The Scent of Soccer
I’ve been mentally avoiding this – in denial of what’s looming, and what’s blooming under the surface…
Despite all the years of forbidding mud-cloddened, breath-stealing cleats inside the house and dousing the armpits of jerseys with extra detergent, I am reluctant to let go of it. I’ve washed her jerseys at least three times, secretly not wanting the stench of a hard-fought season to end. Hers, and mine. The water bottles that needed constant re-filling. The shin guards that mysteriously disappeared overnight. The turf burns. The bruises. The wins. The losses.
Today, I find myself clinging to the scent of soccer.
For nearly two decades, I’ve cheered for daughters along the sidelines, still not fully understanding the ever-changing rules and off-sides calls in a sport that often ends in a tie. But what I have understood in watching my daughters on the field is that this sport is a lot like life. Soccer has prepared them for the times when they’ll get knocked down and have to get back up again. For the times when they just have to push through the heat, the cold, the rain, and the pain. For a mother who will forever cheer louder than they’d like and wince at every hard hit they’ll ever take, it’s game time, this end of the season. It’s time to lace up, slide my hair into a ponytail and face what’s ahead – just like they have on so many fields, in so many games.
With the final soccer banquet last night, and my youngest applying for scholarships and completing college applications, the end of this part of motherhood is coming at me fast and furious. I know from parenting my older two that motherhood doesn’t end with the turn of a tassel or the retiring of a pair of cleats. It shifts. I know this. But, still, it’s hard. Like a girl turning up the speed when she has to defend the goal or in anticipation of when her teammate needs backup, it’s time to pivot. I’m almost ready, but not quite. It’s hard to let go.
Thank you, Soccer. For all the hours. For all the games. For all the travel. Even for the bad calls that allowed me to release that inner Mama Bear voice that needed to escape anyway. All of it was worth it. These years of willing balls to go in the right direction. Thank you for giving us moms permission to yell as loud as we want for our daughters. Thank you for giving us an appropriate outlet for screaming for our girls when the teenager communication barriers were thick with uncertainty. Thank you for letting us have a voice.
To all the soccer moms out there with seniors ending their seasons. I feel ya. I see you. We know it wasn’t about the wins, or the losses. It was about the push to fight for them, and to let them know we’re here when life slidetackles them in the mud or someone undercuts them. It was about seeing a little bit of ourselves in their ambitions on the field. It was about being a mother who shows up. Don’t stop cheering or screaming on the sidelines just because the jerseys are washed for the final time. Those girls still need us … as much as we need the scent of soccer to linger a little longer.
