with the ball runs by him. I guess the bottom line is he's having fun and meeting new friends and that's the important thing. I'll put all those silly dreams aside and wait for his sister to be the sports queen...Oh well...