My Uncle (my dad's closest brother) once said that I was like the son my father always wanted (we were discussing hockey at the time). In fact, my mother claims to have seen a psychic (as a lark of course) long before marrying my father. She was told she would be married, have two children, the first a girl (correct) the second a boy (incorrect). The lady also informed her that her second child, would “write the book on stubborn” (correct, or at least it’s in the works).
This is indeed funny to other people, especially when I add, that any time I get my blood work done, I am told that I have abnormally high levels of testosterone. This explains my loud voice perhaps, but it explains nothing else. If I am suppose to be like “a dude” (here's where I include stereotypes I feel are gender bias) then why I am not the “tomboy” girl. Wheres the high level of competitiveness? Ability? Performance?!
I am a good example, of why gender stereotypes don't fit (we all are if we look close enough). If you met me, you may expect that my love of the Chicago Blackhawks and the NHL are connected to a pair of skates and and all woman’s league somewhere. Negative. I watched it with my father growing up and still do, love hockey. The missing link; I cannot skate. I can't. I've tried, other parents sought me out as a child to prove that I could be taught, but no one could teach me, because plain and simple I can't skate (Too add: I can't roller-skate, roller-blade or downhill ski either). At my level of clumsiness, why add wheels or blades to my feet when I have enough issues with them on their own. I don't even wear heals unless made too (see: always a bridesmaid, never a bride).
I am not an athlete, but my sister and I shared the joy and pleasure (note sarcasm), of my father pushing us in sports in a very intense manner. I enjoy that he saw no gender differential there, but I secretly wonder how it would have been had I turned out to be a boy (I shutter at the thought).
My parents had my sister and I involved in the arts, and we excelled. School was not an issue for either of us (ahem, especially not the Doctor) and we loved being a part of activities. My parents knew that we were both slightly challenged in the ways of sports, and thought it a good idea to en-roll us both in soccer while we were little.
We both started young, both remaining in house league, never moving up into the competitive world. My dad was at every game we ever played. He was devoted, even coached my team one year.
When I played soccer, I had a lot of fun. There was so many people to socialize with, especially when you played other teams. New friends to talk to out on the field which was full of dandelions to pick. It was outside, there was fresh air, and halfway through the game, you got orange slices.
That is how I saw the game of soccer in the beginning. I loved it (if that's how it really was, I would still play). My mom tells me I once asked her on the way home what the score was, and followed that up by asking which team won (that's how competitive I'm not). My dad, being the star athlete sport nut that he is, saw this as a major problem.
The at home coaching began, along with some impressive parent bribery. I enjoyed kicking the ball around at home, my mom not so much when I did it inside, with my dad. I did not however, enjoy the series of obstacle courses and drills we ran out in the yard.
The bribe was simple, if I touched the ball once a game, I got to hit up a blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way home, and so suddenly, I became interested. As the time passed, I improved slightly in the game, and started to enjoy actually playing. I still made friends with the other team.
I always played a defensive position, I liked it. I like to defend rather than attack, in life and in soccer. The years in that spot however at that time (for both my sister and I), meant no goals scored. Not one. I knew my dad wanted to see it happen, because he reminded me on a daily basis.
At games, he yelled. It was supportive, it was loud, it was things like “get in there LB!!” or “Knock em dead number 5!” or “LB! Pay attention!”. The other parents all knew him by holler, and often he would be yelling these things at me as the ball was in the other end of the field. I was as far up as I could go and waiting. Nothing like getting yelled at to get in there when you are standing alone, no where near any action.
My sister started yelling back at him eventually, a vision I enjoy reliving, as her teenage attitude shot out with “Leave me ALONE dad!”
There was a game I played, about eight years into my soccer career when something happened, not sure what, probably someone ran into me or hurt one of my teammates, either way I got mad. Once I got mad, I magically improved. I was all over the game and it was as if all the drills over the years finally kicked in full force.
Nor went nuts. He high fived me so many times my hand hurt after the game, and was literally beaming on the way home as he have me a sports centre recap of my performance. “That's it,” he said to me, “you just need to get mad.”
That's when the conditioning began. On the way to any soccer game henceforth, my father decided he needed to get me mad for the game. That's right, beautiful summer evenings, windows down in the car heading to a friendly soccer game, and my dad would pull stunts to piss me off.
My game certainly improved, but sitting in the car getting tapped in the arm repeatedly and being told to “get in there today, get tough, get mad” was annoying.
It was perfect for him if I had a fight with anyone that week, he could bring it up an rehash it to get me angry and upset again, good parenting all round. My dad will stand by his choices, and he will tell you it's because this got results.
My game improved, and my blood pressure increased as this phase of my soccer life occurred. I decided it was time to give something back, I knew my dad just wanted to see me score a goal, just once. He thought it would make me proud and knew sports help build character (or whatever bullshit the gym teacher always use to say) so he did all he could (again, the man is crazy, so his methods for results match the thought process).
It was around the age of fifteen, and nearing the end of a tolerance for soccer in the summer. It had been over a decade and I had given it my all, besides, I wanted to start smoking cigarettes and staying out past curfew by this time, not playing soccer.
I knew deep down it was likely my last season (and indeed it was). I wanted to score that goal, my sister was done playing by now and I was the last hope. At this time movies with super happy amazing turn around endings were popular, so I assumed I could make one happen.
On my own, I approached my coach and requested I be able to start playing a half position; I will never be a forward, I can live with that. He agreed, and my father was delighted. The games that followed had nothing but close calls, and the chance I might actually score become possible.
If you have ever seen the movie Parenthood (if not do so) there is a scene where Steve Martin's son finally catches a fly ball in baseball after much effort and practice. Steve Martin then does a victory dance like no other, leaping, rolling, and dancing across the diamond. It's hilarious, its wonderful and my father had always promised that if I scored a goal, he would recant this scene, across the soccer field. It was almost more incentive that the earlier attempt with ice cream.
It was hot July day back in the 1990's, and my family and I went to a BBQ at a family friend's house. It was a game night, and after dinner my mom stayed back to help clean up and my dad came with me to watch the game.
The park was a short walk down the road and I was feeling extra powerful that day. My dad nudged me the entire walk to get me “into the game”. I felt it would be a game like any other game I had played, but I still knew I wanted to try my best.
The game was moving on, my dad was yelling as usual, and I was on fire. It was the second half of the game, and by some miracle I found myself standing ready and open at the goal, while a forward made her way with the ball. She kicked it to me, and I knew this was it, just had to boot it in as the goal was wide open. This was it, it was my time.
The ball came racing across, I propelled my foot forward, and by some glorious miracle, the ball went straight in. I scored. In my mind I yelled it, I SCORED! With no waiting I turned around to the onlookers in lawn chairs, and my eyes dashed around looking for a man about to make a scene.
I couldn’t see him, my eyes dashed through the parents looking for him. I thought he would pop out at any minute with mad dancing and cheering, but nothing. As I looked closer, I could see the looks on the parents sitting watching, it was like someone had died.
That's when I heard someone yell, “he just left to use bathroom two minutes ago.”
Oh holy no. The referee then approached me to get my name (which was misspelled in the paper may I add) and it was official, my dad missed it. He had attended every single moment of my soccer career, he missed ten minutes, one time to take a piss. In that time, I scored, he missed it.
When my dad returned he said the parents started crying out that he missed my goal, and he assumed they were playing a joke. After he realized that they were in fact serious, I know his heart broke. There was no victory dance, he stood there with grief, and watched the rest of the game in hopes I would score again.
I didn't. He attended every moment of my soccer games for the rest of my final season, and I waited for another goal. I never scored again.
Never did I get to see my father dance across a field like a lunatic, but in retrospect, he may have used all his lunacy rantings up over the years of screaming encouragement.
I am blessed with a dad who is dedicated to me, and the things I do (just more so when it's sports related). No matter what, he never gave up on me, no matter how many times I physically indicated I am not an athlete. But he stuck with me and never stopped getting me to try. Turns out he may be a maniac who's on to something, after all, I DID SCORE.
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