FIFA with a chance of Meatballs

I confess I haven’t always understood nor appreciated soccer.  The game can be confusing and convoluted to the novice. 

It is the athletic equivalent of River Dancing – rapid-fire lower appendage agility that defies the eye’s ability to track the action, while the upper body is supposed to NOT touch the ball, nor the opponent, nor the officials.  But, when the camera shows a clip in slow motion, there seems to be a lot of extreme cage-fighting going on under those shin guards.  This isn’t exactly a non-contact sport.

The rules are not very clear, like they are in, say, football or basketball.  In those contests, it doesn’t require much IQ to spot the flagrant foul…that’s because the foulee usually requires hospitalization and an orthopedic surgeon.  And the perpetrator is awarded his own reality show.

And just what is “off sides?”  Many people have offered explanations, but I have better success understanding Einstein’s string theory and parallel universes.

Exactly what infractions prompt yellow cards?  Whenever a ref flashes one, six guys hold up their hands in a collective gesture of innocence and claim they never laid a glove of da guy.  But a review of the action in slo-mo confirms the foulee will be lucky to walk upright.  These are all-out aerial assaults.  The offenders could be charged with felonious cleat impalement.

The logic of any pastime is suspect when the players must line up in front of a drooling pack of Philistines, hands over crotches, while some Goliath prepares to launch a penalty kick into the net located just behind them.  It’s preposterous!

And what’s with those horns???  The incessant drone is enough to warrant involuntary institutionalization of every fan in the stadium.  These weapons of total ear drum annihilation are called vuvuzelas…VUVUZELAS!  Honkers owe a big apology to the honkees.

Erin gets soccer…which in itself makes us question her genetic integrity.  She speaks names like Kyle Beckerman, Nick Rimando, Javier Morales and Jamison Olave in hallowed tones of reverence and awe.  She does not take “Spain” in vain.  I sometimes wonder if her judgment isn’t a little impaired from inhaling too much second-hand jock sweat. 

She shouts to her sons to, ”Mark up”! and “Beat him to the ball!”  Except for the decibels, she could be the FIFA whisperer.

But then we went to Abram’s recent soccer tournament.  He is almost 12, and he gets the game.  In the second half, with the score 0-0, against a team of carnivorous apex predators, Abram eyed the goal, sized up his opponent, lined up his right foot, and with the precision timing of a Swiss watch, and all the planets in the galaxy in perfect alignment, he bent that ball squarely into the center of the net.  VICTORY! 

I went berserk!  I cheered louder than all the vuvuzelas on the entire African continent.  I got a red card from the ref for excessive decibels in the end zone.  Suuhhhweet!!

I GET SOCCER!    

On an entirely different note, I have decided that it is bad karma to by-pass any lemonade stand on a summer morning.  Our family considers that tradition inviolable.  Besides, there is nothing more pleasant than to raise a cup of semi-cool refreshment (I like my lemonade weak and warm) and discuss the sour economy mano a mano with these diminutive CEO’s of citrus.

There is no end of opportunities to quench the solar thirst.  Every corner of every street of every neighborhood bears a lemonade stand…a fact not lost on our grandson, Carter.  Being an astute observer that the prevailing market was saturated, so to speak, Carter chose to diversify. Exercising his entrepreneurial options, he decided HIS lemonade stand would sell – what else – meatballs!

Now, there are several advantages to selling meatballs.  First of all, a glaring lack of competition.  It’s the only game in town.  Second, meatballs can be eaten by themselves OR with lemonade.  I don’t know how many times I’ve been sipping the sour nectar and found myself craving meatballs.

I purchased six of these little delicacies.  They were so spicy, that it required a multi-chambered stomach just to digest them.  Thankfully, I’m well endowed.

Phenomenal success has fueled Carter’s plans to expand the enterprise.  Tomorrow he plans to sell steaks!  I’ll be first in line.

Besides goals and meatballs, we got even more good news last week.  Dennis’ lab draws came back showing his tumor markers to be normal.  We rejoice.

So our plans for the remainder of the summer include sitting on the deck sipping lemonade till my lips fold themselves into a perpetual pucker, eating spicy meatballs, tooting my vuvuzela, periodically shouting “Mark up!” to no one in particular…and hoping my neighbors don’t yellow card me for being disturbed.

I Love Summer. 

The Good Ole Summer Time

There is a certain enchantment about summer.  Nostalgia makes us all misty-eyed for the good old days.  The season has its own unique rituals and traditions that demand strict observance.

Perhaps it’s the Mark Twain/Huck Finn phenomenon that plants memories in our recollections of going bare-foot to the swimming hole every afternoon.  Or maybe it’s just the rosy retro lenses of youth that make the reminiscence of seasons past so pleasant.

In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harper Lee describes days so hot that ladies “by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I don’t recall feeling like a frosted tea cake exactly.  It was definitely sticky, but the summer heat seemed to be a gentler warm then.

I remember lazy days, going to bed late and sleeping late.  And we always woke up brown and sun-bleached and freckled – the prettiness of youth.

We did a lot of bike riding, swimming, and picnics in those days before Wii games and the web.  Bruises, cuts and skinned knees were healed with band aids and the dreaded ointment, merthiolate.

Summer has a taste.  It’s primarily potato salad, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and snow cones so cold, you get brain freeze just choosing a flavor.

We really didn’t have tire swings in trees or Boo Radley living down the lane, although I have grafted some of those memories onto my own collection.  But I remember being scared witless by campfire stories – like “Click Shah” – that chilled our spines and give me the “wubba wubbas” even now.

And, of course, there was Lagoon.  An excursion to that amusement island lasted the whole day and into the night.  There were three main attractions that guaranteed thrills, spills and instant nausea…the hammer, the roloplane, and the infamous roller coaster.  You couldn’t wait to get on that coaster, and when you finally did, you could re-ride as many times as your stomach would permit.  Some genetically-challenged guys would ride all day long in the last car, prompting their IQ to drop several points during the course of the marathon.

I didn’t much care for the laughing ladies in the house of mirrors.  They still creep me out.  Nor did I like the terror ride.  My particular contraption of self-abasement was the Tilt-A-Whirl.  It would whirl and twirl, and I would hurl.  Funny, it doesn’t sound nearly as fun now as I recall.  I never seemed to remember to eat my cotton candy AFTER going on the ride.

Like Christmas, summer has its own distinct music.  Just hearing the sounds and back beat, one is instantly transported into July.  Besides the patriotic Seussa marches by the marching bands in the many parades, there are the Beach Boys, James Taylor, and Credence Clearwater Revival.  Those old songs start playing, and I am prompted to grease myself into an oil slick and lay out on tin foil in the back yard.  Of course, that was before ultra-violet rays were invented, and skin cancer was so rare, only old people got it.

Unfortunately, summer ain’t what it used to be.  So far, our day-planner is smeared with appointments for surgery, dental check-ups, skin cancer screening (from too much sun bathing on tin foil in youth, I’m told) prostate exams, and a colonoscopy.  Our road trips are primarily to see the next doctor.  Not exactly the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.

Summer reading consists of instruction sheets for the latest prescription meds, privacy agreements and co-pays.  And our freckles are actually pre-cancerous actinic keritosis liver spots.

The Boo Radleys in our neighborhood are wars, oil spills, terrorist threats and celebrity infidelities – definitely not the benign recluses who leave pleasant surprises in tree knotholes. 

The scariest campfire stories are the headlines.

Last week I bought Necie her first pair of rose-colored glasses.  She’d been asking for a pair like mine.  At seven years old, they are a sparkly fashion accessory – not yet the mandatory eye-wear for adult-onset bloodshot.  Sometimes she lets me borrow them.  I can see clearly now.

I have decided, in spite of everything, that one can celebrate the “spirit” of summer, if not the reality.  It anchors us to the integrity of the season.

It should always be 10:00 on a morning in July.

The Family Vacation

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.  But that’s assuming the traveler is upright to begin with. 

In a state of delirium, I thought it plausible to have my throat slit just prior to embarking on our “Annual Family Vacation.”  As the doctor removed the stitches, he regaled my fragile psyche with graphic descriptions of this most recent surgical escapade.  I went deaf right after he made reference to a roto-rooter and the Black and Decker. 

As further evidence that I should be involuntarily institutionalized, I deemed it a splendid idea to visit every physician and have every annual procedure known to man done simultaneously in order not to have to worry about it upon our return.  So I went to the dermatologist, the gynecologist and the surgeon. 

I began the trip with an inflated pustule on my forehead so large it looked like a third eye.  I had bandages reminiscent of the Boris Karloff mummy, with my eyes half closed from an anesthetic hangover making me look detached and semi-inebriated.  Also, I walked just as funny as the mummy because a physician had been excavating with a tanker of Vaseline and a backhoe.  I now have a new respect for oil slicks in the gulf.  I caused little children to shriek and run away in terror.  Unfortunately, they were my grandkids.

Thus, I hobbled to the “thousand mile” starting line in an altered state, – hallucinatory and muttering incoherent platitudes.

We commence every odyssey with the highest expectations…optimism for the possibility of perfection.  Our proposed travel menu would center on low-fat, densely-packed nutrition, healthy snacks, and organic fruits.  We were vegan pilgrims ready for adventure.

Fifteen minutes into the merriment, we morphed into sugar fiends, craving whisky tarts and voraciously pounding down the junk food in a feeding orgy of gummi bears, Cheetos, Little Debbies, and petrified sandwiches on concrete crusts of bread spread with stale peanut butter and primordial ooze.  Our gut-glut needle went right off the gauge.

In the classic “kid need food” phenomenon, we ate succulent little snacks that could cumulatively cut off one’s air passages and strangle one’s bowel…and left a curious and vulgar aftertaste.  We eventually degenerated into the culinary equivalent of licking lard out of a can…like a banquet for the depraved.

In total, there were twelve of us – The Dirty Dozen – and we were a quorum.  Things went pretty smoothly, considering the general dynamics. 

We attempted to structure the experience by regulating laws for the common good.  Operating under the dictum that 12 clocks cannot strike at precisely the same time, certain truths became self-evident, and therefore, policies and priorities were established.

1.    The fullest bladder with the least amount of control determined the next rest stop.  Curiously, I ruled.  The boys, however, profaned the entire rain forest as a pristine toilet that they never had to flush.
2.    Incontinence trumps everything.  Again, I dominated.
3.    “Hurling” pre-empts even incontinence.  Beckham has a familiar pattern of “burp…burp…urp!”  We must always remain no more than one “burp” shy of a receptacle.  This law was ratified in a small room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Baker, Idaho.
4.    Viscous nasal contents are subordinate to more pressing bodily demands.  That particular territory can be secured on sleeves and tree trunks. 
5.    Anyone who grumbles, bleats or prevaricates shall be abandoned at the nearest rest stop and condemned to eternal exile.  In a humanitarian gesture, we decided to define “prevaricate” for the kids or they’d all still be at the rest stop in Rupert, Idaho!
6.    Whoever has an inkling how to get where we’re going…leads.

Maximum motion on minimal sleep rendered us witless.  Gradually we all went into light-trance mode, often looking like a collection of bobble heads just off the Tilt-a-Whirl. 

I realized after looking at our most recent photos, there were whole episodes of this vacation I missed.  I lurked blurrily at the edges of cognizance. Dang the Propofol! Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I casually asked Dennis what happened in my “absence.”  He assured me that yes, we had a good time; no, I didn’t streak the field; and my “dance of the seven veils” was a particular hit with our fellow ferry passengers.  I was gratified.

One incident I will never forget.  It was the day the U.S. played its scheduled World Cup soccer match.  Because of the very early hour, we all got up and gathered around the TV, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and disheveled…on this trip we were never “sheveled!”  We huddled companionably in a potent tribal stink and cheered for our team.  It was our finest moment.

Family vacations are singularly encapsulated, compact moments that engender a riotous expenditure of energy, panic, exhaustion, infinitesimal lapses of sanity, and deep solidarity…small pleasures, perfect moments intersected with zany comic book mania.  This was no country for old men…or women.  But I’ve discovered youth is a renewable resource…I was definitely “youth”anized on this trip.  In point of fact, last week it was my birthday.  I turned 18 once more.

In April we’ll do it all over again.

Butterflies and Guillotines

In an effort to maintain a perfect record of never allowing a year to lapse without at least one surgery, I went in for a parathyroidectomy last Thursday.  I am recording the incident under an anesthetic fog, but it is true and accurate, nonetheless.

The doctors have been advising me that my parathyroid is “out of whack.”  That’s a medical term indicating impending surgery.  Well, I was not too happy about the thoughts of this procedure.  Anesthesia always makes me loopy.  But apparently, the parathyroid is a winged little thingee near the thyroid, and its removal conjured up images of the surgeon running barefoot in slow motion with a butterfly net through a field of daisies on a summer morning. 

Well, in a burst of irrational optimistic positivity, I thought, why not?  I’d get it done now so we could go on our family vacation to Washington without having it hanging over my head.  In and out.  Slick.

Things went quite well at first.  My anesthesiologist was amiable, and said my veins were quite impressive.  I was sure he was hitting on me.  I was demur. I refrained from bragging, but I’ve always considered them some of my finest assets.  And they’ve never been surgically enhanced.  Modesty kept me from flaunting them.

We chatted for a while, until I noticed the OR begin to rotate.  I became alarmed and asked him if he felt as dizzy as I looked.  He assured me he was.  I told him to cover me-I was goin’ in.  Then I disappeared.

I don’t recall anything after that.  But upon regaining consciousness, I felt a little like Anne Bolyn, the morning after…and rather nauseous.  I requested some anti-hurl…STAT! 

That’s when I first met Nurse Vlad, my post-op care-taker.  She heaved me onto my side with the agility of a sumo wrestler, employing some moves she’d no doubt acquired as the head baton twirler of the Transylvania High School marching band.  I tried to regain my equilibrium.

Suddenly, I heard the clattering of hooves on cobblestone, the swish of an Excaliber blade as it cut through the air, and the fierce cry of a Samarai warrior yelling, “Charge!”  And then she impaled me!

This time I emitted a holler worthy of Wylie Coyote plummeting down a cliff. 

A disembodied voice from outer darkness announced, “I love a skinny butt!”  She put down her syringe, wiped her hands on her armor, mounted her trusty steed, said, “My work here is done,” and strode off into the sunset.

That’s the truth.  At least, that’s how I remember it.  Dennis’ version varies slightly.  But it’s my stupor.  Besides, he was on the OTHER end of that hypo!

I am recovering well, but it will be some time before I let anyone talk me into going to the meadow looking for butterflies.

Leaking Gas

Why is it that the best things in life are so short-lived?  Vacations, summer, lilacs, energy, money, general perkiness, youth, etc.  And, of course, childhood.  Especially childhood.

Those are Halcyon days.  Kids get up in the morning with full diapers and empty sippees.  The main task of the day is to empty the first and fill the second…and nobody gets hurt.  Then it’s play, play, play until time for their 2:00 tantrum.  What could be sweeter?

Children don’t fret over such trivial matters as heinous headlines, stock market gains and losses, gas prices, oil spills, elections, or celebrity drama.  A jug of chocolate milk, a bag of chips, and they’re OK in their wilderness.

But childhood has a shelf life.  Perhaps that’s why as adults we want to preserve, even prolong these days.  We know that all too soon the time comes when we can no longer find our way back to the house at Pooh Corner. 

And Time is a tyrant.  Case in point. Recently we were given a giant congratulatory yellow inflated smiley-face Mylar balloon.  That balloon was my alter ego. It made me happy.  Its face was unalterably merry, looking as if it had been injected with too much botox by an over-zealous doctor.

It bobbed mindlessly through the rooms of our house, and smiled mockingly as the kids belted it to each other, unfazed by the mauling.  I could identify. 

But a few days passed, and the balloon began to lose some of its helium.  The face started showing subtle signs of shriveling.  The sunny countenance appeared to crease along the edges and fold into itself.  The soft butter yellow took on a jaundiced look, as if its liver, if it had one, was not functioning properly.  Its smile became derisive.

As if that weren’t enough, the balloon lost some of its “bob,” and would float down to the floor and linger there, inert and inconsolable.  Finally, it drifted behind the TV, like Puff The Magic Dragon, going into its cave, seeking solitude and sanctuary. 

We respected its privacy, hoping it would soon recapture its “perky” and rejoin us.

Suddenly, as we were watching the Lakers maul the Suns, the smiley face unexpectedly popped up from behind the TV as if it were some kind of freakish Jack-in-the-box, just like the shower scene in “Psycho!”  I swear I heard discordant screeching violins at the same time.  It actually startled us. 

But now the happy face had changed dramatically. It appeared cavernous, with crevices, sags, and creping.  It bobbed and weaved like a drunk geriatric boxer in slow motion.  I swear it was a creepy perversion of “The Picture of Dorian Gray!”

Well, it was kind of funny.  I laughed.  Then I looked in the mirror.  I cried.  That smiley face was my evil twin.  I was scarier than Norman Bates!

When did I lose my helium?  How long have I been deflating?  When did my gas begin to leak?  And who wiped the grin off MY face?!

Our mirrors must be distorted!  ALL mirrors are distorted!

Call the code blue plastic surgery triage unit!

Call Dr. Kevorkian!

I tried to retain my analytical reason.  I hoped the unrestrained surge of stress hormones would not throw me out of orbit. I muttered vulgarisms incessantly. 

Now, I’m not asking to slurp at the Fountain of Youth through a garden hose.  I just want to return to the days when my butt was not oozing in concentric circles around my knees.  Talk about hostile take-over!  I thought I had that territory secured. 

And while we’re at it, who splattered my hands with brown spots in the most unattractive geometric patterns…like I’d just painted the town taupe?  When did all this take place, and where was I?  How come I didn’t notice? 

There is a certain bereavement at the passage of time.  The clock is an apex predator!

I don’t know where to register my complaints, besides shouting blasphemes into the lightless void of outer darkness.  (For the record, I got no response.)

However, since I have failed miserably to prevent my childhood from seeping away, I am focusing my efforts on my grandkids, before they pass their expiration date.

Spring is the season of recitals and rituals that signal the close of this recent school year.  Talk about short-lived!  Didn’t school just begin? 

We have always encouraged our kids to be curious, to ask questions, to express themselves without fear or inhibition.  So far, we’ve been wildly successful.

Our grandson, Carter the Curious, has been pleading with his parents for, of all things, an older brother.  Brodi asked for my advice.  I’m not touching this one, but I can’t wait to hear THAT explanation.

Over the Memorial Day holiday, Asher, our darling Asher, stomped in the windshield of Erin’s van…barefoot!  Did I mention he’s three?  We are all trying to stay on his good side until we can legally medicate him.

Most of our grandkids look like pipe cleaners.  Asher looks like Sammy the Bull.  It comes from daily workouts consisting of total annihilation. 

It’s going to be a long summer.

But I plan to pass the sunshine season stuffing my jowls with picnics and peanut butter.  I figure when autumn arrives, my face will be pumped and plumped and will once more resume the smooth contours of an inflated bladder.  And I will smile because…I will have regained my helium!  

May Day

Didn’t we just have Mother’s Day…last year?  It’s the only holiday that seems to come around as frequently as Halloween.  But Mother’s Day has come and gone.  I survived.    I’m not sure exactly why I anticipate this event with a lack of zeal. I understand why the term MAY DAY is universally recognized as a distress call. I’m submitting a proposal to Congress that MOTHER’S DAY would be a fitting substitution. 

Actually, I don’t know any mother who really likes Mother’s Day.  It isn’t even a real holiday.  It’s an occasion manufactured by flower vendors, jewelers, chocolatiers and greeting card  companies to suck the bucks from our pocketbooks.  I’m not averse to getting a plethora of gifts.  No siree.  I always remind my family that they can never repay me for all I’ve done. Nevertheless, they should keep trying.  But it’s all so commercial.  Advertisers peddle everything from flowers to backhoes to show Mom our love.  Personally, I don’t want any of that stuff.  I just want to be obeyed! 

I’m sure motives for contriving such an observance in the first place were pure.

But things have changed so much since then.  And this is not necessarily change we can believe in. And speaking of change, I read recently that Thelma Lou, Barney Fife’s girlfriend, was robbed…right in Mayberry.  She’s 83.  Dang it!  Things really HAVE changed. She can’t be 83.  That would make me…even younger.  If Thelma Lou can be mugged, WE’RE ALL GONNA’ DIE!

Ah, but I digress.  Evidence of approaching Mother’s Day is ubiquitous.

Recently at Costco’s, the place was crowded with people loading baskets with plants, bouquets, women’s apparel and cookbooks.

But one man in particular caught my attention because he stood out from the throng.  He was pushing a flatbed cart heavily laden with countless stacks of paper plates and reams of toilet paper.  That cart was so burdened with these items, the wheels groaned under the strain.  I wanted to stop him and inquire as to the purpose of his purchase. Why these items in these quantities?

Then it hit me.  These were Mother’s Day gifts of truest appreciation.  He was the only person in Costco who really gets this occasion.  His was a graphic representation of what mothers really do – feed the gut and wipe the butt!  I doubt Hallmark will put that little couplet on a greeting card.  Pity. 

Now, I don’t mean to seem cynical or appear as the anti-June Cleaver.  But sometimes this occasion celebrates moms without really appreciating them.  And all the tributes can make us misty-eyed and feeling guilty for not measuring up to all the tributes.  It’s a conundrum.

I swore an oath that I would not get entangled in all the sentiment this year.  I would not get tripped up by those tender recollections that close off the throat.

I attended our daughter’s church where our grandkids were singing tributes to all the mothers in the congregation.  Abram and Josh sang lyrics that went, “Heavenly Father has sent me to you-wooh,” all the while making gagging gestures and rolling their eyes.  In the meantime, Asher the Basher was body-slamming the kid next to him with such blunt force, the child was on the floor dazed and traumatized. The line of children trying to maintain their balance had an erratic ripple where the little hoodlum was standing.  He managed to stop head butting only long enough to pick his nose.

Dennis was laughing uncontrollably, while I was trying to recall any documented cases of insanity in my family’s genetic make-up.

Usually Mother’s Day is to be tolerated, not celebrated.  But this year, I observed the occasion, and enjoyed it.  I have decided that childhood and motherhood are both excellent institutions.  It seems the faster we go, the less time we have to spare. I’m grateful we slowed down enough to hear kids sing songs to mothers that make us laugh while it tugs at the heartstrings.

Now I will begin the new week.  Things will return to normal.  I’ll clean up the clutter from Sunday’s commemoration.  I’ll put away the dishes, dispose of the diapers and wipe viscous secretions from noses.  Monday it’s back to paper plates and toilet paper.   

Victory and Triumph

This past week has been one for the highlight reel in sports.  Our favorite, Phil Mickelson, won the Masters Golf Championship, evidence that there is a certain cosmic justice in the universe. 

In addition, we were invited to be present when Larry Miller’s jersey, # 9, was retired in the rafters of the Energy Solutions Arena during half-time at the Jazz game.

Both events had particular meaning for us.

But there’s one athletic contest that will not go down in history or even be recorded by avid sports writers.  And it was the most inspiring.

It took place last Saturday.  Here’s how it happened.

Necie, our only granddaughter, had a soccer game that morning, like every kid her age in the neighborhood.  It is a rite of passage for children these days. 

Her team, however, was decimated, due to illness and vacations.  She was one player of only four.  Besides Necie, there were Justice, Anna and Trevor.  (No “Suzy” or “Bill” on the roster.)   They were the core four, ribbons and pony tails flapping in the breeze, and smiling their first-grade, six-year-old smiles – not a single front tooth among them.

Their coach reviewed their game strategy, lined them up, and told them to play hard and have fun.  The day looked promising.

Then the other team took the field.  They were all boys…whose mouths revealed two rows each of adult teeth.  This was obviously their first string, and the coach called them by name, like Santa’s roll call of his most infamous mutant reindeer:  On Brutus! On Caius Cassius!  Let’s go, Iago!  Come on, Mephastophales!

I turned to Dennis and said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The whistle blew, and the game began.  Well, the Goths moved down the field like rotweilers with distemper.  Our team ran, scrambled, and fell in futility, as the ball went swift and sure to the goal.  Nothing but net.

Their fans roared their terrible roar, and gnashed their terrible teeth.

This burned about 25 seconds off the game clock.  At this point, all our parents and grandparents were checking their watches, praying the playing time would expire and end the merciless massacre.  We still had 44 ½ minutes to go.

We all shouted encouragement like, “Way to hang in there,” and “Shake if off,” and “You’ll get ‘em next time!”

Our guys would line up again, smile their toothless grins, and try to defend against the onslaught.  Twenty seconds later the ball exploded into the center of the net.  Our team’s defense was as porous as their teeth.

The fans on our side collectively contorted into the fetal position, as if each goal were a personal sucker-punch to the solar plexis, hoping the groans were not audible.  We averted our eyes for the humiliation.

Once more,  Necie, Justice, Anna and Trevor assembled, ready to play.

After six goals in rapid succession, their coach put in their B team, calling them individually to the line:  Atilla, Taras Bulba, Vlad the Impaler, and Caligula.

We watched as their goals mounted.  But interestingly, for every point they scored, our team lined up ready to play again.  These kids were exhausted, thirsty, sucking wind – and there were no subs on the entire planet to provide respite.

Suddenly, there was a palpable shift in the momentum – not with the players, but with the crowd.  We uncoiled from our contortions and began genuinely cheering these diminutive, intrepid gladiators.

Then came the miracle.  Due to some cosmic anomaly, Anna was able to kick the ball into OUR net.  The crowd went  insane, standing, ovating.  John Stockton’s winning, 3-point buzzer-beater paled by comparison.

It was now 12-1. 

The team ramped up their efforts.  Necie got her mojo.  She defended. She deflected. She blocked.  She intercepted.  She had the tenacity of a pit bull, and thwarted their attempts to score once again…or it would have been 13-1.  Ha!  Not on Necie’s watch!

As a supreme humanitarian gesture, the time ran out.  We mobbed the team; they were nearly carried off the field on our shoulders and crowned with laurel wreaths. 

In an act of consummate sportsmanship, all the parents of both sides formed a victory arc de triumph for each of the players to run through…praise and glory all around.

There were no losers this day.  There was no defeat. While we did not get the victory, we got the triumph.  Their team won the game.  Our team won the hearts.

I learned some important things that morning.  Possibly the best lessons are taught before we have all our adult teeth.  Maybe it isn’t about winning and the idea that anything less is losing.  “Nice try” is just that – a nice try.  To conquer, to dominate, just may not be the sole purpose of competition.  Perhaps reciting the Olympic Creed is more authentic than chanting “We’re number one!”

Hmmm.  I pondered the possibilities.

So, in light of my new enlightenment, I have decided to declare my New Year’s Resolutions.  Yes, I do know it’s April.  But I cannot be held accountable for commitments made under the influence of mainlining fruit cake and the annual holiday dietary glut.  Nor should said resolutions be emblazoned on stone tablets carried down from Mt. Sinai to hold us hostage.

No.  Resolutions should be seasonally adjusted, becoming the servants of one’s whims and caprice of the moment.  Expediency must be the guiding principle.

Ergo, with the understanding that victory is not always triumph, here are my mid-term “gonna do’s,” designed solely to bring me joy.

1.    Lower the level of my discourse.
2.    Drink an entire bottle of Orange Crush without pausing to take a breath and belch the Gettysburg Address.
3.    Eat cucumber sandwiches.
4.    Invite myself to someone’s picnic in the park
5.    Attend every garage sale and farmer’s market.
6.    Redefine haute cuisine to include hot dogs at the ball park.
7.    Stifle the groan when I arise after stooping to wipe a grandkid’s nose.
8.    Start singing Christmas carols on the 4th of July.
9.    Go hang gliding…and then –
10.    Have a comprehensive psychological evaluation.  (If I reversed the order of #9 and #10, I’d never go hang gliding.)

We’ll see what May brings.