Last night I got totally sucked into youth football. Our youth organization, as poorly organized as it is, has managed to suck me in. This was our second set of games, and last week our games were in the morning. This week, the first game started at 5:00pm. The children and I showed up on the field, and I was feeling more optimistic about the performance of my little cheerleading team that I'm coaching because I knew what to expect for this game, and so we had practiced walking in a straight line, keeping our hands on our hips, turning and giving the parents and crowd some cheers, and all together, our cheerleading team of five and six year olds was in much better form than the first game. Our little three year old, well, she's three, so when she randomly starts crying I just have to go with it.
Because I've spent pretty much my entire life scorning cheerleading, I had no idea how challenging it actually is. I can't even believe I'm saying this, but it's a lot of freaking work. Especially when the cheerleaders really want to wiggle around, chitter-chatter amongst themselves, and their version of loud yelling is my version of a quiet talk. Maybe it's the coaching that's more difficult than I ever thought it would be. The football game we were cheering for lasted about an hour and 15 minutes or so, and my girls got exactly two water breaks of about five minutes each. The rest of the time, on their feet, in formation, doing their cheers with me yelling periodically, "BE LOUD!!!" I'm pleased, and somewhat shocked, that I might just manged to turn this group of ten minuscule drama queens into a finely tuned cheerleading team by the time it's all said and done. Except we need to come up with a dance routine to fit into our two minute routine for the exhibition in late October. Uh oh. I feel a Justin Beiber song coming on, because I don't think having them wiggling around to Lady Ga-Ga would be that appropriate.
I couldn't watch much of the football action when my girls were cheering, because I was too busy roaming around making sure they were standing still, not crying, keeping my eye on the clock, trying to keep an eye on my older daughter, because it wasn't her turn to cheer yet and I wanted to try to make some effort to make sure she wouldn't get abducted or some other crazy shit that all moms think will happen. Our team lost again, but it wasn't as bad as the previous week. We got one touchdown, so that was an improvement. But the second game, I was good to go. I got the opportunity to sit down and watch the action, from right up on the cheerleading sidelines, since I'm a coach and all. The younger daughter and I got our dinners from the concession stand, and I got to watch my older daughter do her thing, and got to watch a little football.
I think I've mentioned in a previous post that I don't know much about football, and I don't. I do know what a touchdown is, and I do know what a field goal is, I think. Isn't that when they kick the ball through the end posts, or whatever those things are? And I know what a huddle is. But other than that, I know that I'm supposed to yell when our team has the ball. And that would be the extent of my football knowledge. At this point, the sun had dropped below the trees, and the stadium lights had been turned on, and the sweat on my brow had dried. I was settled into my folding chair, wishing that it was about 30 or 40 years ago, and I could just smoke a cigarette right there on the sidelines. But it's not, so I had to sneak off to the parking lot and even then I felt guilty because I was wearing a coaching staff shirt, and I just always feel guilty smoking at any function that children are present at. My older daughter was rocking it out, and I was really enjoying the night, because The Ex wasn't there, so I didn't get any of those creepy someones-watching-me feelings, which was nice.
Our team, the team of seven, eight and nine year olds, was doing pretty well. They were up by two touchdowns, and then the other team start closing the gap. It was at about this point in time I started to take notice of our football coaches. They were doing the typical football coach stuff, pacing up and down the sidelines, yelling at the kids, calling out plays (I think), jumping up and down excitedly, arguing with the refs, arguing with each other, and then throwing their hats on the ground, jumping on the hats. This might just be endemic of all male coaches, because I think that basketball coaches do this stuff, too. Our advantage seemed to disappear. The cheerleaders, all five of them on this team, picked up the pace a little. The stadium lights were burning, the crowd had thickened, waiting for the next game to begin, and you could feel the expectation in the air. Across the field, the expectation was that they were going to take this thing in the last few minutes. On our side, the feeling was that we had just lost one hell of a lead and might just lose this whole thing. With each play, the crowd grew a little louder, the lights burned brighter, the huddles lasted a few seconds longer. Even I got into the action, furiously watching each play as our team scored another touchdown and brought the score even.
Overtime. The clunk of the equipment and helmets colliding with the mighty force of an eight year old seemed to get louder, more intense. The stomping of the feet on the metal bleachers came more rhythmically, and more parents were standing than sitting in their folding chairs. The coaches jumped higher, and hats flew around a bit more, and the cheerleaders moved down the field to stay close to the action. I had totally lost my younger daughter at this point, and looked around for her only periodically. Out of desperation for her not being abducted while this awesome game was going on, I snagged her as she bolted by me one time and sent her out on the field with the bigger girls. Thank god that coach is the sister of The Ex's best friend, because I don't know if I could have gotten away with that with anyone else. The youth association was selling spirit wear, and cowbells were on the menu. The clatter of the bells was ringing, and when the opposing team scored, there were groans and sighs all around.
Double overtime (I think). Damn, this is some good action. How come I didn't lay a bet down on this before hand? I looked at my watch, and jesus, these kids have been playing ball for almost two hours. The junior and senior teams were there as well, and a couple of those kids look like they could just skip high school and head right into college ball. We scored, and then they scored. I think, because I was totally confused with each play, and I didn't know what it was going to take for the game to actually end since I know nothing about football other than this game was HOT. The line ups (or whatever they're called) are really close to the end zone, so it's not going to take much to score. But I didn't know if it was our end zone or theirs. I just knew that there was one point between the two teams at this juncture, and we could totally win this thing. Suddenly, all of those kids on the football field were mine. I had given birth to all of them (on our team) and I was placing all of our collective hopes and dreams of winning this game on those children, those same children who will go to school on Monday and be normal kids again who burp at the lunch table, forget to raise their hands in class, and try to learn their word-wall words. But tonight, they were not normal kids. They were a lean, mean, green uniform wearing team that needs to win this thing.
The other team had the ball. The kid with the ball is running towards the end zone, oh shit, he's going to make it. I see our kids running for him, leaping, missing. Oh fuck. This is over. My mind was processing each movement in a slow motion, yet panoptic kind of way. I could hear the thuds as each kid who leaped and missed hit the ground. And then, from the back, one kid turned on the turbo and pushed the kid with the ball down. Boom! Took him down.
It's our ball now, and the end zone is rightthere. Thatclose. Still one point between the two teams. The parents are screaming, the cheerleaders are screaming, the bleachers are thumping, the older teams waiting their turns are screaming. And then, it got quiet. For that one millisecond in time, the air swelled with pride and anticipation. Even the announcer was silent. This was it. Go hard or go home, kids. The play was made. Touchdown, motherfuckers!
And that quickly, it was over. The teams lined up to shake hands, and I quick folded up my chair and got ready to rush home, because we've been at this ballfield way too long. But I knew, as an ever so slight fall chill descended down upon us, that even if we don't do cheerleading next year, we'll go to the games. This shit is too good to miss. And with that realization, I knew I had been sucked in.
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