Well, we’ve come to that moment. We have reached the end of one era and the beginning of another. Days gone by, relegated to our memories, to be recalled fondly while sitting around a fire, burning the hell out of a marshmallow, in a hideous attempt to squeeze it between two graham crackers and a piece of Hershey’s chocolate and call it smores. Seriously, does anyone make those things without turning them to a inedible molten lava mess?
No matter. It’s gone, all gone now.
We signed Frank up for AYSO Soccer.
No turning back now. First it’s soccer, then basketball, then baseball….
The lazy days of hanging in the backyard, hitting golf balls at Frank as he dodges them in his motorized tractor, are just about gone. For those of you that have been to one, we call the game, Driving Range. It’s just like at a real driving range where the guy drives out on the range with a tractor to scoop up all the balls and the people practicing spontaneously take aim at him. Same thing here.
Frank drives his John Deer dump truck around the yard and I hit balls at him trying to get them to land in the truck bed. He laughs himself silly and it’s great practice for me. If I manage to land one in the truck bed, I do my victory dance and Frank reaches back to get the ball, while still driving, and throws it out of the truck with a snarl and as much distain on his face as he can possibly muster. As much as we play this, I should be better at golf than I am.
Anyway, once we start down the road of organized sports, forever will it dominate our path. Driving Range will be replaced by actual driving, to and fro, hither and yon, here, there and everywhere.
It was inevitable I guess. Just like pre-school. I was wrong about that, Frank loved it and it was great for him. I’m assuming the same will apply for soccer and what ever else he gets into.
That AYSO is some serious business. The online registration form was no walk in the park. I’ve filled out applications for security clearances that were less involved then that AYSO form. It’s not exactly the most user friendly site either.
After about 2 hours of struggling, cussing, and not being able to print the form, I grabbed up Frank and we went to the registration joint with check book in hand, but no form. The entire drive I was steeling myself for the inevitable confrontation with the rules happy folks who must run this para-military organization. My frustration with the inability to print the form was compounded by the fact not one sign directed us to the building we needed once we entered the park. After turning around for the fourth time, suppressing several F-Bombs, I get this from the back seat: “Daddy, hahaha, you missed 11 roads already, hahahaha.”
I am now ready to throw down with the first senior citizen volunteer who tells me I need the printed form from the web site.
Turns out that was a big build up for nothing. A dude comes up to me and I start in on my tale of woe. He says, “If you were able to submit the form on the site but just can’t print it, no worries. Give your money to the girl there, get your uniforms from the table there.”
Alrighty then. So the girl taking the money was 20, maybe. The lady running the uniform table was 35, maybe. The dude greeting us when we walked up was 40, maybe 43. In other words I was the oldest person in the entire park, by years.
In the end it took all of 6 minutes to drop a check, get tiny tim his pint sized soccer uniform, and think up some pretty lame excuses why I couldn’t volunteer to coach Frank’s team for an hour each Saturday.
Of course Frank is ecstatic. The socks are his favorite part of the uniform. He was able to “ice skate” on our wood floors all day long.
All and all Frank’s organized athletic career is off to blazing start.
As for me, well at least eight weeks of four year olds playing soccer should yield a few blog posts.
I’m going to miss playing Driving Range.