Learning the difference between 10U soccer and the Vikings

I get into sports as a viewer. It's just who I am. But my daughter had some frustrated words of wisdom for me this week after one of her soccer games.

Photo by Frank Okay on Unsplash

The first time my wife watched me watch sports, she was a mixture of frightened, amused and appalled.

I was ranting and raving, yelling at the TV, probably telling whomever was the quarterback of the Vikings, the manager of the Twins or the streakiest shooter on the Timberwolves that they were doing it all wrong.

Get over there. Go! No! Yes! Look out! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

She watched me for a little while and then gently pointed out the obvious: “You know they can’t hear you, right?”

Well of course I know that. But that isn’t going to stop me from shouting at the television (and maybe hoping that secretly they can hear me).

This has continued for more than two decades. I’ve mellowed a little bit as the fates of sports teams have become more of a professional than personal concern and as grown-up things like building a family have occupied more of my time and energy than watching sports on TV.

But I still yell at the TV when I watch sports. Now it’s my wife and my kids who give me strange looks and remind me that the players on the screen can’t hear me.

It’s usually fine, and now we have a nice basement with a big TV where I can sequester myself and not bother anyone else.

But my kids are getting to the age where they are in an increasing number of activities and sports themselves.

Saturdays this fall have been devoted to soccer tripleheaders: Our youngest at 9 a.m., our oldest at 10:15 a.m. and our middle-est at 11:30 a.m. They all have an additional night of practice or a game during the week, but all on separate nights.

Those Saturdays are epic (and lately unusually hot). All the siblings generally attend each other’s games with varying degrees of interest (focused almost entirely on whether they will be invited to partake in the postgame snacks).

But this past Tuesday I had the rare occasion to take our 10-year-old to her game, just the two of us. We were able to arrive early, which is almost impossible when her younger siblings are along for the ride.

We didn’t have to bring the wagon overflowing with everyone’s stuff. Just her soccer ball, a water bottle and a single lawn chair (the best one).

She sprinted out to the field for warmups. I went to a spot in the center of the sidelines, unfolded my chair and locked in.

Her team was undefeated going into the game, and I genuinely enjoy watching the games. It’s a 10U in-house soccer league, far from the highest level of competition, but because she is our oldest this is the highest level of competition I have seen any of our kids participate in so far.

The game started, and it was clear it just wasn’t really their night. They were probably the more skilled team, but owing to a mixture of good teamwork from the opposing team and some unfortunate bounces they ended up losing by a goal.

After the game as we walked to the minivan, I tried to think of how I had felt after close but perhaps frustrating losses during my youth sports days.

She was lamenting a few of the bad breaks that had led to a couple of game-changing goals. I agreed with her, but I also gently suggested that the other team deserved credit, too. I said that maybe losing wasn’t such a bad thing as long as her team could learn from it.

She waited for a few seconds, then said this: “It also didn’t help that you were yelling so much.”

Wait, I was yelling?

I said it to myself, let it sink in for a little while, then said it to her.

“Yeah, my teammates kept asking me who ‘that guy’ was shouting out instructions. It was embarrassing,” she said.

Embarrassing?

I had to scan back over the last hour to remember what she might be talking about. If my daughter or a teammate made a good play, I would cheer.

All good there.

If something negative happened, I would implore her to stick with it.

No problems here.

A couple times the opposing team pushed deep into my daughter’s team’s territory and I yelled pretty loudly, “GET BACK!” And maybe a couple other times as my daughter’s team tried to get the tying goal late, I shouted for everyone to “PUSH FORWARD!”

Oh. Yeah, that was probably it. I am not one of the coaches of the team. I am just a parent on the sidelines watching 10U soccer. Even if I know the stakes and I tell myself not to be that dad, my sports watching instincts got the best of me in the moment.

As I figured this all out, I apologized to my daughter and promised to rein it in going forward. She was still pretty upset for the next 15 minutes or so, but her mood improved as she accepted my apology was able to parlay my guilt into an impromptu trip to Subway.

On Saturday, I got another chance (or, more accurately, three more with our tripleheader). I sat on my chair for her game, watching with interest and cheering her on — while also being very conscious of what she had said a few days ago.

Her team fell behind by a couple of goals early on, but they stuck together. My daughter played perhaps the best game I’ve seen her play, and her team rallied to win by a goal.

I told her afterward how much fun it was to watch her play and how proud I was for the way she competed. I checked in with her: I didn’t embarrass you today, right? She smiled and shook her head.

Baby steps.

And on Sunday, after running the kids around in the morning, I retreated to the basement for the Vikings/Packers game.

Nobody could hear me ranting and raving, which is probably for the best.