Child(TM) ended her soccer season last night. It was a lovely September evening; made you wonder what actual September will be like. Heaven help us if we pitch into the freezer in early October; I think people will go insane by January, and start a cult that sacrifices virgins to the Jolly Green Giant statue in Blue Earth. Hasn't been tried, you know. Well, lately. At the end of the game everyone gathered around for Push-Ups, that beloved summer treat; they come in many flavors now, and of course all the kids wanted Orange, which is Push-Up Flavor. Give them cherry, it's like handing them a Pumpkin Dreamsicle. What evil alternate universe did you come from, Mister? While our team enjoyed their dessert, the other team - an all-girl collection of midget ringers, I'm convinced - embarked on a spirited cheer:
1, 2, 3, 4, we don't care about the score!
Thus they ended every game, apparently. Keep in mind they'd creamed our team. Demolished them. The score was something like "Number of editions of the National Geographic to Average Temperature of Deep Space." My wife said this was good sportsmanship; they weren't rubbing it in. But surely a little gloating is permitted, no? And by "gloating" I mean not loudly proclaiming that the outcome of the game was irrelevant. It does matter. You should care about the score.
Some of the girls were disappointed that trophies were not handed out - even though the team had lost every game save one. Of course, the point is to have fun, to run around, learn a sport, and all those other Character-Building things that make for good citizens. It's just odd when sports are stripped of the one thing that distinguishes them from daily life: clear victors. I feel subversive telling my daughter she should actually play to win.
Of course, the kids know. My wife asked one of the winning team members if they'd had a good season. The kid nodded.
"You won every game, didn't you."
The kid beamed: Yes. Yes, we did.
