the visiting team selects which of their two jersey colors they’ll wear. Waddling around her kitchen, Darcy smacked her lips together like the dumpy Patriots dad, then licked her finger and held it in the air. Imitating his voice, she said, “ ‘The wind’s blowing this way, but the sun’s gonna be in their eyes if we stay on the south side.’ ” I laughed. “Then he looked at his watch, and I know he was trying to figure out how much the sun would move by halftime. It was a big debate among their parents while we all had to stand around with our chairs all folded up until they told us where we could sit.”
“They get to choose where the spectators sit, too?” I said, incredulous.
“We certainly don’t sit on the same side of the field,” she said.
A few weeks later, we got the call Rachel had been anticipating all winter. “Yes, Preston, of course I remember you,” I said, signaling Rachel that it was Him, with a capital H. She looked up from the notebook on our kitchen counter and dropped her pencil for dramatic effect. “Yes, Rachel is still very interested in trying out for the club.” By now Rachel was pacing around the room, frantically fanning herself with her hands, a gesture I’d seen Kelly do often. She was silent, not wanting Preston to think her uncool by squealing with delight, though that is exactly what I knew she would do after the phone receiver was back in its cradle and she’d triple-checked for a dial tone to make sure I’d absolutely disconnected. “Yes, Wednesday at four o’clock. Diablo Field. Uh-huh, sure, no problem. Cleats, shin guards, water,” I said. Rachel was now on her back, on the floor flailing her limbs like some sort of tribal dance worshipping the sky. Though in our case, it would be fluorescent lights.
As predicted, Rachel checked to see if the phone were really, truly hung up before jumping around the kitchen screaming in some foreign adolescent tongue.
When the big day arrived, I confess to feeling equal parts excitement and fear. This cocktail is called anxiety. We drove to Diablo Field where we saw hundreds of girls clustered into groups from age seven to seventeen. The field is elevated, so we had to climb a flight of stairs. The bright green Astroturf appeared to rise like the sun at daybreak. Though the sky was blue and the sun shone unobstructed by clouds, it wasn’t quite spring weather yet. The crisp air still made its way under jacket sleeves and kept younger siblings jumping in place to create warmth. The small children found each other within minutes and began playing their own form of soccer with a miniature ball.
Preston was surrounded by what looked like a meeting of the United Nations Security Council. It seemed like every nation on the globe was represented by a coach in blue Kix warm-ups. A matronly-looking woman named Francine beckoned the new arrivals, telling us that we needed to get the girls signed in for tryouts. Rachel and I followed her to a tent with three volunteers, all of whom looked like the ladies in Madge’s Diner from the old Palmolive commercials. One was in charge of taking Rachel’s birth certificate, another said she had paperwork for me to fill out, and the last slapped an envelope-sized sticker with the number 43 onto Rachel’s shorts. She was branded like a cow and dismissed while I filled out legal liability waivers and a “short” questionnaire about Rachel’s soccer experience. “Good luck!” I shouted to Rachel as she trotted off. She turned back, looking slightly embarrassed by my comment.
The questionnaire was four pages long, with multiple lines for me to fill out the names of camps, trainings and private coaches Rachel had worked with. Did the Purple Sparrows’ coach count? Somehow I thought not.
I flipped to the second page where I was asked to list all of the teams Rachel had played on, what bracket they competed in and their standing. Next, Kix wanted to know about the tournaments she’d
“They get to choose where the spectators sit, too?” I said, incredulous.
“We certainly don’t sit on the same side of the field,” she said.
A few weeks later, we got the call Rachel had been anticipating all winter. “Yes, Preston, of course I remember you,” I said, signaling Rachel that it was Him, with a capital H. She looked up from the notebook on our kitchen counter and dropped her pencil for dramatic effect. “Yes, Rachel is still very interested in trying out for the club.” By now Rachel was pacing around the room, frantically fanning herself with her hands, a gesture I’d seen Kelly do often. She was silent, not wanting Preston to think her uncool by squealing with delight, though that is exactly what I knew she would do after the phone receiver was back in its cradle and she’d triple-checked for a dial tone to make sure I’d absolutely disconnected. “Yes, Wednesday at four o’clock. Diablo Field. Uh-huh, sure, no problem. Cleats, shin guards, water,” I said. Rachel was now on her back, on the floor flailing her limbs like some sort of tribal dance worshipping the sky. Though in our case, it would be fluorescent lights.
As predicted, Rachel checked to see if the phone were really, truly hung up before jumping around the kitchen screaming in some foreign adolescent tongue.
When the big day arrived, I confess to feeling equal parts excitement and fear. This cocktail is called anxiety. We drove to Diablo Field where we saw hundreds of girls clustered into groups from age seven to seventeen. The field is elevated, so we had to climb a flight of stairs. The bright green Astroturf appeared to rise like the sun at daybreak. Though the sky was blue and the sun shone unobstructed by clouds, it wasn’t quite spring weather yet. The crisp air still made its way under jacket sleeves and kept younger siblings jumping in place to create warmth. The small children found each other within minutes and began playing their own form of soccer with a miniature ball.
Preston was surrounded by what looked like a meeting of the United Nations Security Council. It seemed like every nation on the globe was represented by a coach in blue Kix warm-ups. A matronly-looking woman named Francine beckoned the new arrivals, telling us that we needed to get the girls signed in for tryouts. Rachel and I followed her to a tent with three volunteers, all of whom looked like the ladies in Madge’s Diner from the old Palmolive commercials. One was in charge of taking Rachel’s birth certificate, another said she had paperwork for me to fill out, and the last slapped an envelope-sized sticker with the number 43 onto Rachel’s shorts. She was branded like a cow and dismissed while I filled out legal liability waivers and a “short” questionnaire about Rachel’s soccer experience. “Good luck!” I shouted to Rachel as she trotted off. She turned back, looking slightly embarrassed by my comment.
The questionnaire was four pages long, with multiple lines for me to fill out the names of camps, trainings and private coaches Rachel had worked with. Did the Purple Sparrows’ coach count? Somehow I thought not.
I flipped to the second page where I was asked to list all of the teams Rachel had played on, what bracket they competed in and their standing. Next, Kix wanted to know about the tournaments she’d
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