Unexpectedly cheap tickets gave my boy an overwhelming soccer experience, and me a jolt of faith in a flawed tournament
My son had never been to a professional soccer game.
Soccer is, shall we say, not really his thing. It’s also never been particularly important to me that he likes soccer, that he likes what I like. Our sons will be their own men, come what may.
But the sport has brought me untold joy, not to mention paid a good chunk of our mortgage. So I have tried to gently expose him to it here and there. He played a single season of low-stakes rec soccer. I must confess that I lightly bribed him into that by letting him pick out his own cleats – he chose neon green ones, for his favorite color then, even though I warned he wouldn’t be able to see his own feet in the grass. He made a gamely effort every week. On the drive home after the final session, he announced his retirement as a player. Literally. “Mama, Papa, I’m retired from soccer.” Oh well.
Lukie, who turns nine in two weeks, is kind, social and bright. He possesses a soaring curiosity and creativity. He is neurodivergent, too – ADHD. When he was younger, loud noises spooked him. A train pulling into a station. A solid round of applause. Loud music. Thunder. But he seemed to have grown out of that, although he still hates hand dryers in public bathrooms.
