(Sharon continues her Notes from the Playground series)
The official start of fall may have been last week but now it feels like the real deal. A little rain here and there, mixed in with crisp blue bird days that feel refreshing yet cozy at the same time. Fall is my favorite season in Seattle. I love going on evening walks, hearing the sound of autumn leaves crunching beneath my feet as I savor a hot cup of coffee and watch the kids run around the park. The days may be shorter both in time and sunshine, but it’s nice somehow, settling into the evenings – cooking up hearty soups and pastas, drinking yummy wine, playing board games with the kiddos, getting immersed in a good book.
Among the best of the season is watching the little kids play soccer on Saturday mornings at the park. Several years ago, before we had kids, we stumbled upon the kid soccer scene at the playfield after a particularly early Saturday morning breakfast (early for non-parents = super sleeping-in nowadays). We were wandering home leisurely, walking off egg scrambles, bacon and pancakes when we heard a symphony of exuberant shouts. There on the playfield were scores of kids, all suited up in soccer jerseys, knee high socks and cleats. Several games were going on simultaneously with children spanning several elementary school grades. The littlest ones moved like bees, flowing as one huddled mass, chasing after the ball. The older kids had coordinated foot movement – they dribbled, passed, ran with purpose.
Everyone seemed in good spirits – the kids playing, the other ones waiting for their games to begin, the younger siblings who were either pushing balls along the sidelines or just running for the pure joy of it, the coaches who were clearly there for the love of the game, the kids, or both, and the parents who were simultaneously watching their kids and catching up with other parents. Even Shawn Kemp was there, cheering on his daughter. It was a classic Northwest scene, not so different than the ones from our own memories – my husband and I. We both grew up in the Portland area, where playing soccer as a kid was as natural as rain. I remember how fun it was to slide in the mud, have orange wedges at half-time and go for pizza at the end of the season. I can still picture my friend Jenny’s dad, who volunteered as a line judge, standing on the sidelines in his huge orange slicker every game. We affectionately dubbed him the “great pumpkin.”
Watching those kids reminded me of when I first started playing. I was in the third grade and they didn’t have girl’s teams so I had to play with the boys. There were three of us girls – Jenny, Cara, and me – and we had a blast. None of our teammates or the parents seemed to notice or mind. I do recall playing this one team, though, where one of the dads (he happened to be the head coach), had a serious issue with it. At first, he refused to play us but when our coaches and the referee stood their ground he gave up and just jeered from the sidelines. Every time the ball came near one of the three of us, he’d yell at his players, “don’t let the girl beat you to it.” “Come on, she’s a girl for Christ’s sake, just push her down and make her cry.” We just ignored him and played hard, but the guys on our team really seemed unsettled by the ugliness and rallied around us. For the rest of the season, our team, the Choctaws, just gelled – we were closer in an indefinable, but palpable way. I can’t actually remember now if we won that game or not, but it was a pivotal day for me. It was the first time I really felt the power of community. It was tribal.
I stopped formally playing soccer junior year in high school, and junior varsity at that, but I still love the game. We share Sounders season tickets with some friends – it’s so much fun having professional soccer in town. We got to see Barcelona play at one of the friendly matches earlier this season, and man, there are no words. Their play is beyond anything I’ve ever seen and that Messi is pure genius. Still, watching those kids play that morning at Wallingford was another thing altogether. Their love of the game was infectious – even if it was just another excuse to run around, fall down in the grass and get dirty. It was so pure and free. Those kids were having a ball, and just by watching them, so were we.
P.S. Just a quick shout out to Greg Flood (and all the other park volunteers) that contributed heart, time and soul to make Wallingford Park the mecca it is today. A hearty round of thanks from all of us who love it!!!