Soccer Camp

I took part of the day off yesterday to take my son to his first day of Soccer camp, a week long affair that lasts from nine to noon. The coaches are traveling abroad from England, three young guys on a journey through the states, having a good time along the way. There is something about the English accent that lends a fair amount of respect and credibility to the speaker. Kind of a reverse prejudice us Americans have to our country of origin. It's laughable, but when the assembled parents first heard the head coach speak, we all nodded and smiled. Our kids were learning from an authentic soccer player, not some American pretender.

If soccer doesn't work out, they might become a comedy troupe. Coach asked my son his name. My son told him. "I love your work Jackson," he said, "always have." He held out a fist for my son to bash with his own--a bastardized form of high five. Jackson regarded it like a serving of liver and onions. The coach said, "C'mon Jackson, don't leave me hanging." I took Jackson aside and taught him the knuckled-five protocol, practiced it a few times, then took him back to coach for his maiden voyage.

The coaches introduced themselves to the crowd of kids and parents by giving up an interesting personal factoid. One used to play soccer in the UK, another worked for a soccer team, and the other once ate twenty seven peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a row.

My wife picked Jackson up at noon, and got the up and down scope-out from the head coach. She said he barely tried to conceal it. "Dog," is the term I believe she used. But let's face it, she wasn't totally displeased with the affirmation that yes, she still has it.

How many yummy-mummies do you think these guys end up with? This traveling band of boners--young, virile, with English flipping accents. How is a single mom to resist? Or worse, one whose husband doesn't take care of business at home like he should.