Spirituality and the Art of Preschool Soccer

When the baseball diamonds at the sports complex have grown their strong and thriving ant civilizations, you know it is time. Time to take to the grass and start kicking a soccer ball around. This hallmark season is our third one (as a family) for preschool soccer. I learn more each time I have a son go through the experience.
I learn things like:

When you go to practice, one of the first things you are taught is equipment care. You don't sit on the ball, even though at any given moment it might seem the most comfortable and therefore most logical thing to do. You know nothing about consequences like deflation yet, however you don't have to be smacked by a flat ball to learn, because you're still young and you trust your coach enough to do what he says. At least for as long as you can remember what he says...

And even though on some level you understand that the bright orange practice cone is for drills and skill building, you also know it makes a great mega-phone and--when put together with the ball--makes a nice imitation of a giant ice cream cone. Of course, you must display these discoveries for your teammates until the coach patiently comes and takes the cone away and puts it back on the ground. As soon as the coach turns to work with another player, you pick the cone up again.

You know that the ball is supposed to be kicked into the goal, but you also know that it is a lot more fun to go behind the goal and kick the ball so it rolls up the back of the net, arcing back at you...and many of your friends join you because they, too, believe this to be more fun than simply making goals.

While your team has a pow-wow with the coach, one player simply wanders off to socialize with another team practicing nearby. This teammate has not been launched as a spy; he just discovered that someone on that team has the same shin guards he has...and besides that team is not saying or doing anything worth a scout's attention anyway.

You discover to your amazement that it is possible to get kicked hard enough to bring tears; and even stranger, the kick is random and blameless and part of the game. No one was mad at you or out to hurt you, it just happened. So you learn to "shake it off."

And even with all that tortoise-paced advancement in readiness, you still somehow arrive at that first game day with your colors on. You manage to get through a real game; and even though you may not really know who won and who lost, you nevertheless know that you always shake hands with the guys in the other color at the end. Then, you get a pat on the head from the coach, and some mom gives you a really good snack.

And that's the end of that story...no moral. Because morals are for later...after a few more seasons...maybe when you're in the 9-10 year old leagues.