“Call a foul on him,” I tell the official, frustrated with the unsporting behavior of my own player, and I stop for a moment to consider whether I’d be as harsh if that player were not also my son, Evan.
“I just thought their legs got tangled up,” he tells me.
“No,” I say, “he totally tripped him. He’s been playing rough most of the quarter.” I drop my hands to my sides. “It’s OK,” I continue. “He’s my son. I’m probably overreacting.”
And the coach of the other team says, “Yeah, let’s just continue.”
Moments later he tells his own player, who’s been taking part in the continuing on-field melee, “Why don’t you jump in goal? OK, Bud?”
These are the two best six-year-olds on the field, and we shake our heads at each other.
I remember our first practice this season. Evan had a question, and he began, “Dad…”
“What do you call me on the field?” I asked.
“Coach Paul,” he sighed.
Now, I am wondering whether I can keep the same separation I expect of him, and I have 33 years on him.
The skirmish began when the other player, a strong sandy-brown haired boy about Evan’s height accidentally knocked Evan down while going for the ball in our end of the field. I think it was a fair play. He came from behind slightly, and it could have conceivably resulted in a kick in an older division, but there was nothing malicious in the maneuver.
Evan hurt his elbow when he hit the ground. He bounced back up, crying and cradling his arm.
He wore a scowl that could frighten Viking hordes.
When he recovered his wits enough to get back in play, he stormed the field with unmistakable anger. He went right for the other player, grabbed his shirt instead of going for the ball, and held nothing back throwing his legs out to try to knock him down.
Not surprisingly, his similarly strong and agressive six-year-old opponent brought the same style of play to the field when Evan had possession. I honestly can’t say I blame him.
Evan and I had a few words. I was calm, but ready to send him off the field.
He was contumacious.
Rough play continued until the moment this coach asked the ref to call foul on his own player.
At the end of the game, we lined up for handshakes, and Evan’s brow was still furrowed deep, like alpine ridges across his forehead. He shook, but I could hear insolence and sarcasm in his “Good game.”
I pulled Evan aside when the other kids ran for snacks and juice. “You can go apologize for your unsporting behavior on the field, Evan, or you can lose privileges for the rest of the week.”
“But he tripped me,” he started.
“That,” I reminded him, beginning a mini-lecture, “was an accident, and regardless, your behavior was uncalled for. That’s not how we play soccer. You are a great player, and I’m not going to be proud if you screw it up by being a bad sport on the field and a Bozo. Get over there and apologize.”
He sulked over to the side of the field, where the other boy was enjoying his juice.
I watched from a distance.
He looked at the ground, but I could tell he was apologizing. They shook hands.
I was proud in spite of my frustration, but I wondered whether it was he or I learning the bigger lesson.