He was thrilled and had a great time; first because of his enjoyment in playing the game; and second, because for the only time in his athletic stint his uniform number is not 1 or 2 (he got 4).
Meanwhile, I sat on the sidelines and remembered that I have to try not to be one of "those" parents.
It's a bit embarrassing to admit, really, that I have to actually think about not being one of the adults who constantly yell directions to their child or play coach from the bleachers. But it's true. While not particularly athletic myself, I am very competitive. I like to win. And although Owen is not a natural athlete, I love to see him do well (and it hurts my heart when I overhear other kids commenting on his lack of skills or not passing him the ball).
So sometimes I find myself offering "helpful" suggestions to him from the sidelines, like "Owen, move up the field", or "Owen, go get it!", or "Shoot, shoot!".
No, not as bad as the mom who told her child on a water break that her play was absolutely unacceptable, or the dad who screamed at his son that if he continued to kick "around" the ball instead of "through" it he might as well quit soccer. Yet these voices remind of who I don't want to be; what I don't want for Owen.
The point of athletics and team sports, especially at this age, is to have fun, to learn skills, to be fit. That's what I hope Owen gets to experience. The thrill of victory, yes, but also the lesson of losing. They aren't, after all, playing for gold medals, national championships, or college scholarships.
Next game, the only words Owen will hear from me are "Great job!". It's just one of the ways motherhood, and Owen, make me a better person. And I'm so thankful for that.
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