Dear Soccermom: Advice Columnist

This week I have decided to take some questions from followers and become an advice columnist, a la Amy Sedaris in the Believer magazine. I've never tried this before, so feel free to let me know how you think I’m doing....





Dear Soccermom,
Running makes me queasy. Any advice?
- Couchpotatoe

Dear Dan Quayle,
You neglect to mention what you are running away from. Muggers? 1980’s fashion icons? Conservative politicians? In these situations I think the queasiness is not to be avoided but could actually come in handy. When you run, just turn your head slightly to the side and speed up a bit, so that you actually puke in their path. If you could puke up whole, unmasticated banana peels, that would be helpful too, because they might slip on one and fall. Can you do that? That would be so cool.

If you are running towards something, like a soccer ball, that is different. Forget the queasiness and suck it up, cupcake.

Hope this helps!
- Cathy

Dear Soccermom,
My children are making me insane. No matter what I say, no matter what I do, they scoff, laugh outright, or pretend to spray water out of their mouths. Is there something I missed in parenting 101?
Yours,
- At wits end

Dear Witless,
Yes. And lucky for you, I teach parenting 101, so just this once I’ll give you some freebies. First of all, forget the pretending-- spit-spray actual water back at them. (Or withhold water or other liquids from them altogether, until they become parched and feeble. ) Alternatively, you could pin them down on their backs and as you hover above them, let a long trail of your spit dangle towards their faces. Suck the spit up at the last minute. (Or don’t-- your choice.)

Another option would be to put them in some kind of after school activity they hate, just to wring all the joy out of their lives, so they are broken and sad. Not soccer—all kids love soccer—but something boring and tedious like ballet. They won’t have any spirit left to scoff at you.
Cheers!
- Cathy

Dear Soccermom,
My husband is a real sports fan, and I try to watch it with him sometimes, despite knowing next to nothing about sports. Recently we watched a soccer match. My husband began to yell, “Handball! Handball!” I didn’t know what to make of this, so I reached into his crotch. He was startled at first, then annoyed, then, I think, pleased. Apparently, I misunderstood. Are there any other soccer terms I should be wary of?
- Earnest but confused

Dear Earnest,
Don’t worry, you didn’t misunderstand at all. That’s exactly what‘s supposed to happen when someone yells “handball”, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It also explains, to some extent, the high nature of David Beckham’s voice, and the need for handballs to sometimes be followed by “penile T kicks”. (Never learned what the “T” stood for, sorry.) Since you asked, you might want to watch out for the soccer expression “Man on”, which can signal either that another player is chasing you while you have the ball, or hot gay action, or both.
Best,
- Cathy

My Triumphant Return

I’ve been waiting to write this blog for a long time. Today was my glorious, long-awaited return to the soccer field. It was...okayish.

April 20, six months after my ACL surgery, seemed like the right time to play again, partially because this is what all the ACL literature says is the right amount of time to wait, and partially because my physiotherapist told me to stop coming in. (Kicked me out, really.) The fact that April 20 is the international day to celebrate cannabis culture (“420, dude!” ) doesn’t have anything to do with it, although, when I think about it, smoking a spliff before playing might have helped me relax.

There’s not much to say. Here are the facts:

- The weather was perfect.

- I got there early and did the warm-up that FIFA recommends to prevent knee injuries. Being early also allowed me plenty of important time for worrying.

- It was truly great to see my old friends out on the field again. And it turns out my ability to take the piss out of people was not at all damaged when I hurt my knee. (Sample comment by me, when someone flubbed a pass: “What was that?!”)

- I played goal, mostly, which involved a lot more standing than playing. My choice.

- I spent a lot of time running to get the ball when it rolled off the field after someone missed a shot. I did this on purpose, since it meant I was actually getting exercise, but the likelihood it would cause me to twist and hurt my knee was dramatically less than it would have been in a game. Smart, right?

- I was responsible for at least three goals-- for the other team, mind you, not mine-- don’t be ridiculous. I let them in since I was much too afraid to dig in and defend properly.

- I left early, and when I left, a lot of my friends clapped at me, I guess congratulating me on my triumphant return, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they were actually clapping since I was leaving, and they would finally not have to walk on eggshells and could take some normal damn shots already.

In the past, I’ve always been the one who stays and plays til the bitter end. Leaving early made me feel very mature. Look at me, not pushing myself too hard! Look at me, doing the responsible thing!

But later I realized, of course, that I’m not mature. I’m a chickenshit.

But I'm a soccer-playing chickenshit. Ha!

My List: A Cure for Idle Doctor Chatter

There was a front page article in the Vancouver Sun last Friday about how surgeons have been told not to chatter during surgery. A complaint was launched by a patient who felt that when his surgeon talked with the scrub nurses about hockey during his operation, there was a chance that the doctor could have become distracted, lost focus, and made a mistake. Now all BC Surgeons have been warned to cut it out. (Pun intended). In what was dubbed a “useful, important reminder with a proactive message”, they have been warned by the College of Physicians and Surgeons to stay away not only from the topic of hockey, but also to avoid other subjects that could potentially upset patients.

I don’t get it. Let it go, dude. Surgery in a hospital is one of the few times in our lives where we truly must relinquish control and trust our surgeon. When the operation day comes, we are stripped down to nothing but a thin, backless gown and groovy hairnet, anaesthetized, and put in a room full of relative strangers who can do with us as they please. Why do we do this? Because these surgeon people are quite smart and skilled. They have a lot of schooling and have been carefully vetted by their peers before they start slicing and dicing. And there’s a ton of people in the operating room, so aren’t they going to keep each other on track? In my experience surgeons generally have a good sense of responsibility anyway, and probably won’t engage in a quick iphone game of angry birds, mid-operation, just for kicks.

That said, you never know, so I’ve decided on a list of conversational demands should I ever be in the position to have surgery again. (Cross your fingers for me that that will NEVER have to happen.) Of course it’s highly unlikely that I would even be aware of what was being discussed during surgery, but just in case, I’ve got my list made as a “useful important reminder” for my surgeon. Here it is:

Things That Can Be Discussed:

- the symmetricalness of the earring holes in my earlobes (or any other positive physical traits they may discern)
- Soccer (I like soccer. Had you noticed?)
- How cute/smart/polite my kids are
- how tragic it is that someone with as bright and sweet a disposition as mine has to be cut into this way. Sympathy tears by the surgeon are also permitted, providing that they don’t seep into the incision area and cause infection.
- How smooth my legs are
- The TV Show Modern Family. That thing is hilarious!
- The operation, I guess

Things That Cannot Be Discussed:

- Jokes about throwing in some much-needed liposuction during the surgery as some kind of 2-in-1 combo deal.
- Charlie Sheen. (He is really just so over.)
- Anything about golf (yawn.)
- Clowns (self explanatory.)
- Whether or not my boobs are real or fake. (Hold on--wait--forget it. I’m moving this to the “Can Be Discussed” category instead, since if people are questioning it, it usually means your boobs are too good to be true, right?)
- Hockey (kidding. But can I stipulate that it be playoff hockey? So much more exciting. Go Canucks!)
- How stubbly my legs are (it all depends on what time I woke up that morning, you see.)

Also, my sister once told me that chewing gum during tests helps you to concentrate better, so I would also like to stipulate that my surgeon chew gum, just to make sure I’m getting him or her in top form. (But not that crappy cinnamon flavoured gum. That stuff is just gross. Peppermint only.)

See? Useful. Proactive. You should make a list too. (And, you can use it for the plumber as well, when they come over to fix the pipes under your kitchen sink- just to make sure they don’t get distracted.)

Oh, and I forgot one thing. I want my surgery for free. Oh I get that already? Right. Sweet.

Win, Lose or Draw

Hannah and I went to the Whitecaps game on Wednesday night. My friend Scott gave me two tickets, and I thought it would be a good way to bond with my ten year old daughter. In the car on the way, I tell her that too. “I am excited about having some Hannah-Mommy time,” I say.

“Mom, can you just say ‘mother-daughter’ time, instead? It sounds better.”

“Yes, of course, sweets-- my bad,” I say.

“No one says ‘my bad’ anymore, Mom.”

Oh god. “Okay. Sorry. Do people still say that?”

“Mom!”

This is not a very auspicious beginning.


After a while, I ask, “Are you excited about seeing the game, Han?”

“I think I’ll reserve judgement for now,” she says. She actually says this.

“Are you at least excited that we’re going to A&W?” I ask. We’re going there for dinner on the way. We don’t often go to those kinds of places.

“Yeah!” she says enthusiastically. Well, at least that’s something.

At A&W, we both get teen burgers, her because even though she’s only 10, she’s acting like a teenager, and me because I figure eating one will give me the body of a teenager. (That’s how this A&W thing works, right? It doesn’t? Aww, screw you, confusing Burger Family!)

We walk into the stadium just as the crowd inside starts singing O Canada, and we and all the other people around us, all of us late, sing loudly along. We get to our seats just one and a half minutes into the game. The sun is setting and it is still warm and beautiful. Even in the first minute, I can tell the new Whitecaps are an exciting team. This is going to be good. I take this picture of us:


Less than three minutes later, Hannah tells me she feels sick.

“What?” I say, craning my neck around, only half paying attention to her and trying to watch the game.

“I feel barfy.”

Now she has my attention. “Are you sure, Han?” I don’t want to ask everyone who just stood up to let us in to stand up again.

Her face looks grey and she is kind of shivering.

I ask everyone to stand up again so we can get out and go to the washrooms. Well, porta pottys. We get there and Hannah goes in, but then comes out again, like 20 seconds later. I should point out that she can be kind of an anxious kid and that she hates public washrooms.

“And?” I say.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” She would not like it if I asked her personal questions about what happened in there, so I look at her. I can’t read her face. She just looks back at me. I’m desperate to go back in and watch the soccer game. “Can we go back in?” I ask.

“Okay.”

We go back to our seats. Everyone nicely stands up again. One, maybe two minutes pass. The Whitecaps are glorious. There is still no score, but they have all the possession.

“Mom, I feel sick again.”

Now, I might not have reacted in the best possible way to this news. “Are you insane?” is what I believe I said. “You are not sick. And besides I’m not asking those people to move again.” I rummage around in my purse and find a plastic bag and give it to her. “Here, puke in this.” And then I turn back and watched the game.

Super soccer mom, right? See, this is why at the top of my blog is says “Stories from a Different Kind of Soccer Mom.” It’s because I suck. A proper soccer mom would probably not have let her sick kid almost hyperventilate in a plastic bag so she could watch a match. (It was truly an awesome match, by the way. They finished the first half nil nil.) A truly proper soccer mom would definitely not take a picture of her sick kid holding a puke bag up to her mouth and post it on her blog, for all to see. Like this:



What can I say?

Half time comes and we go out and try the bathrooms again, and it's pretty crowded out there now. Hannah says she might be feeling slightly better. “Can we go back in and watch the second half?” I suggest hopefully. It’s not really a question, but I want her to think I am giving her a choice.

“Yeah.”

As we head back in, I find $20 on the ground. I ask, but no one around me will claim it.

“Can I have the money, Mom?”

“Nice try.”

The second half is crazy. A Whitecap gets sent off with a red card. Then, we get a penalty shot—and score, leading one- nil. The player who scores is so excited, in a frenzy he whips off his jersey and throws it into the enthusiastic crowd, and then he promptly gets a red card too. So we are up by one goal, but down two players. The game will need to change after this.

Hannah, I notice, is changing too-- her puke bag is balled up in her fist at her side, and not draped over her nose and mouth as she previously had it. She is also cheering now instead of rocking back and forth and moaning. She probably can’t help it—someone in the audience has brought a drum and the crowd is so into it, stomping and clapping. The Whitecaps defenders and goalie are stupendous, foiling chance after chance. It’s like a thirty minute, two man advantage power play in hockey, and the Whitecaps are rocking it. No one is getting past them. At one point, I look over at Hannah, and she is actually paying attention to the game and smiling.

The ninety minutes are up. They add four minutes of injury time.

And then the other team scores.

As we make our way out, the crowd is still crazy excited, even though it ended in a tie. I overhear a young guy say “Whoa, that was more exciting than watching the Canucks!” and I can’t help smiling, because I agree. Hannah and I drive all the way home, car dancing and singing at the top of our lungs to the White Stripes songs she picks out on my iphone.

And nobody puked. I'm going to count this as a win.

Keepie Uppie

Recently in the New York Times Magazine’s Youth Issue, we were treated to articles about a 21 year old fellow who is a highly successful online poker player with a net worth of about $5 Million, and a 16 year old female freestyle soccer player who is wowing people with her talent at keeping the ball in the air while doing tricks with her feet.

Dan Cates, the poker guy, is photographed in what appears to be a windowless grey room devoid of any decoration, with grey carpet and a grey couch. He is slouched on his office chair in front of two computers, with his feet up on the armrest of the couch, underneath a blanket. His face is pasty and he looks unwell. Perhaps it’s partially the blanket thing.

Indi Cowie, the soccer girl, is rendered in a series of colourful pictures, doing what she does best- moving the ball around in the air with her feet and head, jumping and flicking it all over the place. Looking at a video of her is much more instructive than looking at a photo. Here’s a short one:



What do these two have in common? Everything.

Each has become an expert in his or her field because of practice. An insane amount of it. Both have followed the idea Malcolm Gladwell popularized in his book Outliers- that 10,000 hours of practice at something makes you quite good. That’s about 3 hours a day for 10 years-- or a lot quicker if you do more than 3 hours every day. Pick anything: learning another language, playing tiddlywinks, stitching needlepoint cats on throw pillows, masturbating—if you do it that much, you’re going to do it well.

It brings to mind Amy Chua’s controversial recent book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, the one in which her teenage daughter has performed a piano recital at Carnegie Hall by the age of 14 but has never in her life been allowed to play with another child or have a sleepover. But of course in that situation, the mother was the driving force behind the success- she forced them to practice their instruments 3 hours a day. Indi Cowie just wants to do it. The magazine article says she sometimes accidently wakes her mom up at 5am when she’s practicing in the garage. What kind of teenager gets up at 5am voluntarily?

When she performed at her school’s talent show, Indi won handily, although in addition to the comments of “Isn’t she amazing?”, the other comments were “Who is she?” She has no friends except her 12 year old sister. And even though she’s performed at halftime at a Chelsea-Manchester United match in England and has had her talents featured in a PS3 soccer commercial, she’s a nobody at home, and her name is misspelled in the high school event program. Cates, the poker player, realizes he might have a problem and repeatedly mentions trying to achieve a “balance of life” with his magazine interviewer, even going so far as to fly to Texas to meet with a specialist who would help him understand social situations. (Personally, all I think he really needs is a bit of fresh air, vitamin D and some green vegetables, but what do I know?)

All of this mocking is just jealousy on my part, of course. No one is clearly ever going to feature me in the youth issue of anything, but it’s not just that: I want to be good at something too. (Not freestyle like Indi though – my knees could never take 3 hours of practice a day and besides, I refuse on principle to take on a hobby which is sometimes ridiculously dubbed “Keepie Uppie”.) I’m jealous of how society always rewards the experts , whether it’s with money, or prizes, or some degree of fame. Apparently being goodish at a number of different things without any kind of focus doesn’t get you anywhere.

I was lamenting this to my husband, who is, in fact, an expert himself. He’s got a PhD, won the dean’s medal in grad school, has been nominated for both teaching and writing prizes, and has been awarded a number of grants and a prestigious fellowship for his research. (Strange, since he has trouble finding the coffee filters every single time he opens the kitchen cupboard.) He said, “Look, honey, it doesn’t have to be a youth thing, you could start now. In ten years, by the time you’re 51, you could be really good at something.”

“I’m 42, not 41.”

“Oh,” he said.

Sometimes I think there’s a chance that he doesn’t even know how to spell PhD.

Amongst the Garbage Cans

About two hours into my physio appointment, Travis often approaches me and says “Okay, come with me. Field trip.”

This time I had listened to almost the entire Meatloaf song Paradise by the Dashboard Lights while I did hamstring stretches, so I was eager for the change of activity—the only problem is that I knew where we were going. We were going upstairs to run amongst the garbage cans.

Now some people might think of physio as a stretchy, massage-y, relaxing appointment, and for some types of injuries, that may be true—but for me, no. I am usually dripping in sweat for a solid two hours. There aren’t really any breaks, and Travis barks a lot of orders.

The running thing always comes at the end of the appointment, when I am most exhausted. The reason I run near the garbage cans is that no one else is there; it’s nice and cool, overlooking the seating for the ice arena. Travis needs to check my running style to make sure I am not favouring my knee. “Run to the 2nd garbage can and back,” he says.

I comply. Travis stands there, arms crossed, watching me and frowning.

When I come back, he says, “Again.” I go again. I come back. “Okay, now run, knees high, to the garbage can and back.”

I go. Travis yells after me “Higher!”

I come back. The second garbage can is halfway to the other end of the arena, so I am starting to breathe a little huffily. He still has his arms crossed. Still frowning. “Now skip.”

“Skip?”

“Yup. Like a little girl.”

“Can you demonstrate?” I ask hopefully. I know what skipping is, of course, but this will buy me some time to catch my breath and make Travis look as ridiculous as me. It actually worked once before: he skipped to the garbage can and back, and secretly I think he liked it, since he did a little twirl and added some jazz hands at the end.

“Nice try, Cathy.”

“Okay,” I say. I skip amongst the garbage cans. Tra la la.

“Nice skipping,” he says admiringly when I get back. “Now shuffle side to side. 2nd garbage can.”

I shuffle side to side.

“Now in back, in front, in back, in front,” he says.

“What?” I ask desperately, huffing and puffing. “Like this?” I try to do it but I am pretty useless. You know what this is, right? Arms out sideways like an airplane, legs shuffling sideways, alternating one in front, one behind you. It feels kind of like dancing, and I’m not a good dancer. I’m an enthusiastic dancer when I’ve had a drink or two and the music is good, but these conditions are different.

“I need you to demonstrate,” I try again. He takes the bait. He shows me a little, then comes back, and says, “Come on, let’s go. Together.” We dance sideways together, in back, in front, all the way to the garbage can and back. He is much better at it than me. Still, I can’t help feeling like a clumsy, sweaty Ginger Rogers.

“Now run up those stairs,” he says.

“Travis, there’s no stairs in soccer,” I say.

“Cathy…” he says sternly.

I run up, run down. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Again,” he says.

I run again, even though I think perhaps this time he is making me do it because I am such a pain in the ass. As I go, he yells out “Knees high!” My knees are not high. They are not even highish.

Somehow I make it back down.

“Again.” He says.

I go. “Higher!” he yells. “There’s a burning child up there at the top of the stairs!”

I start to laugh. Dear god, why am I laughing about a burning child? When I get back down, I say “Travis, I don’t like that child. That child is dead to me.”

“Again.”

“Can’t the kid just jump down?”

“Again.”

I go again. As I run, he repeatedly yells “Burning!“ and again, I can’t stop laughing. I feel like I’m in the military. Is this how I would react to my drill sergeant? Maybe it’s nervous laughter since I feel like I’m in the movie Full Metal Jacket and I’m worried Travis is going to beat me with a pillowcase full of soap.

Finally, we are done with the stairs. It’s almost time for me to go home and rock back and forth in the fetal position until my next appointment. As we leave, Travis says, “You should see it when the Vancouver Giants do the stairs.” He is the physiotherapist for the semi-pro hockey team. I want to tell him I am old enough to be one of those hockey players moms—and not some kind of scandalous teenage mom, either—but I can’t talk since I am breathing so heavily, so I decide to let that one go.

I also consider asking him why he couldn’t have lifted a finger to save the poor, burning child at the to of the stairs, but then I remember I have to see him in a few days and if I am at all unkind, I’m very,very afraid of what will happen next.

A Smidge of Sideboob

The Whitecaps FC is starting a new season tomorrow night in a bigger stadium, and they need to sell more tickets than ever before. They’re succeeding too, courtesy of some free publicity coming their way due to a picture of a nubile, naked young woman wearing a Whitecaps jersey rendered in bodypaint, featured in big posters, websites, and advertising all over the city. You know you want to see it. Here you go:


The image has been stirring up comment streams and a number of women are complaining about it: some have publicly threatened not to buy seasons tickets for their families because of the negative image this portrays for young women; others are former athletes who find the sexualizing of women’s bodies demeaning. The fact that the Whitecaps revealed it the day after International Women’s Day-- when everyone is in a pc frame of mind-- is a little boneheaded, to be sure, but I must admit-- this doesn’t bother me that much.

Look at the thing. Don’t bother gazing too closely though—I expect you’ll get lost if you’re looking for her ladygarden, since she’s wearing panties underneath all that paint. Plus, that’s a real scarf she’s wearing over her upper half, so what is there to see once you look past that? A smidge of sideboob? And it’s painted sideboob. Yawn. This is no different or more revealing than the cover of any modern fitness magazine or Cristiano Ronaldo underwear ad. In fact, the few people I directed towards this picture had to be told it was bodypaint. Like me, none had given it a second glance—we all thought it was just a skintight shirt.

The video of the painting being done which went along with this picture is also pretty tame. (I'll include it at the end.) When Steve watched it, at one point he turned his head sideways and squinted, saying, “Is that T or A?” Not a good sign. It’s just a fuzzy montage full of air-brushed close ups of the bodypainting being done, sans scarf, and at the end, she kind of inexplicably rolls a ball around on her neck (why? Who knows!), and then turns to the face the camera looking ......concussed. No big payoff. Sorry, everyone. No nips.

If you’re going to get all up in (unpainted) arms about unfairness with women and soccer, how about complaining, as the Vancouver Sun’s Daphne Bramham has done, that the 9th place Canadian Women’s National Team is having an internal crisis due to underfunding—the coach is threatening to quit, the team is boycotting games in support of her-- while the men’s team, ranked 84th—is ticking along just fine?

Besides, it’s the model’s loss. She has no jersey to exchange with anyone after the game.