The Overzealous Dads Debacle

I’m confident that if this was a real game, we could totally take them out.

Sienna’s dad is limping slightly, Lucy’s dad looks like the last time he played soccer, they filmed it in soundless black and white, and I’m pretty sure Megan’s old man hasn’t been to bed. Unless he always wears his shirt unbuttoned to his navel, which isn’t out of the question given he works in advertising.

Sarah’s mom blows the whistle to start the match. Megan passes it to Sienna and she dribbles it a few paces to a chorus of cheers from the moms and siblings on the sidelines. Charity, of course; I could easily steal the ball from her, but I let her zigzag past me as I deliberately move in the wrong direction.

“Dad, what are you doing?! You let her get past!”

My ten-year-old daughter, Maisy, is a ponytailed ball of rage; arms outstretched, withering disgust blazing from her eyes.

“Remember what mom said, Maisy. It’s a social game, okay? Let’s just have fun.”

“There’s nothing fun about losing,” she hisses. “You always say play like you mean it.” She sprints past me to try to take Sienna down before one of the other dads lets her kick a goal.

A lump forms in my throat.

That’s my girl.

Thankfully for Sienna, she passes it off in time to avoid a date with the triage nurse. A dad takes the pass and fires in a half-hearted shot. Our goalkeeper dives valiantly but completely misjudges the strike. The ball trickles past her outstretched arms.

The other team cheers with disproportionate glee.

Maisy and I jog back to our starting positions. “That was your fault.”

I toe the party line. “It’s just a game, Maisy.”

She rolls her eyes.

The whistle blows, a dad passes to me, and I’m off and running.

Maisy is streaming down the middle of the pitch. “Dad, pass!” she cries.

Another little girl bravely approaches. She’s tiny but she has some real gumption, sticking her leg out to knock the ball from my possession. She’s unintimidated by my size, and clearly believes the mantra that this is just a game, confident I won’t steamroll her to make it to goal.

I see Maisy out of the corner of my eye. Her arms are flailing like she’s trying to take off as she calls for the pass. I could get it to her, but I’d have to evade little Alex Morgan’s tackle. Easy to do, but I don’t want to break the kid’s spirit. I let her steal the ball.

The players on both sides switch direction and run down the pitch. Only Maisy is unmoved. Her hands are on her hips, her jaw is clenched and she’s breathing so hard, I can see the grass rippling beneath her feet.

We watch the ball make its way toward the opposition goal. Maisy’s nemesis, Harper, has it now. She’s ducking and weaving, bamboozling the other girls, earning whoops of encouragement from the dads. She shoots a lofty pass up in front of goal and her dad flies in with a header, knocking over two other guys in the process. The ball slams into the back of the net.

Everyone cheers.

What? He laid out two dads in a friendly father-daughter match. Why is everyone cheering?!

Harper’s dad, Gavin, helps the guys he just flattened back onto their feet. “Sorry, gents. Got a bit carried away!”

Everyone laughs.

What?! This guy’s a maniac. Why is everyone laughing?

“That’s how you play soccer, Dad,” Maisy says to me. “Like you mean it.”

I clench my jaw. Breathe hard.

It’s game on.

I set up to take the kickoff and beckon Maisy over. I crouch down and place my hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes are still burning with indignation.

“Go wide for my pass. I’ll sprint to the other side of the pitch and then double back into the middle. Put the ball up nice and high.”

Maisy smiles and clenches her fists. “You’ve got this, Dad,” she says. “Let’s take ‘em out.”

That’s my girl.

Sarah’s mom returns to the center of the pitch to restart the game. “What about that Gavin?” she laughs. “Isn’t he a riot?”

I smile through gritted teeth.

She blows the whistle.

I send a rocket ball to Maisy and then sprint until my heart’s about to burst.

Maisy deftly evades the defenders and lobs an ideal cross my way.

I launch into the air and watch the ball move in perfect trajectory toward me. I angle my head, ready to strike. But something catches my hip, lifts me a foot further into the air and throws me off balance. I feel a head of hair brush against my forearm. A man grunts. I must be riding on his shoulders.

This all happens in a heartbeat but I’m quick enough to adjust the angle of my head and . . . the pain is blinding.

First my face. Then my shoulder as I hit the turf. My hands fly involuntarily to my nose. There’s gasping and murmuring all around. My eyes are full of tears and blood is streaming into my mouth. I lay back on the pitch and see Maisy through my blurred vision.

She’s biting her bottom lip.

“I’m okay,” I croak.

Later, in the hospital, after they’ve reset my nose, stemmed the bleeding, and strapped up my dislocated shoulder, Maisy stands by my bed and holds my hand.

My wife has gone to buy herself a coffee, probably so embarrassed to be seen with me she’s travelled to Starbucks three states away.

Maisy pushes my hair back off my forehead. “You did great out there, Dad,” she says.

The look of pride in her eyes is worth the searing hot poker in my shoulder and the cement truck reversing on my face.

“Was it a goal?” I say.

Maisy sighs. “Yes, but it wasn’t paid because headers aren’t allowed in junior soccer.”

“Are you kidding me? They paid Gavin’s!”

“Gavin’s the club president.”

I shake my head in disgust, but it hurts too much, so I settle for a sullen glare.

Maisy watches me closely.

Perhaps I can salvage this disaster with a teachable moment. Something other people say but I don’t believe. “Well, I guess that’s what you get for being too competitive. A broken nose and a dislocated shoulder.”

Maisy nods slowly. “Maybe. Or maybe you just need to play better.”

I smile despite the intense face-ache.

That’s my girl.