Mondays, or the Car Ride Home

After this weekend, I was happy to go to work. Most of the weekend wasn't too bad. Friday night Jack and I went to the UW Meany Center and saw the modern dance troupe Bandaloo after the Boy's Cross Country Chili Feed Fundraiser. (Note to self: If the Boy stays gung-ho about XC, someday I might have to host this event. Good thing I know how to make chili.)

Saturday I cleaned the house, read the newspaper, and then became depressed. Sunday morning, I went to my writing group which was fun.

Sunday afternoon, I drove to two hours to Aberdeen for the Boy to play soccer. Ugh.

Thankfully, it was a sunny and warm afternoon. That was the best part of this trip--the weather. Last year, the Boy's team crushed the Aberdeen team 8-0 back when they were in the Bronze league. This year, they are in the Silver league and the team they played was much better. I would say they were heads above, but they weren't. Half of the boys on this team weren't even five feet tall. But they were awesome. My guess is that this was the top team in Aberdeen, and the really good players played up.

"We are getting our asses kicked by a bunch of toddlers," said one of the Boy's teammates during half time. Dan, the player with the highest record of fouls and Co-Captain with the Boy, ranted at the team.

The Boy continued: "($#(&! and @#*?."

"How cute!" said Annika, Dan's mom. "The Boy is swearing at his teammates!" Annika is the only person who could have said this to me and it wasn't offensive. Neither of our boys are chill. About anything. She was welcoming me to the "Your Teenage Son is a Douchebag" Club. Oy.

"I have better things to do today," said the Boy as he packed up his bag at halftime. The very last things I wanted to do was hop in the car and drive for two hours with him in a snit. I'd rather be in the car for two hours with a raccoon.

The coach took the Boy aside after his mini-tantrum at his teammates and talked him off the ledge. I want to know whatever the coach said to the Boy so I can use it when trying to get the Boy to school, off his phone, do his homework, etc. After the talk with the coach, the Boy put on his shin guards, and went back on the field, this time as a left wing, not his usual center-defensive position.

The game continued to be brutal. The score was 5 to 2, and the boys were losing with about ten minutes left in the game when Jordan got a goal and then a red card and was pulled from the game. After Jordan's goal, the goalie took a swing at him. Jordan--who is a foot taller than the goalie--walked back to the goalie in a menacing way when the red card came out. Rightfully so, goalies are well protected by the foul rules. The ref didn't see the goalie's swing, but he did see Jordan march back to the net.

The Boy's team was now down a player with ten minutes left and they were down by two goals.

It's over, I thought. I was really, really, beginning to dread the car ride home. Two weeks ago at a home game, the Boy's team won and the Boy was in a snit because it wasn't a shut out. That ride was intolerable, and it was only five minutes long. Still, we had to stop on the way home and ply the Boy with a cheeseburger, onion rings and a milk shake to turn his mood around.

I turned to Annika. "I'll take Dan home in my car and you can take the Boy," I said. She laughed.

"Or, Jack and I might leave," I said. "And you can give him a ride."

Annika laughed again. "I'll tell him 'Something came up,' and you had to leave," she said.

Then the Boy's team went Braveheart. Dan, the Foul King, was benched. He paced the sidelines, coaching his teammates. They turned into a tsunami of brute force and scored two goals in the last two minutes. The last goal was kicked in by a defender from thirty yards away. It hit the back of the net three feet off the ground.

The parents in the stands relaxed. The car ride home would now only suck because it was two hours long, not because we'd have surly teenage boys in the car. To paraphrase Hamilton, which we listened to on the way to Aberdeen, they snatched a stalemate from the jaws of defeat.

"On that last goal, that ball must have been going sixty miles an hour," the Boy said on the car ride home.

I told my manager the story.

"So that's why moms cheer on the sidelines," he said. "You care more about the car ride home than winning."

Yep.