It’s the coach who scores

In tough times, the holidays take on even more resonance and texture. Friends come together. Family moves to the forefront. As if that’s ever the answer.

“What do you want for Christmas, Dad?” someone asks.

“Government cheese,” I say.

Or a good Syrah. In the darker days of late autumn, I trend toward the heavier, more muscled red wines. Or a bold eggnog, rimmed with rum. Posh brought home a super-thick eggnog the other day, creamy as a first kiss. We’re dating now, me and the eggnog.

“Dad sure likes that eggnog,” the little girl chirps.

“It’s good he found a friend,” says the boy.

We’re in transition now, from autumn to winter, a season that suits my bubbly personality. My brain begins to work like holiday Champagne, little bubbles constantly rising to the top. Where do they come from, these bubbles? Where do they go? To me, they are like a glimpse at infinity.

Yep, we’re in transition. We finished up the soccer season the other day, a sport that has taken over Thanksgiving weekend even as we speak. I have a niece traveling from Illinois to Florida this weekend for one of the many tournaments across the country. I’m not sure how many Thanksgiving weekends we’ve lost to the sport. But it’s a good sport. I’m pretty sure the Pilgrims played it. The conversation went something like this:

Miles Standish: You’re kidding, right? A 7 a.m. game?

Posh Standish: In Riverside. We’ve got snacks.

Miles Standish: Isn’t this why we left England?

Anyway, we had our year-end party last weekend, which put a cork in our season in the nick of time. Recently, the cool evening practices had turned dark and biblical. You could tell the moms had places they’d rather be (Monte Carlo?).

It’s a tough time to be a mom, and by “time” I mean the last 2,000 years. One mom always showed up like a Sherpa of children, one kid in a belly sling, a toddler clinging to her sleeve. The oldest was 5, which isn’t very old for the oldest of three kids. Still, she let him drive.

I marvel at the mothers’ resilience, their brio, their humor. They are facing the longest five weeks of the year, and they traipse here and there, without a word of complaint. I think the drop in gas prices has given them all hope.

“Turn on your ears,” I tell the team as we prepare to hand out the trophies at the team party. The pizza place is overrun with kids and parents and pizza. They’ve set up extra tables to handle it all. None of the windows open and the AC never goes on. The place smells vaguely of hamsters.

During the trophy presentation, I repeat, “Turn on your ears,” which is how we began every practice this year, with the 5-year-olds twisting their ears into the “on” position.

It is part of my AYSO Pyramid of Success, based on the John Wooden model. In my Pyramid of Success, you must listen to and respect your elders, no matter how much they prattle on.

It’s a bittersweet moment for me, this team party. For 12 weeks, we have been a team, a tribe, a family. In the blight and sprawl of an endless L.A., this team has given us camaraderie and comfort, a sliver of small-town life.

And I must confess, I fell a little bit in love with them, these kids with their goofy smiles, their missing teeth, their endless, ridiculous questions.

“Guess how much baloney I can eat?” Johnny asked recently.

“A lot?”

“A thousand,” Johnny said.

That makes no sense, but I laughed anyway. I find laughter a great way to deflect my general lack of understanding of things. At work, I laugh all day.

“Look how green my tongue is,” said my own son, who stuck out his tongue, which was about 3 feet long and lollipop green. He’s got his mother’s tongue. And her way with money.

“OK, Chargers, listen up,” I tell the team, and then go on to confess my affection for them and their parents, who have been more supportive than you could ever dream. Sure, there was some grumbling when I scolded them at midseason for being chronically late, but other than that, they were a chipper group. The best of the best.

The whole party is a miracle, really. In an hour, we are out of there, the perfect length for any youth team celebration. Another cornerstone of my AYSO Pyramid of Success is not to spend more than an hour in a screamy, stuffy pizza emporium.

And I watch them walk away for the last time, these little Chargers -- drunk on frosting, half of them with their shoes untied -- clutching their little plastic trophies as if they’d all just won Oscars.

Those aren’t Oscars, boys. You’re the Oscars. My little glimpses of infinity.

--

For more “Man of the House” columns, go to latimes.com/erskine.

chris.erskine@latimes.com