The Boy plays soccer, which is an oddly foreign thing to me; I grew up in a western Pennsylvania thirty miles and a million light years away from the western PA he’s growing up in. (That’s a good thing, for the most part.) Playing soccer was unheard of when I was a kid—most of the boys I knew played football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring from the time we entered school. That changed, of course, as some of the boys became better at one sport, or picked up wrestling, or realized they weren’t cut out for sports at all, but one thing was certain: There was no soccer in my hometown in the 70s and 80s.
(Notice that I said that, “most of the boys I knew.” That was on purpose. Girls couldn’t play football, couldn’t play girls’ basketball until junior high, and couldn’t play girls’ softball until they were ten. Little girls didn’t have sports, but they could take dance lessons, gymnastics, and . . . BATON.)
Something changed while I was in college, though, and now soccer is as common in western PA (and my hometown) as it seems to be anywhere else in America. That’s fine with me, despite the fact that I chafe at being called a soccer mom. Ick.
I’m also not crazy about the Everyone’s a Winner mentality that surrounds so much of youth soccer. Because you know what? Everyone’s NOT a winner. It’s not that I’m some kind of competitive freak, driven to see my kid plow over other kids in an unrelenting march to be victorious, but I don’t see why it’s so bad for kids to learn that some people are better at some things than others are.
Take The Boy, for example. He played in an indoor recreation league over the winter, and played well enough to be invited to try out for the city’s more competitive travel league. He was flattered and did try out, and was offered a spot on what is clearly the team’s B Squad. (The team is divided into two teams who practice together but have separate game schedules, and the team The Boy is on is nowhere near as good as the team he’s not on: They were shut out 8-0 in a scrimmage.) That’s all fine by me, but what’s NOT fine by me is the fact that I was chastised by the team’s manager when I referred to it as the B Team: “We don’t like to use that kind of terminology.”
What a bunch of crap! Every kid on both teams knows which team is better (8-0), so why do we have to act like it’s a secret? Stupid.
Anyway, the point of this whole post wasn’t to criticize. (Imagine that.) I wanted to write about the fact that The Boy’s team played a game in the suburbs last Sunday. I am the first person to admit that Pittsburgh is more of a big town than it is a city, and that it certainly isn’t the most diverse big town in the world, but I was proud of the fact that The Boy’s team isn’t made up only of white boys, as the suburban team was.
I only knew other white kids when I was growing up, and most of them were Catholics of either Italian or Eastern European descent; my world didn’t look at all like the world Sesame Street brought into my living room. I didn’t know any black kids, or Jewish kids, or Indian kids, or Hispanic kids. Everyone I grew up with was pretty much exactly like me, and woe to those (especially the boys) who weren’t.
Thirty miles and twenty-five years later, though, The Boy knows and hangs out with kids from a bunch of different backgrounds. Hooray for soccer in the city, right? Or is it even that big a deal? I mean, yes, the kids all look different, and have names like Yakob and Hakim and Talus and Freisle to go along with the Dylans and Haydens, but . . . is that good enough? Are the differences in these kids just in their names, looks, and holiday celebrations? Is that really making a contribution toward peace and harmony? Because isn’t that what “embracing diversity” is supposed to do?
(Notice that I said that, “most of the boys I knew.” That was on purpose. Girls couldn’t play football, couldn’t play girls’ basketball until junior high, and couldn’t play girls’ softball until they were ten. Little girls didn’t have sports, but they could take dance lessons, gymnastics, and . . . BATON.)
Something changed while I was in college, though, and now soccer is as common in western PA (and my hometown) as it seems to be anywhere else in America. That’s fine with me, despite the fact that I chafe at being called a soccer mom. Ick.
I’m also not crazy about the Everyone’s a Winner mentality that surrounds so much of youth soccer. Because you know what? Everyone’s NOT a winner. It’s not that I’m some kind of competitive freak, driven to see my kid plow over other kids in an unrelenting march to be victorious, but I don’t see why it’s so bad for kids to learn that some people are better at some things than others are.
Take The Boy, for example. He played in an indoor recreation league over the winter, and played well enough to be invited to try out for the city’s more competitive travel league. He was flattered and did try out, and was offered a spot on what is clearly the team’s B Squad. (The team is divided into two teams who practice together but have separate game schedules, and the team The Boy is on is nowhere near as good as the team he’s not on: They were shut out 8-0 in a scrimmage.) That’s all fine by me, but what’s NOT fine by me is the fact that I was chastised by the team’s manager when I referred to it as the B Team: “We don’t like to use that kind of terminology.”
What a bunch of crap! Every kid on both teams knows which team is better (8-0), so why do we have to act like it’s a secret? Stupid.
Anyway, the point of this whole post wasn’t to criticize. (Imagine that.) I wanted to write about the fact that The Boy’s team played a game in the suburbs last Sunday. I am the first person to admit that Pittsburgh is more of a big town than it is a city, and that it certainly isn’t the most diverse big town in the world, but I was proud of the fact that The Boy’s team isn’t made up only of white boys, as the suburban team was.
I only knew other white kids when I was growing up, and most of them were Catholics of either Italian or Eastern European descent; my world didn’t look at all like the world Sesame Street brought into my living room. I didn’t know any black kids, or Jewish kids, or Indian kids, or Hispanic kids. Everyone I grew up with was pretty much exactly like me, and woe to those (especially the boys) who weren’t.
Thirty miles and twenty-five years later, though, The Boy knows and hangs out with kids from a bunch of different backgrounds. Hooray for soccer in the city, right? Or is it even that big a deal? I mean, yes, the kids all look different, and have names like Yakob and Hakim and Talus and Freisle to go along with the Dylans and Haydens, but . . . is that good enough? Are the differences in these kids just in their names, looks, and holiday celebrations? Is that really making a contribution toward peace and harmony? Because isn’t that what “embracing diversity” is supposed to do?
No comments:
Post a Comment