Soccer Shots are not vodka-filled Jello molds in the shape of tiny balls—but maybe they should be. Instead, they are a national enterprise providing soccer lessons for kids ages 3-6 at your local school, Karate studio or other child-resistant establishment. Basically, you sign your tot up for a six- or eight-week course, 45 minutes a session, and let the trampling commence. It's a great experience—especially in theory.
Nothing against the organization. They are a fantastic bunch, offering pointers, practice and fun for those who join. There's even a cute, fit coach who's good with kids. (Of course, not as cute, fit or good with kids as Hubbo. Ahem. Right sweetie?) The difficulty lies in what you bring to the game—in my case, 3-year-old Boss (player) and 1-year-old Stinker (spectacle, oops, I mean spectator) who must do everything that Boss does, but with shrieks.
For instance, when it's time to dribble the ball around cones, Boss shuffles about, roaring like a dragon—occasionally somewhere near a ball—while Stinker tries to steal equipment.
When it's time to sit on a ball and gather around Coach Dave, Boss wobbles on his bottom fairly well, even with a finger in his nose, while Stinker bolts for the circle faster than Beckham can trade his cleats in for more tattoos.
Goalie practice? Boss hovers outside the net ready and alert (Ok, he sits inside the net with a silly grin), while Stinker squeals his way to the center of the action, arms toward the sky as if chased by bandits.
Of course, every time I retrieve Stinker, he screeches louder and thrashes harder. My stash of Matchbox cars and yogurt melts may as well be cockroaches and deer turds. Little ingrate. He wiggles in my grip like a cat at the vet as I flee the gym, inadvertently kicking floor cones on my way out...because, you know, I needed to draw MORE attention to myself.
Outside of the gym, school kids are spilled all over the floor amidst books and piles of coats. All heads rise in concern to see who's dying an agonizing death. I'm extremely hot.
We head to the end of a very long corridor where I let the rabid animal, I mean Stinker, free. He scoots about happily and, more importantly, quietly. Ahhhhh, finally a moment of peace. My jaw unclenches and I start to relax...until my thoughts turn to Boss, who is probably wondering where the heck Mommy is. Or more than likely, he's rolling around on the gym's dusty floor in the middle of a soccer match, as the coach gently taps him with a sneaker to get his attention. It's late afternoon, and Boss' energy level has all the sizzle of a flat soda.
But me borrow trouble? Worry that Boss has that finger wedged up his nose again or has accidentally pooped his pants? Naaaaaah.
That's no more likely than Soccer Shots serving up jiggers of Grey Goose to a team of frazzled parents.
