thing 8: coach a soccer team

there are some 44 things that i chose, and then there are other things that chose me.  coaching jack’s soccer team definitely falls into the later category.  when the head of the recreation league kept sending out emails pleading for parent volunteer coaches, i did what the majority of parents did -- read and delete.  it wasn’t until the final email came that said they would disband the teams if more parents did not volunteer did a friend convince me that we could be co-coaches.  while neither of us had any coaching experience or soccer knowledge, somehow she was persuasive enough to convince me.  (she really can pull out all of her lawyer speak and logic when necessary.)  honestly, she had me at this being a 44 thing.  surely, the kids were better off with us as coaches than not having a soccer team at all . . . right?

all i can say is, “thank the lord for the internet.”  we scoured countless web sites learning about coaching kids, rules, and all things soccer.  we talked to friends who had coached and/or had soccer knowledge.  we met and mapped out all practices down to the minute with drills and scrimmages. we talked about the things we didn’t care for on previous teams and truly threw ourselves into it.  we were determined to learn as much as we could and teach our eight players the game.  we ignored our husband’s overt mocking for creating handmade name tags for the first practice (and, if i do say so myself, they were adorable), deciding to name a team captain each week (who would be in charge of leading drills and being our helper), coming up with a team cheer to sing before each game, enforcing a coin toss to decide offense/defense before each game.  it was interesting to see how our “mommy approach” to coaching played out - or maybe it was a male versus female approach.  whatever it was, our husbands were having fun at our expense, but, i feel the need to point out, they didn’t volunteer.

i kept notes -- really little scribbles -- after each practice and game of the striker season and went through them to pull this blog together.  each made me smile.

practice 1:  note to self, stop calling the players, “honey.”

game 1:  primary responsibility:  tying shoes (seven cleats in total). we won!

practice 2:  same note as above.  geesh . . .

game 2:  nasty opposing coach - not my proudest moment to be sidelined by my co-coach.  my first attempt at refereeing -- not easy dodging ten kids, piles of elk poop, and a wild ball up and down the field.  we won!

practice 3:  realized i have more patience for other children than i do for my own.

game 3:  had more confidence in refereeing.  tied four shoes.  we won!

practice 4:  first time i thought we might be over our heads.  the kids were all over the place tonight.

game 4:  one of the players said to me on the sideline, “i’m so glad i’m on this team.  do you think we can all stay together next year”?  we won!

after the fourth game -- and all wins -- we were feeling pretty good about the strikers.  although, truth be told, i’m sure it had to do less with our coaching skills and more to do with the incredible bunch of kids we had been given.

practice 5:  at the part of practice when we talk about lessons learned from the last game and what we could do to improve, the kids said, “but we keep winning.  what do we need to improve.  we’re undefeated.”  oh boy . . .

game 5:  cancelled due to snow!

practice 6:  none of the kids wanted practice to end and all asked if it could be longer.

game 6:  our first loss!  kids were so bummed on the sideline watching their team lose.  tried to explain that sometimes you learn more from losing than you do from winning, but the kids were having nothing of it!  talked about the importance of having fun and being good sports.  may as well have been talking to myself by the end of the game.

practice 7:  cancelled due to snow.

game 7:  strikers came back strong!  mid-way through the game, i realized this might be my favorite 44 thing.  we won!

practice 8:  cancelled due to soggy field conditions.

game 8:  final game!  had to play the awful opposing coach from game 2 and dreaded it.  at one point, during a striker throw in, she said, “that’s really illegal, but i’ll let it go.”  had to bite my tongue not to say, “you’re really a bitch, but i’ll let it go.”  even jack said, “i’m glad she’s not my coach, mommy.”  we won!

even though we’re not supposed to keep score -- and it was impossible not to have the kids keep track -- we were so very proud of our strikers for our 6 - 1 season.  the kids were proud too, and it was obvious how thrilled they were when they received their trophies and nicknames (kudos to my fantastic co-coach for that idea).

i have a new appreciation for anyone who volunteers to coach any team.  not only is it a time commitment, it’s a commitment to the kids, who deserve your energy, enthusiasm, 100% effort.  i learned so much from each child, and they made me laugh every single practice and game (and maybe a sigh or two, but mostly laughter).  from the player who turned himself into a human soccer ball and rolled himself down the field to make a goal to the one who head butted the ball and then asked (very seriously), “do you think i’ll have severe brain trauma”? -- they were all amazing.  what my co-coach and i lacked in formal coaching skills, we made up for by instilling sportsmanship, conveying the value of being part of a team, and trying to have as much fun as possible . . . at least i hope that’s what we accomplished.

the most memorable part of this experience for me?  far and away, it was when one of the players came up to me, tugged on my shirt, looked into my eyes, and said, “coach lynne, i hope i never forget you.”  oh, sweet girl, i promise i will never forget you or any single one of the fabulous strikers.  this 44 thing has the potential to change my everyday world, and that’s a pretty amazing thing.

no formal team picture will do for us . . . the strikers!

on to thing 9 . . .

thing 7: try sushi and a dirty martini

last night, a friend and i decided on the spur of the moment to go out for drinks, dinner, and to see a comedy club show.  we planned to talk about a few 44 thing ideas because she is more concerned than i am that time is ticking, and i still have many, many, many (well, you could just add 37 “manys” here to be exact) things to accomplish, so we decided we may as well tackle two while we were out -- sushi and a dirty martini.   i’m not sure sushi and dirty martinis go together -- you know, like nachos and beer or brunch and mimosas or even oreos and milk -- but what the heck . . .

i’ll start with the dirty martini ordering process . . . dry/extra dry; shaken/stirred; type of vodka . . . i really had no clue what i wanted with the exception of the vodka (premium), so i just asked the waitress to make the drink like she’d like it.  easy enough.  i sat back and waited for the drink to appear before me.  i honestly have no idea why a dirty martini had such an appeal to me or why i never had one.  after all, i’ve been 21 for some time, so there was no reason not to try it before.  it isn’t as if the drink has a magical connection to an event or to a person in my life.  maybe it’s because i’m a lazy drinker in that when i’m at home, i am more than happy drinking nothing requiring more effort or appliances than it takes to open a bottle of beer or wine, make a gin and tonic, or put together a margarita.  any drink that needs a shaker, shot glass, strainer, special glass, or measuring is not for me.

the drink arrived to no fanfare, but i was excited nonetheless.  i wasn’t sure what to expect, but that first sip was a bit of a surprise.  it was cold, dry, and incredibly salty.  i don’t know if the olive juice (the “dirty”) is what made it salty, but it was an unexpected taste.  honestly, it tasted better with each sip -- maybe because my taste buds were becoming numb or i was getting drunk . . . could go either way.  i have to admit the yummiest part of the drink was munching on the vodka soaked olives at the end.  now, those were divine.

on to the sushi . . .  i’m not totally sure what we got, but one look at the plate made me think that if the food tasted as wonderful as it was presented, i would love it.  i learned i should stir a dab of wasabi into the orangy spicy sauce and then crush some ginger into it, as well.  it smelled so delicious.  everything went downhill eating-wise once i tried to pick up a roll with chopsticks.  i’m an ace at using jack’s animal cheater chopsticks, which consists of a hippo at the top, with two of the four legs extending down to form the sticks.  i am totally inept at the adult version and had to resort to using a fork.  (i know . . . gasp.)  i was also told i had to put the entire piece in my mouth, which didn’t feel quite right, but, awkward or not, i did it.  there were a variety of textures going on in my mouth at the same time - crunchy, soft, sticky, hard, chewy - and as long as i didn’t focus on the masses of fish eggs sprinkled on top and now being eaten, i was ok.  i don’t consider myself a picky eater, but this was definitely new to me.  i’m not sure sushi is something i would ever crave like i sometimes do with buffalo wings, salt and vinegar potato chips, and pasta, but i would try it again.  it seemed like an experience in dining and not just the action of eating, which was fun.

yummy!

if i get to the end of the year and am short one thing, i am splitting this one into two, but for now, i’m still optimistic time is on my side.

on to thing 8 . . .

thing 6: skydive . . . indoor skydiving, that is . . .

i love the idea of skydiving.  the notion of falling through the sky sounds intriguing -- well, until i picture myself with my arms flailing, legs kicking every which way, getting sick, dying . . . and a million other things.  on the last flight i was on, i realized that on every plane ride i take, at some point during the flight, i find myself lamenting the fact that i am sitting, seatbelted to a chair, and traveling through the sky.  amazing.  why would i ever want to open a door and jump out of a perfectly good plane?

for my birthday, my wonderful friend gave me a “flight” for indoor skydiving, which, i realize sounds like a contradiction.  indoor skydiving is billed as getting the adrenaline rush of free falling without the airplane.  basically, you soar in an indoor vertical wind tunnel.  i read the website before making my “reservation,” and it sounded exciting and not particularly scary -- and everyone was smiling in the pictures, so, really, i told myself, i could do this thing.  

jack wanted to fly with me, and since he had already done it before, he was giving me all sorts of tips.  my favorite was, “mommy, take the chapstick out of your pocket because when you fly, it will go up the chamber, through the fans, and end up in the parking lot.”  i wondered what else could end up in the parking lot.  our instructor, who was all of twenty-one years old informed us skydiving was his passion, and he had taken over 900 jumps out of planes.  he assured me no one had ever thrown up in the chamber, and that as long as i “submitted to the wind,” i would be fine.  i spent at least twenty minutes wondering what that meant.  i was also told that in order to have a successful flight, i had to remember two things -- (1) don’t tense up and (2) make slow movements.  honestly, when i find myself in trouble, becoming tense is pretty much the first thing my body does all on its own.

getting ready for my turn seemed endless.  i watched people before me who were less successful than i hoped to be, but they were trying -- even the woman who ended up on her back and looked remarkably like a turtle trying to right itself.  my hands were sweaty,  and my stomach was queasy.  i don't like that flippy stomach feeling you get from roller coasters, and i even get that feeling while swinging too high on the playground swings, so i was squirmy -- even jack reached out and held my hand.  (ok, i that point, i did feel a bit wimpy.  not even my skydiving jumpsuit, goggles, ear plugs, and helmet made me feel better.)  when it was my turn, i stood in the doorway, leaned in, and was miraculously supported by the wind.  it was such an incredible feeling.  i was told that if i smiled, i would drool, but, honestly, it was impossible not to smile -- and, really, drooling was preferable to getting sick, which was my original fear.  i floated up and down, concentrating on the position of my body, which totally dictated whether i stayed up, went down, turned left or right.  the slightest modifications to the straightness of my legs or how my hands were bent propelled my body in a different direction.  the wind was over 160 miles per hour, and it felt similar to how your hand feels if you put it out a moving car window.  even though i was traveling up and down and spinning, i did not get that flippy stomach feeling.  maybe it’s because with indoor skydiving, your visual isn’t of the ground getting closer as your body is careening towards it.  instead, you’re confined, can see the floor, look at people watching you, and, in my case, the bowling alley across the way.  that said, i spent the entire time focusing on my body positioning and did not notice anything else.  it was an amazing feeling, and while i could submit to the wind, i spent way too much time concentrating (and wiping drool from my chin) to find the experience relaxing.

there is video proof of my flights, but it's so very unflattering with my cheek skin flapping in the wind that i can’t possibly post it.  instead, i’ll include these pictures of us in our very attractive flight suits.  we almost look professional, right?

jack and me

a flying lynne

after the "flight," my instructor asked if i would think about doing an actual skydive (out of a plane) with him.  when i stopped laughing and asked why he does it, he said, "because the door opens."  interesting . . .

on to thing 7 . . .

thing 5: take a zumba lesson

i have no rhythm. it’s not that i don’t want it. i just don’t have it. i don’t think rhythm is something you can learn either. i put it in the category of having a sense of direction, which, i also don’t have, by the way. both are cognitive functions, and you either have it or you don’t.

having no rhythm in no way, shape, or form deterred me from wanting to take a zumba class. (for those seven of you who are not familiar with zumba, it’s described as an exhilarating, latin-inspired, calorie-burning dance/exercise class – or, as the official zumba.com site says, “ditch the workout. join the party.”) what did deter me was thinking about shaking my uncoordinated body in front of (surely) better coordinated strangers, which, you have to admit, is intimidating. however, when my dear friend (the one who gets dragged on most 44 thing adventures so far) asked me to join her, i thought it would be fun. (although, truth be told, i thought she was inviting me to make herself look better.)

we took our places in the back row amidst 35 or so suburban women -- and one man, who stood next to me. i felt the need to give my disclaimer of this being my first class to him. he said he was a wrestler and was used to contact sports, so not to worry. with that, the music began. i have to admit, i felt a bit full of myself at first because not only was i keeping up, i was doing all the moves. i don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that we really weren’t so much moving as we were stretching to music. everything changed at exactly 10:08, which would be eight minutes into the class, when the instructor hollered out to tap into our inner shakira. really? i’ve been known to tap into my inner martha stewart on occasion, but never shakira. i looked around the class to see everyone shaking their groove thing, and i started to laugh -- not at them, but at me being in this situation and seeing (thanks to walls of mirrors) how completely ridiculous i looked from every angle. it was bad enough that i went left when others went right; my arms were the only pair up when other arms were down; i went forward when others were going back; but then to be subjected to watching myself in mirrors was almost too much to bear. all of these people were happily shaking what their momma gave them, and i was desperately trying to keep up. why was it that as soon as i figured out a move (and notice i didn’t say mastered a move), everyone was one to the next step?

it was a total crime how my moves butchered the beautiful latin and brazilian music. my saving grace – or so i told myself -- was that we were in the back row, so i was somewhat isolated as to who could see me. what we didn’t realize was that the back row became the front row throughout the class when the instructor tried to mix things up.  so much for anonymity.  i should have been doing either these slow, sensual moves or fast shimmying and shaking – and my hips didn’t like either beat. when the instructor said to count "one, two, three" with our arms above our heads and then swirl our hips in a downward figure eight pattern slowly . . . nope, my hips were not going to tolerate that move. when the instructor said to shout "one, two, three, arriba, arriba, arriba" and then to shake our bottoms while pushing out our arms in front of us while shaking our chests . . . nope, not one part of my body was interested in perfecting those moves either. thankfully, at that point, my row was not in front or facing the mirrors, but rather facing the wall of windows, which looked out over a pasture. i watched a bunch of cows grazing, and, i have to say, they were more graceful than me.

the class went on (and on and on), and i kept up in my own unique way. i glistened (or “sweat” to others) in places i don't normally gisten, but i had a great time. i kept humming shakira’s, “you know my hips don’t lie” line and decided that my hips are only good for three things -- (1) holding my pants up; (2) giving jack a ledge to sit on when i carry him; and (3) closing the car door when my arms are full -- not for shaking my zumba groove thing, but that was fine with me. i also wondered if when i tell jack that i'll play wii kidz bop dance party with him, and he says, "that's ok mommy, we can play mini golf,” if even he found my moves and rhythm too much to witness. unfortunately, for the class, i actually had a great time and plan to go back. i found out my gym offers classes, but until i get better, i think i may be better off going to the class in the next town over . . . well, unless my moves and reputation proceed me, and, in that case, there is always the exercise channel on cable.

recently, i watched jack and a friend do a conga line around the house, and they were so uninhibited and completely unconcerned with how they looked until they noticed me -- and then they stopped until i left. how amazing is it to be so free, comfortable, and unconcerned about how you look? when does that end and we become too aware and self-conscious to the point of simply not having fun? what would we do if we knew no one was watching? while i clearly don't have the groove shaking gene (and maybe this was a 44 thing that would have been better combined with the dirty martini 44 thing), i do have the gene that lets me laugh at myself, which, i suppose, in the end, is more important.

and to my dear friend who dragged me to class, you have all the right moves!

shake your groove thing, shake your groove thing, yeah, yeah . . . show 'em how we do it now . . .

on to thing 6 . . .