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.

ACL Diary: It Takes a Year

April 2, 2011 was the day it happened. It was the day our daughter’s life changed.

We were told it would be about a year before she would truly “be back” as a soccer player with a torn and replaced ACL. Her surgeon and therapist cleared her to play six months ago and that’s because she was physically strong. But getting back her confidence—not to mention the kind of playing time a top-level player needs—was slower in coming.

Less than a month after her first games back on the field with her club team (Samba), they broke for the high school season. Unfortunately, her high school coach/teammates appeared to treat her more as the injured player she had become rather than the talented player she was. She trained daily with the team and grew stronger and more agile, yet she spent most of the season on the bench. Trust, it didn’t do a thing to redevelop her confidence, and it even threatened to take away her passion for the game.

Willow the "Bruiser"

What we learned during this three-month period is that you can’t always depend on a coach to take a special interest in your kid, nor can you get him or her to believe any other method, style or strategy may be more effective or successful than the one in which he/she believes. So, we just encouraged our child to hang-in there, keep working, and if she wanted to continue playing, her time would come.

I suppose it’s fair to say that as we kicked our way through the grief stages of our daughter’s injury and the near-fatal rip it gave to her soccer career, that this was the acceptance phase. She had a major injury. She needed time to fully recover.

Willow Cozzens, #24, in the air

Thankfully, the school season came to an end, the club season resumed, and Willow took her place back on the field. She was still not in a starting position—but she was given a respectable amount of playing time. And it wasn’t long before we were regularly seeing shades of the old Willow—or “Bruiser”—the nickname she earned last year.

“Did you see that slide, Mom?” she called to me between halves at a recent a game. I assured her that I did indeed see it, (and it didn’t even make me nervous). “That was for you!” she said with a wink.

Her team went undefeated in the AZ Division I State League season, clinching the championship and earning the first place seed for the upcoming State Cup tournament, which begins later this month.

After one full year and a lot of medical and therapy bills paid in full, all we can say now is: Go Samba! Go Willow! We love you; we believe in you. And it’s very rewarding to see how much you believe in yourself.

NOTE: We isolated this very short clip to show her tenacity on the field last weekend against the current state champions, a national team. She's the tall player in red on the left, who makes a tackle, gets tripped, recovers, and then fields the ball to her outside defender. Atta girl.

“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.

A Big, Bad Bruise to the Buttocks

Poor kid. She insists on running hurdles because she says “it’s fun.” I’m sure it is. Her forte, however—even though she refuses to believe it—is distance. I know this to be true because I’ve run with her. Never fail, within the first five minutes of our run, she’s half a mile ahead of me. And quite frankly, I’m no slouch.

Also, the only days she doesn’t run distance are the days she has soccer practice. And if she goes for a few days without a long run, she misses it the way any addict misses her fix. I understand they call it a runner’s high. (I have yet to experience a runner’s high . . . I only have runner’s remorse when I go too long without this beneficial workout).

Unfortunately, my daughter’s enthusiasm to run the 100 hurdles in the afternoon track meet was thwarted in warm-up by an early jump and a crash. Her calf hit the hurdle and then she somehow landed a relatively bony butt cheek on top of it, which resulted in a substantial bruise. The injury rendered her ineligible for the hurdles, of course, and the high jump, an event in which she planned to compete for the first time.

We brought her home, iced her up, gave her Advil and cookies, and let her rest for two hours before soccer practice. Yes, soccer practice.

My daughter is setting her physical activity priorities. When it comes to sports, she’s a soccer girl. For those of you in other climates, you may not realize that down here in the desert, soccer season never ends. Club workouts and competition happen year-round, only breaking for three-months while the school season takes place during the winter.

In the fall she added the cross-country team to her schedule and truly enjoyed it. After a long school soccer season, she wasn’t as enthusiastic about spring track until she heard it was a coed team. We realize she doesn’t feel extremely competitive in her events and uses the opportunity as a track team member to stay in shape and have something to do after school other than homework and being with us.

She’s decent at the hurdles and, I feel, with a little training/coaching, could be an outstanding high-jumper. At five-foot nine with legs til next Tuesday, she’s certainly built for it.

This girl can do anything she wants and we’ll always support her decisions. But holding my breath through the potential injuries and icing the (so-far minor) injuries that do occur, make my hair go gray.

Ultimately I believe that for now, one more bruise to the butt doesn’t seem so bad. Ask any parent who has faced something like ACL surgery—an all too common injury for young female soccer players—it could be a lot worse.

Raindrops and Tears

It’s been a wet weekend. Yes, it rains in the desert. Temperatures drop below freezing, trees shed their leaves, and on days like today, snowmen wave from the back of pickup trucks.

Valley dwellers love to take the meandering upward climb to the nearest mountain summit and shovel the white stuff into their vehicles for reasons I have yet to determine. Perhaps it’s because native Tucsonans who haven’t experienced a Midwestern or East Coast childhood, think snow is nothing more than a quaint material for constructing icy men with charcoal eyes and mesquite stick arms.

We spent the weekend in Phoenix for the Desert Classic soccer tournament. This morning for the semi-final game, it didn’t get past 50° and if you didn’t have a raincoat, umbrella and a good pair of waterproof shoes, it wasn’t fun. I had all of the above, except the shoes. I had on my running shoes, which thanks to some innovative technology, have air holes in the soles. My feet were soaked after the first minute I stepped onto the grass. One of MY teammates, however, a soccer dad, loaned me his shoes. Thanks to Robert, I was set.

Unfortunately, I can’t call what I witnessed from the sidelines today “fun.”

With the exception of about one minute of sheer joy, when our girls went up 2-1, this was one of the most grueling soccer games I’ve ever seen. And I’ve got a resume of being a soccer parent that’s nine years long. Sparing disinterested parties the details, let me relate that our girls played their hearts out in the cold rain and were, in my opinion, the stronger team on the field. Their opponents managed to bring the score to 2-2 and in the waning minutes, we believed it would end in a tie and come down to a shoot-out. That was until what had to be the WORST call by a referee I’ve ever seen.

Our goal-keeper, a talented loaner player from Colorado named Gracie, came out of the net to go after a ball just off the foot of a threatening striker. The ball went out of bounds off the keeper, both girls fell and the whistle blew. The call was a FOUL on Gracie, when she was clearly going after the ball. This resulted in a PK (Penalty Kick), which is extremely difficult to defend. So, BOOM! The striker succeeds, the score becomes 3-2, the whistle blows three times, and there’s no advance to the finals for our team.

I wanted to cry but didn’t. I'm sure the tears would have fallen like raindrops if they had won, but there’s simply nothing anyone can do about a bad call. There’s no instant replay, no referee making the announcement: “After further review . . .” Nothing but a loss and a drive home in the rain. At the least it was questionable, and at the most it was a game-deciding call. 

That said, in all my years of watching soccer I’ve never seen a unanimous protest by every parent on the sidelines shouting disagreement with this call. This time even the usually quiet ones were up in arms. It was simply unbelievable.

When I picked up the player cards from the tournament tent my husband accompanied me, and I was nervous he might GO OFF on this Rock-em/Sock-em Robot of a referee. (Honestly, the whistle-blower in question was about 6-foot 5 and had a box-shaped head). And he nearly did, until he heard Mr. Crew Cut speaking German, and decided there’d be a communication gap. Clearly there was some kind of gap—a gap that had no clue about the magnificent impact of his unfortunate judgment. 

If any team in the history of teams could have used the morale boost of a trip to the finals, it was the ’95 Nike Rush Girls. But true to their incredible team spirit and camaraderie, they brushed it off and held their heads high. They knew they had played well. 

We parents knew it too; however, it probably took us a lot longer to get over it. Being soaked on the sidelines is far more miserable than being soaked on the playing field. Especially when your feet are wet.

Volunteer Burnout

Recently I posted a photo of my favorite Christmas gift (Dec. 27, 2008). It’s a change purse with a dolled-up Eisenhower-era babe with her head in white daisy clouds. Her frozen lipstick smile and perfectly plucked eyebrows suggest a woman with time on her hands. The caption reads: STOP ME BEFORE I VOLUNTEER AGAIN.

I’m not the only one experiencing volunteer burnout, and that became slap-my-face apparent earlier this week. Let me voluntarily relate this story:

Currently, I’m managing a girls’ soccer team. This makes me a step beyond a mere dedicated soccer mom who shows up on game day with orange slices and juice boxes. Turns out there’s a great deal of communication involved and, damn it, paperwork. I’m in the process of working on paperwork for two players. Player #1 is trying to get off our team and Player #2 is trying to get on.

After three weeks of calls, texts, emails, faxes and personal deliveries, I realized that it wasn’t only MY volunteer efforts needed to get the job done, but it involved the cooperative efforts of volunteers who are obviously far more burned out than I.

Player #1: A player transferring from Arizona to Texas. It took me approximately three minutes to print the transfer form and pull her other paperwork and player card. It was another minute to fill out the form and sign in the manager’s spot. I called Texas to confirm the address, prepared a manila envelope, and then hand-delivered it to our Club Administrator/Registrar for her signature. This was two weeks ago. The eagerly awaiting soccer mom in Texas has since contacted me twice asking for the materials. Her daughter, a talented midfielder, cannot play on a new team until the forms are first received and then processed on her end. She’s also due $475 in prepaid training fees. Last week I was assured the forms would go out this week. Today is Friday and after making another request I was told “they’d get to it ASAP—hopefully today.” Said Registrar is far too busy with her REAL job—the one that pays her—to deal with this silly soccer form.

Player #2: A player transferring from one local club to another. No state lines involved—just club lines. It’s been three weeks of gathering the appropriate paperwork for this player, a striker with promise, which is something our team could really use right now. The last signature needed before I can get her on our roster is that of the Club Registrar releasing her from her previous team. I’ve got a looming deadline and a history with Club Registrars putting this paperwork on the back burner, so I decided to squeaky-wheel the other club after Registrar B didn’t return my phone call or email for two days. (Because, of course, I have nothing better to do than invest time in this, right?)

Registrar B did return my second phone call. And, bless her little volunteering heart, lambasted me with an obviously prepared lecture on what it means to be a volunteer and how it was ridiculous for me to expect this kind of paperwork to be turned around “within 10 hours.” It was considerably more than 10 hours since I initially contacted her, however, it took 10 nanoseconds to determine that her overextended brain wasn’t firing with all cylinders.

“You obviously don’t realize that we are not paid to do these jobs,” she said. “We are all WORKING people with OTHER obligations. I, myself, am a full-time student and this, and that, and this and . . .” BLAH-BLAH-freakin’-BLAH.

I remained quiet, half listening, and tapped my foot while waiting for her to finish. Finally I was able to get in a word. All I wanted was the answer to one question: When can I get your signature on this form and back in my hands for filing? I asked her just like that—all business.

At this she sighed heavily and said, “You know, your TONE is really obnoxious!”

Okay . . . this chick obviously had issues. Maybe a fight with her teacher? A bad grade on a math test? So, I let that slide too. “You’re misinterpreting,” I said calmly. “I’m simply trying to expedite this process, and . . .”

“We’re all on the same team,” she interrupted. “We all work with the same organization . . . and you people don’t seem to realize . . . ” Again I had to stop listening. I only wanted the answer to my question.

Clearly, she had a lesson to teach and I was the soccer mom-turned-manager who was the target of her boring, burned-out volunteer career. And while I had to turn the form into a PDF to submit to her via email, she refused to offer the same courtesy to me. She wouldn’t even use a good old-fashioned fax machine.

“You have to come and pick up this form,” she said.

I didn’t argue. “Okay. Where will it be?”

Sigh! [dramatic pause] “At the corner of X and Y Streets.”

“O-kay,” I said again. “Do you want to give me an address”?

Sigh! [another dramatic pause] “It’s 1-2-3-4 Main Street.”

“Is this a business?”

Sigh! [and yet another dramatic pause—then absolute SNAP] “NO! It’s my house!”

“Ffffffffff . . . fine,” I said, definitely thinking of another F-word to say to this B-word, C-word. And by “B” and “C” words, I DON’T mean Bitter and Condescending.


The next day I had the signed form in my hand. But it’s not because I put in another minute of volunteer time to drive across town to the little house with the black gate and the blue box. I had someone who DID call her a Bitch and a Cunt do the job.