Devonne Brown

Soccer Mom

“When someone makes a goal, click this button and record the time here and the kid’s number here,” said Linda, the coach. She was pointing to two columns on an Excel Spreadsheet on one of those coach’s clipboards with the secret compartments. 

“They’re six, Linda, why do we need a spreadsheet?” 

I think I grew horns. The look on her face told me the horns must’ve been covered in Spanish moss and blood too. “Parents have to have stats. You’re on stats today,” said Linda.

“I was on oranges. I scored them so they’d be easy to peel and everything. Linda, you know I can’t get numbers straight. What if I start talking to somebody and write a score down twice or something. They’ll kill me,” I said. The whining did nothing but make me look even weaker. It was clear I wanted to watch the match from the vantage point of my chair under the pines. I had my chair in my hand and was headed that way. 

I had no interest in administrative duty. Soccer was supposed to be a spectator sport for me, not a participatory event. 

“I need someone now. You’re here. Put your chair here.” So much for shade and good company. I had to pay attention to the game now. I had to  make sure that each goal was validated by the referee and the time recorded promptly. I couldn’t be socializing. Truth be told, I didn’t have time to sit in my chair either. 

I was devastated. 

My plan was to enjoy the boys’ nine a.m. Saturday morning game from the comfort of my field chair, drink my mucho grande macchiato, and catch up on the latest gossip while the boys chased the ball around the field.

I rolled my eyes behind Linda’s back, put my chair down and took a big swig of my macchiato. Lord knows when I’d be able to experience its caffeinated sweetness again. She handed me the clipboard of power, blew the whistle and walked away. 

Three dozen three foot tall soccer players surrounded us. Each one wore an eager face and a numbered shirt. Linda said some coaching words and walked toward the middle of the field. The faces followed her then scattered  on and off the field. Parents lined the pitch. 

My sweet boys looked at me in anticipation and awe. I had the clip board. I stood up straight, looked at the coach, and awaited the play. At that moment, another layer of superpower was placed on my mantle. This was no Saturday morning gossip fest, this was a soccer match, and I had a clipboard. Let the game begin.