This summer, my wife and I took the plunge into the world of youth sports, thinking our 4-year-old son, would have the time of his life. Spoiler alert: we were wrong. Trust me, if you want to ruin every Saturday morning for an entire summer, just sign your kid up for youth soccer.
For the past five weekends, we've approached the soccer fields with the same enthusiasm as someone facing a root canal. We knew the next hour would involve a symphony of tears from every child forced into this cruel and unusual form of “fun.” Picture it: tiny humans in oversized T-shirts and ill-fitting cleats, clinging to their parents as if their very lives depended on it. Bribes of ice cream sundaes, zoo trips, or even a new puppy? Useless. Instead, they flop to the ground like overcooked spaghetti, refusing to budge.
I couldn’t help but chuckle when I saw a group of desperate parents dash onto the field, kicking the soccer ball between them in a last-ditch effort to show their kids how fun this sport could be. One particularly zealous mom made a break for the peewee goal, clearly reliving some unfulfilled high school glory. She wound up for a killer kick, only to miss the ball entirely, launch herself into the air, and land flat on her booty. Thump! Not quite the inspiration she was hoping for. But don’t worry - her son missed the whole thing because he was too busy chasing a grasshopper in the opposite direction.
And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: the team photo. Halfway through the season, an overly enthusiastic photographer will try to wrangle these pint-sized athletes for a keepsake photo. What you’ll end up with is a wildly overpriced picture featuring all seven team members - three turned around, two crying, one knuckle-deep in his nose, and one MIA (my son), who was off crying in the corner because his shin guards were too tight.
They tell me youth sports are great. They build character, teach teamwork, and forge friendships. But at 4 years old, the kids just aren’t into it. Consider this a friendly heads-up: save yourself the frustrating car ride home and maybe give your little one another year (or five) to gain some independence. I’ve seen the bewildered looks on these kids' faces as they try to grasp the concept of not using their hands and being told, “Run THAT way… no, the OTHER way!” I’ve shelled out the $200 in fees, endured the weekly meltdowns, and yes, that was my son with his hands down his shorts, blissfully ignoring the game.
Photography credit: Jeremy Padgett
