I have reached a seminal moment in a parent's life.
Today, I am a Soccer Dad.
I know. I'm literally flushed with pride. Today, I strapped on my Sambas and took Robert to Super Soccer Stars, a kiddie soccer class at the local Y. The instructor is an exuberant Croat whose goofy demeanor is perfect for kids, but he tends to overdo it. There are only so many times you can count off 10 jumping jacks and end with " ...8 ... 9 ... 11!" Hey, you skipped 10 again. We get it. You know you should consider retooling your act when three-year-olds are rolling their eyes at you.
Before warm-ups, the kids must sing a song about never touching the ball with their hands. This confuses Robert, because he and I have watched lots of Premier League and Serie A and Bundesliga on Fox Sports World. He knows about goalies, and he knows about throw-ins. The way Bela tells it, all soccer balls are coated with weapons-grade anthrax that must never make contact with human skin. Dude, lighten up.
There's also the matter of the games themselves. I went in expecting at least a few minutes of free-form kicking at a goal, but most of the program involved complicated activities that required 5 minutes of explanation for 10 seconds of action. I can understand an underlying pedagogy of teaching youngsters how to follow directions, but these kids are three. They came to kick. So let 'em kick!
Therefore, I am starting my own Super-Duper Soccer Stars, during which all kids will be invited to run around kicking soccer balls until they pass out. I feel this will give them excellent preparation for high school soccer, when they'll run around kicking soccer balls until they throw up. When they cruise into college on a soccer scholarship and spend every night banging hot chicks, they'll know it was all worth it.