Taking in autumn’s spectacles
Magically, the air cools a little and the sun slides slightly to the farther edges of the sky. Coffee tastes good again. The bedsheets feel crisper. Birds are singing college fight songs.
Meanwhile, the trees in the frontyard look like the robes of God, fluttering in the morning light with ream after ream of snow-white double-ply. That’s right, in honor of the new school year, we’ve been toilet-papered again. Or, in the vernacular of Today’s Youth, “TP’d.”
I never mind being TP’d, since Today’s Youth seems to favor a better brand of tissue than we usually buy. I figure that if you’re going to cut back on the budget, paper products are the first thing you target. Then hair care, food, oil changes, premium cable packages and beer.
“Hey, there’s a whole roll of Charmin in the bushes,” I tell my wife excitedly.
“Lucky us,” she says.
“I find Charmin almost squeezably soft,” I remind her.
“Dad?” says the little girl.
“Yes?”
“Stay out of the bushes, OK?”
They now call first, you know. The toilet paper throwers, I mean. They call first to make sure it is cool with the parents if they come in the middle of the night to hurl the TP high up into the oaks and magnolias, blistering them with debris till Christmas.
“Hello, Mrs. Erskine?”
“Yes?”
“This is Amanda.”
“Hello, Amanda.”
“We were wondering . . . would it be OK to come trash your house tonight?”
Or words to that effect. I didn’t take the call, my wife did. The point is that the TP tossers call one of the parents first for clearance. Today’s Youth are almost too dutiful, mothered beyond all reason. Lord knows what Tomorrow’s Youth will be like, probably fully automated. Apple iKids. Get ‘em while you can.
Till then, we have the new school year to deal with and a brand spanking new soccer team to develop. On the soccer front, the parents have been excellent, I can’t say enough. A couple volunteered to referee the games, which they later discovered requires them to attend a five-hour referee class. Jeeesh, two more hours and they could have had their master’s degrees.
Anyway, the kids have been great too. As their first coach, I feel obligated to make it a positive experience. For instance, this year, we’re giving out scholarships and sports cars. We’re hoping for a bowl appearance, maybe a trip to Hawaii. If there’s any sort of inquiry, I’ll just blame it on our overactive booster club.
“At the games, please don’t run up and down the sidelines with your child,” I tell the moms and dads at our parents meeting. “It’s really bush league to run up and down the sidelines.”
They all nod, seemingly aware of the need to let the little Fireballs figure things out for themselves.
“Oh, and if the other team scores, be sure to clap,” I add.
Notice I said “if.” We plan to stress winning at all costs at this level. There will be roster cuts. We will make whatever trades are necessary. They are 4 and 5 years old, and I think it’s time for them to step up and perform.
Sure enough, at our first practice, the players show incredible promise. In most cases, they tend to swarm the ball in what is often derided as a “beehive.”
This year, we have decided to embrace the beehive. It seems the natural order of things, among 4- and 5-year-old boys. Why fight instinct? Why fight camaraderie? We’ll teach them field strategy when they’re older and more mature. Like, 6.
“Guys, we never ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever take the ball away from our own teammate, OK?” I tell them one day during one of our frequent water breaks. “Never ever.”
“OK, Coach,” one of them responds.
“Duh,” says another.
“OK, Coach,” adds a third.
They look proudly around at each other -- their first team, their first practice, their first step toward an eventual World Cup appearance. If all goes well, they will remain together for 20 years, meeting Brazil or Italy in the finals.
“Remember that out here, we don’t worry about anything,” I explain. “We just play and leave the worrying to the parents.”
They really like this sentiment. Their smiles brighten. Their eyes get bluer. Some of them aren’t even clear what worrying really is. But they understand that it’s not a good thing. They’re happy to leave worrying to the moms, whatever it is.
“Any questions?” I ask.
“Coach?” says the little guy, looking at me with his mother’s eyes.
“Yes?”
“I love you,” he says.
This makes for a quiet moment among the Fireballs, as we all pause to reflect on the things we love. Mothers. Hannah Montana. Really bad pizza that stays in your stomach for weeks and weeks.
“Is he your son?” one of his teammates finally asks.
Duh.
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Next week: The Fireballs’ first game.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.
