Jan. 29--Soccer looks so easy when my kids play. Watching from the sidelines, I see exactly where they should pass the ball to find an open teammate, or how they could free themselves for a shot. When something doesn't go right, I make a mental note to give them my analysis the moment the game is over.
But a few weeks ago, I joined an indoor soccer league for adults. It was the first time I had played, and I quickly discovered that the sport was a lot harder than it seemed.
Kicking the ball to a teammate? Not so simple! It has a tendency to go off my foot at strange and unintended angles. Dribbling is even tougher: What I mean to be a gentle tap turns out to be an overzealous thump, sending the ball squirting away from my command.
All of this is made infinitely more complicated by the presence of opposing players, who for some reason don't give me time to think about what I want to do with the ball. So I panic and turn it over, kick it out of bounds or miss wide open goals.
Taking up the game in middle age has been a humbling experience, but also an enlightening one, because it has forced me to remember something parents often forget: Our kids are more talented than we appreciate.
That realization is easily lost in the day-to-day slog of raising a family, when school projects and extracurricular activities become little more than entries on a never-ending checklist. There's so much to get through that we don't fully value what our children are doing.
That's especially true if our kids aren't superstars, anointed as little geniuses by their teachers or the second coming of Michael Jordan by their travel team coaches. But when we attempt to replicate what they're doing, what seems like average ability becomes a lot more impressive.
This happens all the time with homework. My son is in middle school, and I have stopped trying to help him with math. It takes me forever to calculate the volume of a cylinder or figure out which train will get to Union Station first. He does it with ease.
It happens on vacation too. A year ago, I foolishly joined my family on a trail ride in Colorado and spent two hours with a death grip on my horse's reins, wobbling like a Weeble that had stayed too long at the saloon. Meanwhile, my daughter, who takes riding lessons, crested the rocky hills with the confidence of Dale Evans.
And it happens in moments that come and go in a flash -- a quirky dance performed to a song that comes on the radio, a joke delivered with Second City-caliber timing, a vibrant school art project pulled out of a backpack. They're small signs of talents I had no idea my kids possessed.
This is not to say that my children are perfect little snowflakes whose every utterance is brilliant, or whose every doodle is worthy of a museum. They are just like your kids, a mix of strengths and vulnerabilities that are easy to take for granted.
That's why my humiliation on the pitch has been almost gratifying. It has helped me recognize that my children, who in all likelihood won't get soccer scholarships or become professional athletes, are much better players than I have given them credit for.
They would never let a pass roll beneath their feet, as I have done repeatedly. They wouldn't whiff on a shot, or let an opponent dribble past them as if they were nothing but a traffic cone.
In short, they're much better than I will ever be, and when they play, I should keep my comments to myself and just enjoy what I'm watching. There is a place for constructive criticism, but in this realm, I'm not the person to deliver it.
I limped home after my first old man soccer game, and finding my son in the kitchen, put my hands on his shoulders and told him about my insight. He rolled his eyes, the "Duh!" implicit in his smirk, and challenged me to a round of the "FIFA" video game.
He crushed me at that too. The lessons continue.
jkeilman@tribpub.com
