I’m a soccer dad. I drive a minivan junked up with athletic tape, fast-food wrappers, whining teenagers, and the occasional lizard (no joke). I thought playing a sport like soccer in the unnatural heat of Florida would be a deterrent to sane people. Apparently not.

When I first got the bill for how much I’d pay for my children to play, I thought I’d lose my mind.  Now my children practice three times a week and attend tournaments on weekends. Not only will I go bankrupt, I don’t have weekends. I held off travel sports for as long as I could – coaching at the YMCA, playing with my kids in the street, watching YouTube to garner the secrets to soccer success. But I knew eventually I’d give into the cultural mandate of travel soccer. Now I look back on those years of shucking parental responsibility, tossing societal norms to the wind, and enjoying time and sport with my children and wife. We’d take long drives to natural springs, join up with other families for camping trips, and see manatees and owls. 

The drumbeat of the cultural mandate went a little like this: Thrum. “How do you expect your children to develop into good soccer players if all you do is play at the Y?” Thrum. “Aren’t you setting them up for athletic failure?” Thrum. Actual quote here: “You live in Orlando, and the travel system is the only way to go.” Thrum. “Do you want your kids to play soccer like they have two left feet?” Thrum. “How are they going to play in middle school?” Thrum. “How are they going to play in high school?” Thrum diddledy. “How are they going to get scouted?” Skiddle thrum diddle. “How are they going to get college scholarships?” Diddly diddly. “How are they going to play professionally?” Pop-skid-addle. “How are they going to play for the U.S. National team?” Thrum-balina. “How are they going to lift the U.S.’s game in the eyes of the watching world?” Du-op skat. “Do you want to raise national failures?” Snap crackle pop. “Do you want to put extra obstacles in your children’s way?”

I hit a speedbump at full speed as I tried to bat away the questions I used to get. I used to enjoy weekends, but now I dread Friday because, when five o’clock rolls around, I know I’m going to drive my car until I can’t feel my butt. And when we get to the game, we’re going to watch our child play for five minutes. He’ll get a cramp in his pinky toe and won’t continue. Then, when the feeling is finally returning to my butt, I’m going to drive home. And then it’ll be Monday. 

I didn’t realize how big Florida was until my two kids began travel soccer. There are so many cool little towns. I just drive through and sigh, realizing that I’m only passing through, with no time to explore the richness of Florida with all of its tales and histories, magical landscapes, and people. Nope, no time, because my kid needs to run around in a big rectangle and kick an air-filled sphere while adults watch and yell.

And when I question my commitment, the questions come again. “What about your children’s needs? Your child needs to thrive. And if they don’t get that college scholarship, they will probably drop out of school, live under a bridge somewhere, and eat rats. Some parent you’d be then.” How many Olympic gold medalists say, “I just want to thank my parents, who refused to sacrifice their weekends to the goddess of athletic achievement, but instead took us to art museums, showed us how to camp and start fires, and drove us to the ocean just to rest and watch the waves. Actually, I don’t want to thank my parents who taught me that I was a human being, not a wind-up swim toy. Now I dedicate this Olympic gold to my swim coaches who rescued me from my wicked parents, locked me in a locker room, and only let me out to swim and to eat. Actually, they just slid my meals under the door. Go, USA!”

Next, my mind wanders to the types of parents I’ll be hanging out with this weekend. Many of them are like me, duped into the madness like blind sheep. We’re unlike the kind, nurturing parents who yell, “Kick the ball! Just kick the freaking ball! Come on, what’s wrong with you guys?! You’ve gotta want it. You’ve got to bring the heat. Where’s the desire? Do you want to lose? You’re better than this. My grandma could kick the ball farther than you’re kicking it, and she was born without legs! You guys are a disgrace! Kick it! Send it! Kick it! Just send it! Kick them in the face if you have to! Yes, kick them while they’re down! If they push you, push them back!”

This is all before they turn their beat-red faces and foaming mouths to direct their unfettered rage at the poor hapless refs, who are usually hapless teenagers who look like they have all the security of reindeer caught in the lights of 18 wheelers. Pop a whistle in the deer’s mouth, all better.

I think I need to go suck on a whistle to calm down.