A Disturbing Development


I remember growing up in Bloomfield, CT... less than 15 miles away from the bustling metropolis of Hartford. Ok, maybe bustling isn't the right word to use, but it certainly was the closest thing to an urban center that I would experience before I hit my teens.

You see, going to Hartford usually meant one of five things. Either it meant that it was near Christmas, and I was being taken to see Santa Claus at the big ol' G. Fox department store, or we were going to see the 4th of July fireworks. Possibly it was to see the festival of lights at Constitution Plaza or sit around Connecticut Public Television offices while my mother assisted with their pledge drive. But my favorite reason for going into the Big City was to see the Hellions play.

Yep. Close to 20 years before it became a fad, I was a soccer kid... replete with shin guards, cleats and a mildly overzealous soccer mom who was also the coach my team and a registered FIFA goalie. In sleepy little Bloomfield, CT... with a population that is shy of 20,000 residents, we had one of the most active youth soccer leagues in the state. In the 8-10 year old range alone, we had four town-sponsored teams! Due to the vision of the Parks and Rec department, we had regulation fields with bleachers and goal posts. The city even arranged for soccer clinics with the players from the Hellions. Even in these pre-sport utility vehicle years, we had soccer moms... parents who lobbied the town to keep soccer alive in Bloomfield.

But in those days, even my aforementioned mildly overzealous soccer mom knew that there was a time and a place for our soccermania. We didn't wear our team shirts unless we were in practice, in a match, or in the stands at a Hellions game. And maybe it was out of a sense of good ol' New England pragmatism, as soon as practice was over, the cleats came off before you left the field. This was partly to ensure that you wouldn't track all sorts of mud and sod into the yard, but it was also for our health... because walking with cleats on concrete can do nasty things to your knees. Plus, walking on a hard surface with nylon cleats just wears them down faster... and most of us kids were playing so hard that we already went through two pairs each season. It was practically a post-practice ritual: we would get orange wedges, drink some water (and not out of those highfalutin bottles, it was tap water from a yellow and red igloo cooler), take off our cleats, shin guards, put on our Reeboks (can't you tell it was the early 80s) and get on with our lives. Even after a game, once we left the field, we stripped off our soccer armor, changed into our civvies (that's short for civilian garb) and were in normal clothes before we could hit the pizza parlor.

Why am I making such an effort to laboriously draw out every detail of my soccer experience? Last Monday, Janet and I decided to go grocery shopping at the Big Y in Avon, one of the more affluent suburbs of Hartford. We parked our cute little Kia Sephia in between the SUVs and Lexuses (or would that be Lexii) and began our shopping. That's where I saw it... a soccer mom with her junior high school aged daughter in tow. The daughter was still in her soccer uniform: white jersey, shorts, black Nike sports bra (in case she scored a goal somewhere near the cabbage and had the desire to rip off her shirt a la US Women's Soccer sensation Brandy Chastain), shin guards and cleats. I was immediately disgusted. Did this young girl not have enough time to hit the showers after practice so she could change into something more comfortable? I mean, wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt in the 40 degree weather doesn't do much to keep out the cold New England chill.

Then I looked again. No mud.

You see, when you play a game of (or simply practice) soccer, your cleats usually get caked with mud, and it had been drizzling that afternoon. No mud. No dirt. Nothing. Her cleats were as clean as the linoleum tile she was standing on. I also noticed that her hair was perfectly coifed, and she was wearing make up. I know that when I played a game, no matter how cold it was, I would sweat. Either this was the most anal retentive soccer player in the history of the sport, or she just put on her team uniform so she could let the whole world (or at least the segment that was at the Big Y from 8pm to 9pm on a Monday evening) that she was a soccer player.

Maybe soccer garb has become the 90s junior high school girl status symbol that a pair of tight Calvin Klein jeans were to the girls of my era. Possibly high school women's soccer has become nothing more than a clique and this was her way on announcing her membership. Or maybe she's just an insecure little kid who believes that her self worth is tied up into how many goals she can score in a season.

It's dangerous when anybody becomes so obsessed with one minute aspect of their life that it becomes all consuming. Case in point, when I was spending what felt like my whole life in the gym to get ready for Golden Gloves (that's a major boxing tournament), you didn't see me walking around with by gloves on. Why? Because it's absurd. Because it wasn't professional in the office or apropos in social situations... and because it looked silly as hell trying to type wearing 12oz bright red boxing gloves.

You'd stop your kids if they only wanted to wear Pokemon or Star Wars themed clothing... and you'd question the sanity of your son if he chose to walk around the mall wearing his football uniform (or even just his helmet for that case). Isn't it time to tell these girls to leave the soccer garb where it belongs?