From Player to Coach, and a Feminist All Along

I've mentioned in past posts the impact competitive athletics has had on my development, both as a woman and as a mother.  Long before I had my son I knew that if I ever became a parent I wanted my son or daughter to watch me play soccer.  Once my son was born that wish became a feminist imperative- he MUST watch me play soccer because my son was going to have a gender-neutral default when imagining athletes.  He was going to grow up watching women in competitive athletics and not think once that this was the "girls team" or a "girls sport."  For my son, athletics was going to start un-gendered and my identity as mother and athlete was a critical piece of that parenting.

That was until, after over twenty years of competitive athletics my body just kind of gave up.  It took me days to recover from a recreational soccer game, and that was after taking two Alleve pre-game to battle the ache I knew was coming.  I was showing up to work with bruises and scabs and deflecting questions about the stability and safety of my home-life as a result.  After one game where the back of a defender's head collided with my face, leaving me with a bloody nose and black eyes, I found myself thinking not about the shooting pain in my face, but whether I had enough makeup at home to cover the injury in time for the deposition I had to take the next day.  Yup.  It was time.  Despite all my feminist longings and love for the game, it was time to hang up my cleats.  

This was a decision I agonized over.  My son had made it to a couple of my games, but was far too young to remember them, let alone develop any foundation for processing my own feminist agenda.  Soccer had been a part of my life since I was six years old.  The only time I didn't play was to recover from injury, after a move, or at about month five in my pregnancy when my swelling belly made sprinting to the goal a comical and potentially injurious situation.  Soccer was more than just a sport.  Soccer was my sport.  Soccer was me.

Well, it's been almost two full years since I played my last game.  To this day the smell of freshly cut grass, the look of a late summer sunset, and early Saturday mornings all bring me back to the field.  Without fail I imagine shots on goal as I struggle to complete a neighborhood run.  Even after two years I default to competing on the field.

Just this month my son asked if he could play soccer.  Despite my obsession with the game I wanted him to bring up the possibility of playing rather than just signing him up with a team.  Of course I said yes, and of course I signed him up right away.  During the registration I was asked if I had any experience with the sport and if I had any interest in coaching.  I'm sure you can guess what happened next.

I may not be able to shape my son to see athletics in gender neutral terms by having him cheer for my team, but I may be able to by coaching him and an entire team full of little boys.  They'll have to take direction from a mom on something other than homework, housework, and manners.  They'll run with me, watch as I demonstrate drills, and get used to being told how to compete from a woman.  They'll watch as I deal with difficult parents and take on lazy referees.

I'm sure the gulf between reality and my expectations is wide, and I realize that one coach alone cannot defeat an army of gendered images of athletes.  But one coach is a start, just as one player is a start.  The season gets underway in May.  I'll be sure and keep you posted.