Prom Queens vs. Academics: A Soccer Mom’s Dirty Laundry

Last Sunday, the soccer team I manage, the first place seed in the state championship tournament, qualified for the semi-final game. It was immediately brought to my attention that this game, scheduled for the following Saturday morning, conflicted with the plans of several of our players taking the SAT exam.

TVSC 95 Girls Blue "Samba": U-18 Division 1 State Semi-finalists

Therefore, I checked the Arizona Youth Soccer Association (AYSA) website to read the rules about rescheduling games. It listed SAT/ACT exams as the number one priority. Next, I informed our coach and we approached the coach of our semi-final opponents, who had just won their semi-finalist spot on the field next to us. This coach had no problem moving the game to an afternoon start time. I told them I’d call the AYSA on Monday morning to request the change.

I did. The AYSA administrator told me to put the request in writing, and to include the reason and that we had already discussed the change with the opposing team. By the way, it’s a tough opponent with a current state rank of #3. We are ranked #13 (in spite of our seeding in the tournament). We need all our players.

Monday afternoon we received notice that the game was rescheduled to 1:50 p.m. Although this time would only give our test-takers one hour and 20 minutes from test end to game start, we were thankful for the change. We understood our players would be late to the field (it’s a 1.5 hour drive from Tucson to Casa Grande/ Grande Sports Complex), and that they’d have no warm-up; however, we were willing to accept this compromise.

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end with this compromise. The next day, Tuesday, I received an email asking if we could change the game to Friday night in Phoenix. I knew we were unavailable because, for one, our team captain was performing in a school play—the drama department’s senior swan song—and several of our girls planned to attend. Then I received an email asking how many of our girls were taking the SAT. I responded, “four.”

On Wednesday, I received yet another email indicating that the game had been rescheduled again. It was moved to a 12:45 start. I had to read the email twice to make sure I was reading correctly.

How could this be? It meant that our test-takers would be lucky to make it to the field for maybe the last 15 minutes of the 90-minute game. And this scenario meant they’d need to put down their pencils, grab their soccer bags, change in the car and have their drivers speed up I-10 with a prayer that the Interstate corridor connecting Tucson and Phoenix, which is often plagued with roll-overs, fender-benders and haboobs (!) would be traffic jam free.

In other words, a 12:45 start time was NOT a workable option for us. So, before I sent word to the team, I called the AYSA office to find out why the game had been rescheduled again.

Did I get a straight answer? Absolutely not. You’d think I had asked this administrator to reveal her weight. Or her politics? Her views on the death penalty or abortion? What ensued was a crazy, even shocking conversation.

This is how I worded my inquiry: “I just received word about the U-18 game being rescheduled again and before I inform the team, I’d like to be able to tell them the reason why it was changed.”

This is the response I received: “It was a compromise. All the U-17 and U-18 games needed to be rescheduled for a variety of reasons, and we did our best to accommodate the most people. There wasn’t an easy way to do it without impacting someone.”

I reminded her that the first change was a compromise for us and that it had an impact. I added that the new change was unworkable, and then asked again: “Would you please tell me the specific reason that our game was changed?”

Obviously, I pressed a button that switched on this woman’s defenses. She immediately went on the attack. First she told me that I was the ONLY one who wasn’t accepting this current compromise. Given that I called her about 15 minutes after receiving the change I was surprised that she had already heard from EVERY OTHER manager, coach, player and parent affected. But I let that slide. I repeated the question until I finally got her to say that the opposing team had five players going to prom that evening.

Yes, she said “prom.”

Samba Goes to the Prom

Now believe me, I understand that prom is important to U-17 and U-18 girls and I also understand that after ACT/SAT exams and coaches with multiple teams/conflicts, consideration of proms ranks #3 on the list of priorities for rescheduling consideration. What I didn’t understand was, why would a game scheduled for 1:50 p.m. (90 minutes of play plus 10-minutes halftime break) affect girls attending a prom that evening? Yes, they faced a one-hour drive from field to salon, but is that still not enough time to get their hair and nails done and enjoy the full evening?

Samba Goes to the Prom

In Tucson, our proms began at 7:30 p.m. Those attending the pre-prom dinner we hosted arrived at 6pm. I realize it takes some girls longer to get ready than others, however, if you can’t accomplish this in 2.5 hours, something’s wrong. It’s not the Oscars for pity’s sake!

“What time does their prom start?” I asked the administrator.

“Photos begin at 4pm,” she said.

“Photos?”

Yes, photos. I had to refer to the AYSA priority list again for rescheduling:

Source: azyouthsoccer.org/tournaments/statecup.aspx

You can see for yourself, there’s NO mention of prom PHOTOS.

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “The answer to my question regarding the specific reason the game was changed was that the team we’re playing has prom photos and that prom photos took priority over the SAT exam?”

She would not admit this and I understand why. It was TOO ridiculous.

“Look,” she said, “Everyone needs to compromise. You’ll just have to accept that your girls will arrive late but it evens out because their girls will need to leave early.”

Even more ridiculous. I was supposed to accept that our girls would miss most of the game AND believe that the other team’s coach was going to let five of his girls leave the state semi-finals early in order to primp for prom? 

On what planet?

I wish I could say it ended there. I figured this was going to be my last call ever to the AYSA so I might as well make the most of it. I kept trying to get her to answer my question—to admit specifically why the AYSA made this scheduling decision— and she amped up her personal attack.

I think it’s fair to say that this woman CRACKED. She called me “pitiful.” She suggested that I (and my team) “are always crying ‘poor-poor me’ and the ‘AYSA is always out to get me!’ ” She said I was spinning the situation to be in line with my consistent claims that the AYSA is always treating our team unfairly.

“Really?” I asked? “You’re really going to insult me like this instead of simply answer my question?“ I told her she didn’t know me nor did she seem to understand our team’s history and the problems we’ve faced with scheduling games with this league.

“Oh we ALL know who you are,” she spit . . .

She went on to hurl insults not worth repeating because she was clearly confused, highly stressed and unable to face the consequences of her actions. Not only did she not follow the rules of the AYSA, but also she was so caught up in defending her actions that I can only conclude she was guilty of giving preferential treatment to the Phoenix-based team. That’s an obvious no-no she wasn’t going to admit.

Instead she opted to take the avenue of turning the situation on me by insulting me, and accusing me of being uncompromising and pitiful.  In some circles, that’s called “victim blaming.”

It was difficult to keep my composure, but I did.  Yes, I was upset on behalf of my team; however, I knew I was perfectly within my rights to have made that call, and I believed my team deserved an honest explanation.

Further, I knew the administrator with whom I was speaking had faced a very difficult task and obviously had a lot of pressure from parents calling in on behalf of their daughters’ upcoming photo sessions. I understood she had a lot more people with whom she had to deal than I, and I didn’t envy her for this job. It was clear to me that she was unable to properly handle the pressure in a professional manner.

A wise person once told me: “There will always be someone who is worse off than you.” That is a certain truth. And on that afternoon it was this AYSA administrator.

I ended the conversation by saying that since I managed a U-18 team it would be the last time she had to deal with this pitiful, uncompromising person—me—and also said, for the record, that I was very disappointed in her language and her unprofessional demeanor.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said sarcastically.

Clearly, she wasn’t the least bit sorry.

I contacted the parents of players planning to take the SAT and they all opted to reschedule the exam (it’s a $20 fee) because it was the only workable option for our team.

So, we found a way to make this situation work because we are neither pitiful nor uncompromising. On the contrary.

I’d like to point out that I believe my job as a manager is to A: understand the problem, and then B: Find a way to solve the problem. We accomplished this as a team, and the result is that none of our girls will be late for the game on Saturday.

Meanwhile I wonder, will the prom girls on the opposing team still leave early?

You can BET I’ll be watching.

“Mom! Can I Talk to You for a Minute?”

She sought me out at the end of the soccer game—a first round State Cup duel our girls won 2-1. I knew she was pissed about something—it showed all over her face, particularly during the second half of the game. Did I think she was pissed at me? Well, yes. She’s been pissed at me for about a year. I can’t tell you why other than to relate that she’s a teenager. And what teenage girl isn’t just a little bit pissed off at her mother?

But something else was clearly bothering her and my guess is that it was just a stressful situation. Regardless, she did voice what was bothering her about me:

“Please don’t talk to me from the sidelines,” she said while standing one inch from the sideline chalk. “It doesn’t help. It’s just a distraction.”

“Okay,” I said. “Gotcha.”

My 15-year-old was right. Usually I’m not a sideline screamer. For the most part, I’m either taking photos or saying things like “Ooh! Good pass!” or “Get a goal!” But during this game I did bark once: “Willow! Wake up!” She definitely heard me.

Even though they ultimately won, after the game I didn’t sense a feeling of pride or victory coming from the team—from the parents or the players. The other team had stepped it up a notch and came to play, while our girls played nervously. They were actually a little lucky to have pulled off the win. I think to make it a real victory, however, next week in round two, the girls should remember to bring their positive attitudes to the field . . . and so should the parents. And by parents, I mean me.

I vow to never bark again. Sorry, Willow.

Homework

“What’s the homework situation?” 

This is the first question I ask my girls everyday after school.

Is it just my kids or has the second half of the first quarter led all teachers to pile on the homework? During the past week, both our seventh grader and our freshman have spent every “free” moment at home stationed at their desks.

The freshman has about two hours of algebra per night, which is most likely because it’s a class with the lofty title, Honors Algebra II. She also has lots of work for her GATE classes, but I think she knew what she was getting into when she chose that program. That she runs x-country and plays club soccer, her lack of actual free time makes me amazed that she finds time to update all her Facebook friends on nearly every move she makes. BTW: since I inevitably reach REM sleep before she calls it a night, it’s fun to wake up in the morning and check out what she was up to the night before. It’s become more interesting than my email.

The seventh grader has had abundant homework in nearly every class but PE. After volleyball she heads straight to her desk and has been up past 10pm for the past several nights diligently working through her assignments. And this is a kid that almost always turns into a pumpkin at eight o’clock. Welcome to junior high.

Thankfully neither has had a meltdown yet, and both have been rewarded with good grades, along with praise and congratulations from their dad and me. I can say with absolute certainty that my parents weren’t even one-tenth as interested in my progress in school as I am in what’s happening with our girls’ education.

And yet I turned out okay.

So, I wonder, is my involvement with my kids’ progress in school a good thing? What’s more important—that they self-motivate to learn and please themselves or that they know I’m looking over their shoulders—both at their desks and by way of the Internet daily grade books?

Boy-oh-boy, it’s only the first quarter and I’ve already had enough of my recurring class in Mommy Micromanagement. Perhaps it’s time to get back to my own work. (If only I could remember how to self-motivate !) I seem to recall having written eight chapters of a new novel, which I had to set aside in May to help run the family business. Well, I’m away from the business now, having left it in the hands of a capable employee. So WTF am I doing?

Note to my own managers—you know who you are—I think I need a “mommy.”

Scattering Cats: The Nature of Team Sports

Last night’s basketball blowout, the worst tournament loss in the history of U of A men’s basketball (103-64 vs. top ranked Louisville) is front page news this morning in Tucson. We all know what happened. Did we really need to see it as a 72 pt. headline?

The truth is, about halfway through the second half, I could no longer watch. When you’re attached to a team, particularly a team that has faced a lot of obstacles and has continued to work hard, it’s simply too hard to watch them go down in a humiliating defeat. No one but their fans can appreciate the entire story.

Most teams have a core—a group of players who’ve been together for a year or so—who comprise the talent and make-up the heart of the team. Revolving door rosters, however, are the name of the game. Each passing year offers new opportunities to players who both stay in the game or opt out for other adventures. Coaches, on the other hand, are the true soul of the team. They tend to stick around and give players and fans someone with whom to identify.

The Wildcats lost their long-term coach, Lute Olson, to sudden retirement and then faced the season with an interim coach, Russ Pennell. Turmoil in the recruitment department ensued, and the team was given up for dead. Then they unexpectedly made it into the NCAA tournament. Even more unexpected was their rise to the Sweet 16. Praise was heaped upon the players and Pennel, and letters to the editor suggested hiring him permanently.

After this loss, who knows what will happen, but I can feel the jockeying for position for next year all the way on the far northeast side. And I’m hardly paying attention.


I feel the turmoil because a similar thing has happened to my daughter’s beleaguered soccer team, which ended its season last Sunday. Their last game wasn’t a blowout, but it was certainly a humiliating defeat that guaranteed this team would disintegrate. And all week, we’ve watched the players run off in different directions. Some are quitting soccer all together, some are testing the waters of other clubs, and some are going to a different age group. They are scattering like flies in a harsh desert wind.

No one really seems to care, except for their fans. We’d love to see the core—the group of players who’ve been together for four or more years—stay together but that’s not going to happen. Such is the nature of team sports.

It’s about time I learned this once and for all.

Chemtrail Followup. Are We Being Poisoned?

Willow had an eight am soccer game yesterday at the fields nearest to our home in Tucson. There was a perfectly blue sky and it was a glorious backdrop to the opening game of their tournament. Our younger daughter, however, who has chosen volleyball over soccer, also had a tournament and it was not near to home. It was in Phoenix.

The sports schedules of our daughters often cause a split-duty scenario between mom and dad. Dad took last week's long haul commute, so this week it was mom's turn. (Good thing we have two cars.) So, with the assistant volleyball coach as our third passenger, Camille and I took off for Phoenix at noon, to a venue two hours north up Hwy. 10.

The tournament took place at the lovely Salvation Army gym (a venue that looks exactly how you might think it would look) and I was a dutiful parent cheering in the stands through the first two matches. During her team's required referee period, I stepped outside to get away from the clamor of a hundred screaming twelve year-olds, the mixed stench of sweaty knee pads and a second shift public bathroom. I walked to my car to get a sandwich and a Perrier from our cooler.


There's a LOT of sky in this part of South Phoenix, and much of it is the background for commercial airliners taking off and landing at Sky Harbor International Airport. One can consistently see and hear multi-colored passenger jets up close and personally, and they were definitely filling the sky with color and sound. But in addition, there was a whole different set of jets filling the sky—not with color and sound—but with . . . CHEMTRAILS.

The initially clear-blue sky had become a grid-pattern of chemtrails clouds.

As I snapped photos and recorded 360° video records of what was going on around me, my throat started to ache and my eyes watered. I wondered if it was my imagination.

I also wondered if I would be more comfortable, not to mention SAFER, inside the Salvation Army gym—a place that smelled like butt and assaulted my ears with referee whistles and the screams of children.