My daughter started playing soccer for the first time this year, for a local Under 9 team. They've played 11 games so far this season and have yet to score a single goal.
To be fair, her team has a way higher proportion of girls than any other team in the comp, and many of those had never kicked a ball in their lives. Far from playing badly, though, they're holding their own more with each week that passes, and have reduced the "spread" of defeat from 15 - 0 down to 4 - 0. From start to finish, they're out there trying their little hearts out, conducting themselves with dignity, sportsmanship and good grace (despite less-than-gentlemanly jeers from opposing players). What's more, they play with good cheer. Each and every one of them.
Funnily enough, conversely to the team's perpetual slide to the bottom of the ladder, their team of supporters seems to grow each week. It started out with a parent representative for each player (the parent with the "by" does the running around with siblings or catching up on chores), for the most part . Now we have complete families, often augmented with grandparents, and assorted well-wishers turning up and willing the kids along with barely-contained enthusiasm. Not in a pushy sense, of course (having established ourselves as well-educated, middle-class "pillars of the community"). But out of a desperate desire to have our kids see that their efforts, training, and fair play can bring rewards, with patience. All we want for them is their intrinsic belief that they're as worthy of scoring a goal as the little thugs that shove and elbow them away from the ball muttering thoughtless remarks about their gender and "early career" sporting prowess. If only they could be afforded that demonstration that teamwork really does work - on the field and off. Just one goal would mean they could finish the season with their self-esteem intact.
I asked my daughter last Saturday if the families' cheering and swelling cries of encouragement ("good try", "well left", "never mind", "great kick", "keep going", "all the way") were a help or a hindrance. She seemed to think it didn't matter either way, because the kids have mostly learnt to ignore us . She did report it amusing, though, to hear the volume build to a crescendo as the players moved closer to the goal, then finish with a hushed "ohhh..." each time the ball speered off in the wrong direction again.
The truth of the matter is that, despite their families' anguish, they are happy, they are fulfilled, and they probably appreciate the camaraderie and solidarity of the team better than any of their competitors. They don't expect to kick goals, but they love the process of trying. They love running out on to the field united by their uniforms and free of any expectations about the outcome, and running off at the end, having given three cheers to the triumphant winning team (the nameless, faceless many) to hear the coach's words of praise, eat their lolly treats and do a few cartwheels for good measure by the side of the field. If, one day, a kick lands the ball in the goal, there'll be celebrations for sure. Mostly for the relief of the long-suffering parents. No doubt the looks on the faces of the opposing team's supporters will be priceless as they witness the curious spectacle from the security of their 6-1 or so lead.
The kids have got it right. Yet again, I'm reminded how important it is to watch, listen and learn from them. And I'm sure they find great amusement in observing our reactions.
My daughter's words, "We totally suck, Mum, but it's fun anyway", will be ringing in my ears when I'm doing laps of honour with my shirt over my head at their first goal.
