It's game night, and the Pinecrest Wolverettes are getting ready.
The Wolverettes are my daughter's soccer team. They're all 4 years old, and they're all girls. They've been practicing under their coach, Coach Susanna. They're learning the fundamentals of soccer, which are:
1) You're supposed to kick the ball.
2) You're not supposed to pick up the ball.
3) Even if you really, really want to pick up the ball, you're not supposed to.
4) If you have to go potty, try to wait for a water break instead of just trotting off the field.
5) It can be hard to remember this sometimes, but don't pick up the ball, okay?
The practices have been grueling. There's a lot of physical contact, in the form of hugging. The Wolverettes hug when they first see one another, of course. But they also hug whenever they re-encounter one another after an absence of more than 30 seconds, or when any player achieves something outstanding on the athletic front, such as making direct physical contact with the ball using her foot. So there are hugs going on all over the place all the time, often with three or four Wolverettes clumping together and reaching a critical mass of affection that falls to the ground, emitting squeals of joy. Fortunately, they are all wearing shinguards.
But tonight is not practice: Tonight is an actual game, and I can feel the tension mounting in the car as I drive to the soccer field with three Wolverettes in the back seat. Over the sound of the CD player, I hear them talking game strategy, in their little helium voices:
"There's another team, and when they run with the ball, you have to run and kick the ball away from them."
"But not with your hands."
"But you can kick it with your knees."
"Nuh-UH."
"Uh-HUH."
