Friday, June 25, 2010
Wednesday USA defeated Algeria in a stoppage time goal, that seemed to establish the perfect segue into our trip to the US Youth Soccer Region II Championships. If those scrappy Yankee upstarts can pull off a nail-biter victory, then maybe our soccer team assembled with spit and dental floss can have the same miracle success. To put it in perspective that one goal moved the US from out of the World Cup to bracket champions. Like ESPN's ads claim: One Goal is Everything. So we had optimism as we scraped together the last of the paperwork, found rides for everyone to the event, and figured out what time we had to really get up – Robbie voted for something in the PM range.
But because life is never what you expect, at 3:30 yesterday afternoon I got an urgent email. The manager's son injured himself at work and could not play, so she wouldn't be going on the trip. Could I please register the team? Of course, I replied, cheerfully. Robbie was less cheerful. His dream of driving into Dayton with the lights twinkling in the midnight sky would have to be subverted to the reality of cruising into Dayton at mid-afternoon with a bunch of other humidity distressed managers lugging a load of paperwork into a hotel. I carefully calculated the time it would take to travel to Dayton, padded it by 90 minutes and announced that we could leave at 8 AM for a 4 PM registration time.
As we were sitting in the parking lot of a fireworks store awaiting the arrival of a player we were transporting to the tournament, we began discussing the U.S. game. Robbie said it was a good thing that the game was at 2:30 PM Eastern time because his game would be over in time to get back to the hotel and watch the US play. I said his game was at noon, so he would just be finishing playing at 1:30 PM. "But the game starts at 2:30 PM." "Yes," I replied, "Eastern time. But Central time…" Then it hit me. Dayton may be in the Midwest, but it is not in the Central time zone. I had forgotten we would lose an hour driving to our destination.
I pride myself on remembering details such as traveling between time zones, but this time I had focused on collecting paperwork, getting my packing done, making sure I had all my soccer essentials, and trying to let Robbie sleep as late as possible that I had completely forgotten the time difference. Now my well-planned, well-padded time table became a race against the clock. Lunch would have to be eaten in the car and there would be no malingering during our bathroom stop! I made it with 20 minutes to spare. Then the fun began.
Everything was well organized. Each state had a registration time that was carefully managed and controlled. Called into the registration tent at our allotted hour, we managers marched purposefully to our appointed registration table. I felt confident that there would be no glitches despite my 11th hour substitution. I clutched my trusty binder filled with carefully alphabetized medical releases and birth certificates. I patted the envelope with the signed registration sheets and the completed rosters. I proudly handed over my rubber banded pile of player passes. Piece of cake. "Do you have the coaches' passes?" The image of Edvard Munch's painting "The Scream" flashed through my brain. I felt the confidence leaving my body like a deflating balloon. "But I have everything else…Look at how professionally I collated these medical releases!"" What's life without crisis or two? Crisis averted when I found out the coach could get his credentials at the fields in the morning. The rest of this should be a piece of cake. "Did you pre-order your parking passes?" With supreme smugness I replied, "Naturally." "Okay, then get in that line to pick them up." She pointed over my shoulder and I turned around to witness a column that rivaled the line-up to audition for American Idol.
I trudged to the end of a line that seemed to be as stagnant as the air. To add insult to injury, I was frozen in front of the table to purchase passes. It had no clients, because we had all pre-ordered and pre-paid, but it did have an enticing stack of crisp, ready to be used parking passes taunting me like candy in a window. Forty-five minutes later I was finally able to announce my state, my team name, gender, and age and was handed in an envelope the "stuff that dreams are made of "– my own Maltese Falcon. I wanted to run cackling with delight through the hotel, but I was far too wilted to muster anything more than a limp thank you and hobble exhausted to the table to collect programs and team goody bags. At that point I felt strongly that I should keep all the goody bags just as fair trade for all the water I lost standing in line. But I'll hand them out at breakfast because there are only so many samples of Degree deodorant someone can use but I have a feeling these are going to be quite useful this week and beyond.
Now I'm sitting in my room with air conditioning, but no internet. I hope I can find some in the business center. Otherwise this will just be an account vaporizing in cyberspace. I can't wait for the rest of the team to arrive…those who could leave later in the day and not have to rush to experience the delights of standing in line. The next time I stand in a line that long, in that much humidity, with only a few seconds of pay off, I'd better be at Disney World waiting to ride Splash Mountain. Still it's all about the kids. I can't wait for tomorrow for the games to begin. I love watching youth soccer. And I especially love watching my own kids play. Tomorrow should be fun, win, lose, or draw. But I'm hoping for a victory, although I'm probably not the only one with those dreams.