My son’s soccer team has been losing most of its games with grace for the past six years.
They are not bad players. Some are even very good players. They almost always score, and they’re great at blocking goals. But somehow, when the final whistle blows, the Dolphins rarely end up ahead. (They’ve been the Dolphins since they were 4. If we’d known they were going to stick together so long, we might have insisted on a more menacing name.)
They are all good boys — the kind of boys you welcome for play dates and sleepovers. They are patient with their siblings and mostly respectful with their parents. They do well in school. Coach Phil has remarked that while the team doesn’t boast soccer superstars, it is a team of future CEOs.
I love that the team has been together so long and that they all feel like family. I love when a season begins anew and the boys reunite and the moms get to catch up.
Last Saturday’s game was promising. The teams were evenly matched. There was no tiny Pele or Beckham on the opposing team.
And our boys were on fire. They were passing with accuracy and coaching one another from the field. They were executing beautiful headers and blocking the ball with their whole bodies if necessary.
When the Dolphins are on fire, so are the parents. Cheering, clapping and hollering on the sidelines intensifies based on the running, passing and shooting on the field.
By halftime, my voice was hoarse. We were ahead 1-0, despite a couple of questionable referee calls.
Early in the second half, the opposing team scored. But we weren’t worried. The boys were still playing strong.
Then the most outrageous call in the history of under-10 boys recreational soccer happened.
The Dolphins had a corner kick. Our player aimed it perfectly. The ball fell in the goal box. Plenty of Dolphins were nearby and could have easily scored.
But an opposing player — not the opposing goalie — picked up the ball with his bare hands. It looked like a reflexive move. He wanted that ball out of there.
The player realized his mistake and dropped to the ground, pounding the field with his fists in frustration. He knew he’d made a big mistake.
A handball in the box is huge. If the violation is called, then only the goalie can defend against a direct kick. No doubt, the Dolphins would be ahead.
But, incredibly, not one of the three officials called the penalty.
We Dolphin parents were mighty displeased.
“Handball!” we all screamed, as loud as our already-strained voices would allow. “Handball!”
No response. Play resumed.
We continued to protest. So did our coach.
The refs were implacable. Apparently not one of them witnessed the blatant error, and there is no instant replay in fourth-grade soccer.
Our boys felt defeated. The opposing team was emboldened; they marched down the field and scored.
We were outraged.
“Seriously!?” I think I yelled. I may have flapped my arms. (Anger clouds my memory.) Fellow parents joined the chorus.
The Dolphins lost the game, this time without our trademark grace. We felt robbed. Cheated. Denied the win we deserved.
The kids were unhappy, too.
Cooper grumbled about the bad calls on the drive home. He suggested that the refs didn’t like the Dolphins and wanted the other team to win.
His comment was my wakeup call. Cooper needed a better role model for good sportsmanship.
I told him that officials make mistakes. That they don’t see every infraction. That some refs are sticklers for specific rules while others let the same rules slide.
And I told him that parents make mistakes. That we could have toned down our anger. That, while winning feels good, it’s important to accept bad calls and defeat with more grace.
Still, I couldn’t help myself.
“Buddy, it was a bad call. You all should have won that game.”
Honestly, I said it as gracefully as I could.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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