Yesterday was three-year-old Caleb's big day. First soccer practice of … well, of his life. Needless to say he was excited. So excited that he couldn't even bring himself to eat breakfast until; he was placed under severe duress and faced the possibility of not being allowed to go to practice at all. He finally managed to choke down a few bites, enough to satisfy the concerned Daddy responsible for his morning sustenance.
Once we arrived (first ones there, I might add. Even after a stop at Target for an air pump to blow up his soccer ball), Caleb began a workout on his own, kicking the ball into the net time after time. He definitely had that action down. Most exciting for us, however, was the revelation that he also had down his post- scoooooooore celebration. He threw both fists into the air, emitted a celebratory growl, lifted his shirt over his head, and ran around in circles. I know I have seen that on TV coverage of the World Cup more than once.
I did wonder about his coach once he arrived. Seemed like a nice enough guy. He greeted each of the boys and asked them to give him five. When they did he said "ouch" and asked for another. Three slaps. Three "ouches." Must have been a secret soccer greeting known only to the inner circle. The boys seemed to become worried about him later in the practice, though. When they were gathered in a huddle, he asked them a question in his best motivational voice. A few boys replied with what was obviously the correct answer, but the coach asked the same question again, only louder. The youngsters looked at him quizzically, then looked at each other with a concerned puzzlement. Finally a few hesitantly repeated the answer, glancing around for assistance from their parents who were anxiously listening in the wings, aching for their own little superstars to shine. And when he asked a third and fourth time, they finally determined that perhaps it would be helpful to the poor old guy if they just spoke a bit louder. The team was already bonding with their coach, for they truly feared that he couldn't hear too well.
The concern continued during the next drill. The boys were supposed to use "little kicks" and move their individual balls around the field with their feet. Not a problem. At least not until the coach continually and urgently repeated the phrase, "No hands." The boys looked at the two appendages at the end of their arms, and then at the coach, as if to say, "Oh, no, Coach. You are mistaken. I have two perfectly good hands right here. And they are very helpful if the silly ball won't go exactly where I want it to go. All I have to do is move it with my hands just a bit." Their silent pleading proved fruitless, however. The poor guy must not see very well, either. For over and over he droned, "No hands. No hands." Josh tried a covert maneuver to make sure Caleb understood the unusual command. He quietly took Caleb aside and explained that he coach meant he was not to touch the ball with his hands. Caleb's response was fairly quick and certainly decisive, "I'm not using my hands, Daddy, just my fingers." Ah. Of course.
The final point of confusion was also quite disconcerting to the parents. The poor coach was trying to communicate some of the finer points of dribbling, so he wanted the boys to use those little kicks. But he added, "Don't kick the ball into the goal." Wait. Josh wasn't the only parent who had obviously spent quite a bit of time convincing their offspring that the object of the game was just that – to kick the ball into the goal. And the offspring had certainly retained that part of their pre-first practice instruction. So sadly, the ailing coach's "don't kick the ball into the goal" might just as well have been "explain the basics of quantum physics." It simply didn't register in their field of consciousness, so it became background noise. Alas. A coach who now couldn't speak intelligently. What a sad state of affairs.
After practice ended Caleb seemed to be happy, however. He talked about being "pretty tired," and he finished off a triumphant lunch from Sonic. Sounded like he was more than willing to give the poor coach another chance come Tuesday evening's next practice. And isn't that the best you can hope for? A world class athlete willing to give his coach one more opportunity to prove his worth.
Hebrews 13:20-21 says, "May the God of peace, who through the blood of the eternal covenant brought back from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great Shepherd of the sheep, equip you with everything good for doing his will, and may he work in us what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen."
Father, looks like there's one more coach in the world who needs a double portion of your patience and love. Give it liberally. Amen.
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