>Bruiser’s Gold Standard

>Tens of you have been waiting for this moment, and it has finally arrived…

Wednesday afternoon, 3-year-old Bruiser attended his very first SOCCER PRACTICE!!

Only longtime Suburban Turmoil readers can understand the importance of this occasion to the Ferrier family. With a husband who’s coached a few dozen teams over the years and three girls who’ve all played soccer at one time or another, the sport and its surrounding drama have provided copious amounts of blog (and column!) fodder here for years. Years, people!

And you’ll be happy to know that yesterday was no exception.

We tried to play it cool, but it was a pretty big deal that our only Ferrier boy was about to undergo his very first physical test of his supposed Alpha Male status soccer practice. Things got off to a not-so-good start, though, when the boy promptly fell asleep on our way there. That almost guaranteed trouble. Bruiser doesn’t often nap anymore, but when he does, he likes to have a good 45 minutes of “quiet time” afterward in order to slowly reacquaint himself with the world. Soccer practice ensured that wasn’t going to happen.

Still, I made the best of it, gently waking my son when we arrived at the coach’s house and carrying his befuddled self into the backyard. There, I was confronted with the disturbing sight of four other moms, all holding babies that ranged in age from a few months to a year old.

“Why was that so disturbing about that?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Hubs last night.

“Nobody puts their second child in soccer at the age of three,” I said. “It’s reserved purely for overachieving parents who are determined to have their first child participate in everything under the sun. By the time number two rolls around, they know better.”

Hubs nodded sagely. “That’s true,” he said. “Mark’s son isn’t in soccer this year, but his daughter was at three. Same thing with Steve’s kids.”

“Smart parents know that three is too young for soccer,” I mused, remembering Punky’s team at that age. It was full of tears and tantrums and flower picking and imaginary games on the field that had absolutely nothing to do with kicking the ball. Hubs used to complain that coaching a team of three-year-olds was essentially babysitting eight kids for thirty minutes a week.

“Whatever,” I said after a moment. “We’re doing it for us.” It was true; Bruiser could have fun with friends under far cheaper circumstances, but where else could I get adorable pictures of my tiny son running around on a soccer field in a team jersey? I like to think of three-year-old soccer as one long and very expensive photo session.

But I digress.

The other mothers clutched their babies and watched with anxious intensity as their sons lined up to kick the ball into a very small goal in the coach’s backyard. Had we been on a field, Bruiser more than likely would have participated after taking a few minutes to get his bearings. But we weren’t on a field. We were in a backyard.

A backyard with a very large playset.

“PLAYSET!!!!” Bruiser shouted, making a beeline for it. I followed wearily behind as he nimbly scaled the climbing wall and assessed his surroundings from the upper deck.

“Bruiser,” the coach called. “Want to play soccer with us?”

“NO,” Bruiser said, sticking out his lower lip and turning his back on the team. “I play on the playset!” In addition to my son, a couple of other boys were more interested in the playset than the practice and their mothers stood nervously around, cajoling them to join the team, but I opted to let Bruiser play for a few minutes; To be honest, if I’d been him, I would have chosen the playset, too.

After a few minutes though, I decided enough was enough.

“Look, Bruiser, this is actually a soccer practice,” I told him. “So if you don’t want to practice with the boys, we need to go.”

“NOOOOO!” he roared.

“Well, if you want to stay,” I reasoned, “You need to kick the ball into the goal.”

Bruiser thought for a moment. “I do one kick,” he said finally, holding up a chubby finger. “One.”

“Okay,” I agreed. He climbed down, ran over to the goal, got in line, and kicked the ball in.

“I DO IT!!” he yelled gleefully, running to me for a hug and then returning to the playset. The rest of the practice followed the same pattern of bribery:

1. Bruiser played on the playset.
2. I bribed him.
3. Bruiser kicked the ball into the goal.
4. Bruiser returned to the playset.

I got at least 15 kicks into that practice, using such standby bribes as, “I’ll catch you at the end of the slide if you kick the ball into the goal!” and “I won’t push you on the swing unless you kick the ball into the goal!” and “Hey, Daddy told me he doesn’t think you can kick the ball into the goal.”

By the end of practice, both of us were sweaty and exhausted.

We got in the car and headed home. Bruiser was quiet for a few minutes, then suddenly he piped up from the back.

“I want my gold, Mommy.”

“Yeah,” I said absentmindedly.

“I WANT it!” he insisted. I WANT my gold!”

“You want your gold?” I asked. “I don’t have any gold.”

“From the soccer team!” he said. “I want my gold from the soccer team, Mommy! Give me my gold!”

My brow wrinkled in confusion. What on earth was the kid talking about? Was this the first sign of a heat stroke?

Then it dawned on me. Each time I’d instructed Bruiser to get a goal, he apparently thought he was earning… GOLD.

“I WANT MY GOLD!!!” he shouted the rest of the way home. “I WANT MY SOCCER TEAM GOLD!”

Poor guy.

After this experience, I’m a little nervous about how this season’s going to go. For now, Bruiser is insisting on wearing his soccer jersey every single day so that everyone will know “I on a team!”

I’m also thinking of buying a bag of plastic pirate coins so that I have some gold to give him each time he scores. I’m sure the other parents will be appalled by my tactics, but we’re Ferriers and we’ve been around the field more than a few times.

We do what we’ve gotta do.