You’re going the wrong way

We have come to discover, after five years of parenting The Eldest, that our little girl is less the little princess that we thought she was going to be, and more of the throwing, catching and kicking kind.

She is into the sports, that one.

For her 5th birthday two weeks ago, it was a bike not a Barbie.

It was hula hoops and t-ball stands and tennis balls and paddles.

The Eldest would rather swing a baseball bat than swing to the rhythm of the music, although successive seasons of dance lessons have made her adept in that department as well.

She is an athletic little girl, as prone to pick up a pitcher’s mitt as she is to put a puck in the net, and what she lacks in basic skill she more than makes up for with a persistence streak that would make Pele proud.

That’s an appropriate reference, because this summer The Eldest is foraying into organized team sport for the first time, giving the game of soccer a shot.

And so it is that we came to the pitch last night, wading into a sea of tiny little cleated creatures eager to learn the basic mechanics of kicking and passing and shooting and scoring.

After a half-hour practice spent bouncing the ball to-and-fro, kicking it back and forth and otherwise gaining just a slight understanding of ‘the beautiful game’, our little number nine came to the sidelines with her teammates, ready for a giant drink of water before game-time.

And there, barely 30 minutes into our first night on the field, I registered my second failing as a Soccer Dad.

I didn’t bring her any water.

My first failing came 30 minutes prior when I emerged from the car without a lawn chair, a must for the travelling soccer parent.

Luckily, a sideline acquaintance of mine took pity on my ineptitude and passed the bottle to The Eldest so she could re-hydrate before her first game.

And what a game it was.

Back and forth they went, this bunch of three-foot nothing five-year olds, following that soccer ball to every corner of the field, eager to be the one to score.

The Eldest was timid through most of the game, more inclined to let the opposition pass without a fight as she fiddled with the latest mosquito bite on her arm—or was it her leg, her elbow or her neck?

More than once, she came to the sidelines to tell me that she had five mosquito bites and was none too impressed about it.

My failure to bring bug spray would account for my third and final failing of the evening.

As the game progressed, The Eldest battled bouts of disinterest to show a spark here and there. She would run and kick and try her best, then quickly retreat to an already-chosen favorite teammate’s side, eager to hold her new friend’s hand as they leisurely strolled up the field together.

And then it happened.

Standing in front of the opposing goal, the ball sprouted from the crowd of nine young bodies battling for it desperately, and landed at The Eldest’s feet.

Instinct took over as she immediately came to life with the ball in her midst. She dribbled left and right, dipsy-doodled dramatically, dangled to her own surprise, and dashed up field hoping to score.

It was the fastest she had run all game. And she was all smiles too.

So was the crowd, by then cheering in unison.

You’re going the wrong way!

Yes, my budding little soccer player’s best rush of the night came when she took off in the wrong direction.

In the end it mattered little.

On the sidelines, she gave me an embarrassed hug after a quick Coles Notes explanation of the difference between north and south.

But that was forgotten in a flash when the post-game freezies came out.

Tomorrow, we take to the field again, hopefully first with some time spent teaching the finer points of going the right way!