Making an impact from the sidelines

By Phil Stott

So it's that time of year again. The leaves are starting to turn on the trees, the nights are getting longer, and there's a distinct chill in the air.  All of which, for me, means one important thing-the start of another soccer season.  It's been my game ever since I was a kid growing up on a continent where it's called by its proper name, and over the years I've watched more games than I care to remember, and picked up experience playing the game (as a rank amateur) on three continents. And, like most boys getting into any sport, it all started with my dad.

I have vivid memories of the week I learned of the existence of professional soccer teams.  I remember swinging on my garden gate singing a chant I'd learned at school-the name of my hometown team-only for my dad to call me in to the house and introduce me to his team (from a different town), and their chant.  Ten minutes later, I was back at the gate chanting for his team as if my life depended on it, the start of an allegiance that continues to this day, and will likely last a lifetime.

It wasn't too long before I began learning the ins and outs of the game as well, all under my dad's watchful eye.  Under his tutelage-and through the game-I learned such things as the importance of being a team player, how to tackle properly (and when not to), and the sheer joy of mastering something new through hard work.  To this day, I attribute my ability to kick a ball properly with my weaker left foot to the hours he spent outside with me, making me wear a soccer shoe on that foot and a carpet slipper on the dominant one to dissuade me from using it.

These days, like Brett Favre (albeit a bit younger), I'm constantly questioning my fading athletic prowess and my ability to keep up with a younger generation of players, wondering if this season will be my last. Somehow, though, I always manage to find another reason to keep turning out for my men's league team, week after week, season after season.  Partly it's the camaraderie, and the shared culture with the guys I play alongside, and partly it's just for love of the game (as Kevin Costner might say).

And so a couple of Sundays ago, having once again spent the summer weighing the pros and cons, and testing the limbs for their readiness to endure another year of abuse, I found myself back in my team's red jersey, setting off on another season-long journey-my first since becoming a parent.  On top of a 60-hour work/commute week, deciding to play this year was an even tougher decision, and-being a guy that wants to be around his kids as they grow up-one that I'm not sure I'll be able to bring myself to make again.  Already, though, just two games into the season, I have reason to be thankful I made the decision to play this year. And it all goes back to my dad.

Not since I was a teenager has my dad watched me play soccer. Having been unable to play the game for a couple of years due to a knee injury, I drifted away from it for a while in my adolescence, only picking it up again in college-and the thought of having anyone come watch the low-ability five-a-side games I took part in was absurd. Since then, although the standard I'm involved in has improved, the opportunity has never really come up, and I hadn't given it much thought-until last week, when my parents were visiting, a trip that happened to coincide with a home game.

My initial reaction upon learning of the schedule conflict was not to play that week, something that would have let my team down, but allowed me to spend more time with my parents.  My wife's solution was somewhat simpler.  Play the game, and they would watch some of it.  The idea unsettled me a little at first. We don't get many spectators, and I wasn't sure how I felt about playing in front of my parents.  As soon as they showed up at the start of the second half though, I was glad they'd decided to come. Part of me was transformed back to being an 11-year old, desperate to do something great to impress the old man on the sidelines.  It never quite worked out that way-real life most often doesn't-but it was still a thrill to get the chance to relive that experience. And, even though we lost, the game will stand out as a highlight of my season just because he was there.

I don't know if the sport thing works the same way with fathers and daughters, but it's something I definitely won't forget to pay attention to once mine is old enough to start playing sports of her own even if she doesn't choose soccer.