Soccer Ends With a Goal and a Whimper

The parents are tired. They show up for these midwinter soccer games with their lawn chairs and their coolers and their bags of sliced oranges, wondering when it will all end, this soccer, the game that has won the hearts and the weekends of America’s moms and dads.

“Who has the oranges?” someone asks, and from a cooler come the oranges.

“Who has the drinks?” someone asks, and from another cooler come the juice drinks.

There is no quit in these parents. Like most nomadic tribes, they slow but never stop, trudging on even under the most difficult circumstances, such as a Sunday soccer game in February. On Valentine’s, no less.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I say, as the parents show up for the game.

Amazingly, no one reacts with an obscene gesture.

“Are they OK?” my wife whispers.

“They’re just a little tired,” I say, as the parents collapse into their lawn chairs.

“I hope they’re OK,” she says, still worried.

“It’s been a long season,” I say.

*

Since August, we have been at it. Like the NHL, we play forever, first in a regular season, now in all-stars--an extra two months of soccer for the truly committed.

“I have great news,” I told each parent by phone in mid-December.

“What?” the parents answered excitedly.

“Your daughter made my all-star team,” I said.

“Oh,” the parent said, followed by a long silence.

“Pretty exciting, huh?” I said.

“Oh,” the parent said, followed by another long silence.

But, of course, they all said yes to all-stars. Because everybody says yes to all-stars.

Who turns down a chance to play with the best?

Who turns down a chance to eat sliced oranges at halftime and get real sticky? To wipe their sticky hands on their moms’ sleeves, then dart onto the open field on a gray January day and perform cartwheels while everybody waits for the game to begin.

No one, that’s who.

*

“Maybe we shouldn’t do all-stars anymore,” my wife said after a recent marathon weekend.

“Why not?” I ask.

“She’s getting too sticky,” my wife said. “Eventually, she won’t come clean at all.”

It’s a legitimate concern. Soccer is full of horror stories like these, stories of kids who ate so many oranges or spilled so much apple juice that their fingers clumped together and they couldn’t hold a pencil or even type their names, eventually relegated to a life of menial tasks, such as politics.

“But she’s having fun,” I said, certain that this fine game is worth all the risks.

“The season’s maybe a little long,” my wife says.

“It’s only seven months,” I say.

“Seven months?” she asks.

“Seven months,” I say.

Once, there were weekends. They were long glorious periods at the end of each week--not holidays exactly--but, yeah, holidays is what they were.

Each Friday night, moms would dig out the ice bucket and dads would dig out the Dean Martin records, and they’d toast the weekend, a sweet couple of days devoted to doing almost nothing. And they did it well, these moms and dads. They did it with style.

Then along came soccer, a fad that exploded in the ‘70s, then never died down--a great game, but a game with no discernible off-season. Here in Southern California, the endless summer quickly became the endless fall.

“Maybe she needs time to be a kid,” my wife says, suddenly getting all parental.

“She’s already a kid,” I say.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “There’s no free time. It’s always soccer or softball or Indian Princesses or something. There’s no free time.”

“You forgot Brownies and jump rope club,” I say.

“That too,” she says.

Free time. It’s not such an awful concept. With a little free time, a kid might fly a kite or read a comic book. Or call a grandpa or decorate the dog.

After awhile, this free time might catch on. Then there’d be other kids with free time, and bands of children would roam the neighborhood, finding things to do on their own.

Then parents would have free time too. Bands of parents would roam the neighborhood, finding things to do on their own. Somewhere, a mom might dig out an ice bucket. And before you knew it, the weekends would be back.

But not today. Today we have a game. The final game. The team in blue and white is playing the team in black and red. As always, it is a mighty battle.

Along the sidelines, a couple of coaches snarl at each other. Down the way, the parents sit and wait, looking at their watches and wondering if it’ll all ever end.

Finally, a whistle blows and it does all end. Final score: 2-1. Game. Set. Season.

“Great season, folks,” I say as the parents pack up to go.

“That’s it?” one of the players asks.

“That’s it,” I say.

“Oh,” one of them says, looking out at the field, probably wishing for one more week, or one more month, just a little more soccer and a few more treats.

“This season seems short,” the little red-haired girl says.

“Yeah, seems short,” her little friend says.

“Have another orange,” I say.

And off into the February afternoon they go.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.