All Done Except for the Pizza Party

By: Sean | October 27th, 2008

The last soccer practice of any season is a bittersweet occasion as far as I’m concerned, but perhaps even more so when you are coaching younger kids. As the evening dusk fades to black and the familiar outlines of my players grow dim and indistinct against the horizon, a little piece of me wishes for just one more week to scrimmage, one more week to work on the juggles, one more week to play. A subtle melancholy takes over and reminds me again of that most trite of life’s cliches: Nothing lasts forever.

I help coach my daughter’s U9 soccer team. The girls have been playing together for over a year now and we decided to call ourselves the West Coast Wolves this season. Our squad–our little soccer family, really–is a coach’s dream. Twelve well-behaved second and third grade girls. A supportive group of enthusiastic parents. Three active coaches with a similar approach and attitude about the game, appropriate to the age level. Tuesday and Thursday night practices are not an obligation, but a joy. Watching the girls go from playing 4 v 4 “mob ball” with cones to five a side with real goal posts and keepers has been a big step in their development, but they handled the transition gracefully and still managed to work in several handstands and cartwheels between kick-offs, too. (If you have ever coached this age group, I believe you know what I’m talking about.)

Our final practice was last Thursday and under a purple-smudged sunset we carried on as we had for the last two and half months. We stretched (more for the coaches than the girls!) We jogged around the field and worked on our juggling. I had challenged the girls to be able and juggle the ball at least as many times as their age and motivated them with the promise of an “awesome prize”.

“Are you going to buy us a Nintendo DS?” one of the gals asked, and upon hearing the word “Nintendo”, several other Wolves descended upon me with displays of juggling prowess. “Uh, not quite that awesome,” I quickly clarified as size four balls whizzed past my face.

We ran lines and shot on the goals, passed around informally and ultimately decided to scrimmage the entire team against the three coaches. The lateness of the season robs us all too soon of daylight and the unlit school yard quickly becomes a ghostly darkness just fifty minutes after starting. At this point in the season, there isn’t a whole lot more we can introduce them to in terms of drills and skills and practice becomes an exercise in keeping them from colliding into each other or wandering off. Ten minutes before seven we gather in the little goal box for our final cheer, coaches and players thirteen strong, and that familiar finality hits me.

Every season I’ve coached, I felt it. It’s not unlike the last night of Christmas vacation when I was in school, lying awake and remembering all the fun of the December holiday and then knowing it was officially done. It’s not unlike the last evening of a vacation when you are gathering your souvenirs and realize you won’t be splashing in the pool tomorrow…and you can’t recall how the time passed so quickly. It’s not unlike those things, but it’s still something else. It’s a feeling that takes me back twenty-five years to playing two on two soccer in my front yard until almost midnight and still feeling bummed when I had to come inside. It’s the memory of playing my last high school match under the lights as a senior and bawling my eyes out afterward because I knew I wasn’t skilled enough to play in college and I suddenly realized my “competitive career” was done. (And because we lost that game 0-5). It’s the random flashes of everything that the Wolves did over the season: The goals, the first give-and-go, the first keeper’s block, the first dinked shot off the post. It’s the recollection of the shortest girl on the squad trotting to the far post on every single corner kick because at the very first practice I made the comment that someone should always be on the far post during a corner kick. “Coach Sean!” she would announce as she ran forward. “I’m going to the far post, Coach Sean!” Some people might see the last practice as two more evenings in the week regained, but I just see it as two more lost chances to live the game I love. I want to share that feeling with the team, but how do you do that in a fleeting moment?

“Girls, listen up before we cheer!” I blurt out. My words aren’t well thought out, but I feel like they just need to be said. “Take a second and remember this moment!” It’s too dark to read expressions. Maybe they think I’m going to give away a Nintendo, I don’t know. “Stop and remember this because I promise you, some day when you’re a lot older, you will look back and realize some of the best moments of your life are on the soccer field.” The Wolves are quiet for a moment…are they taking this all in? Have I indelibly etched this moment onto their little psyches?

“Coach?” a little voice pipes up. “Are we having a pizza party next Tuesday?”

I have to laugh. What else could they say? It was the perfect response. “Yes, we’re having a pizza party next Tuesday. Wolves on three! One! Two! Three! WOLVES!” And with our trademark lupine howl, ten little voices bayed at the sliver moon and scampered off into the darkness…