'One boy's purse is another boy's book bag, if he's European." - Hal, Malcolm in the Middle

 

I accidentally caught The Boy and his opponent both floating above the ground. This is my theory of why young people don’t weigh so much – they tend to float.

Quote of the Week:
“How did you meet (PERSON X)?” asked Alia S. Wilder.
The Boy responded, “We drove to his house.”
And, no, we’re not in the habit of just picking houses on the street to go to dinner. But it has merits, if they have steak, or even cheeseburgers.

This weekend, The Boy had *two* soccer games, which is two more than I’ve ever played in my life, outside of when I was forced to in P.E. by a teacher who kept telling us, “This game is so important in Europe.”

Bah. I sat watching the football game today with The Boy, and pointed to a middle linebacker hitting a kick returner with (roughly) the force of a Mack Truck® hitting a chocolate duck. “See, that’s what I used to do the quarterbacks when I played football.”

The Boy turned to me, the thrill of the hit flush in his face. “Why can’t I do that in soccer?”

Good question. My only answer? “Different game, different rules.” But that brings us back to soccer.

The Boy hasn’t shown a ton of enthusiasm for soccer this season. The Boy’s first game ended up with him melting down on the field like Paris Hilton being put into a police car to be taken to the clink. Fortunately, The In-Laws were there with a minivan, and I got to drive The Boy home all by myself. Let’s just say that I was fairly vocal about my criticism.

I got home. Alia S. Wilder asked me, “Which speech did you give him?”

“Ummm, very disappointed, poor sport, you-don’t-want-to-be-a-quitter, heart-is-important-because-it’s-what-matters-in-life, now-go.”

“Oh, yeah, remember that one.”

Me, too. I had that speech given to me in 1st, 3rd, and 4th grades. I don’t know about every family, but in the Wilder house everybody gets that speech. It seems to sink in before we hit double digits in age.

On Saturday The Boy played like he was on fire. Well, not really. The Boy didn’t run around screaming and then drop to the grass and roll. In actuality, he did things that were positive for his team, rather than just stalking around the pitch crying.

On Sunday, not so much. The Boy was on the field. While he didn’t actively distract them, he didn’t actively help his team, either.

They’re at that delicate soccer stage where they’re starting to learn offense and defense and not just run after the ball like a pack of poodles chasing a Siamese cat with a pound of bacon tied to its neck. Playing defense is a bit of a mystery (like where does milk come from) to him.

(An aside. The Mrs. and I were engaging in banter with The Boy one night and quizzed him on where he thought milk came from. His frank answer, “Machines make it.” We told him that people squeezed it from cows. “Noooooo. Really?”)

So, playing defense consists a lot of standing in one place and going for the ball if it comes directly to him. We’ll work on that. Pretty soon he’ll be one of the poodles chasing the bacon.

Do Europeans even eat bacon? Nevermind. I think The Boy will do fine in football. I’m just worried about him wanting to tackle the opposing teams this season. Not that I’m entirely opposed to that.

It’s amazing when a plan comes together.