The match had reached a pivotal moment.
Fans cheering both sides sat spellbound; all eyes were transfixed on the pitch. Our team demanded bold strategy while my players waited anxiously. I surveyed the field. This juncture and its implications would transcend sport: The ramifications were character-defining. Confidently and courageously, I made my move.
\DONI!"" I shouted. ""Stop eating that centipede!""
Doni, striker for the Power Red Soccer Club, turned and grinned, the blades of grass still clinging to his lips. He dropped his handful of dirt and play resumed without incident. The bug's life had been spared.
This past summer, I coached a soccer team through Madison School & Community Recreation's youth league. My squad was comprised of the most adorable four-year olds ever to lace up miniature cleats. Each boy and girl was barely tall enough to reach my knees and all of the players, including Doni, had their quirks.
If you're not familiar with soccer, you're likely unaware that picking up the ball is, generally, not allowed. Of course, that technicality never stopped Doni, who, when motivated, would pounce on a stationary ball and attempt to carry it into the woods. I'm not sure what his agenda was once in the forest; Doni abided by his own game plan.
Doni's reaction speed was also set at a six second delay, meaning that goal keeping was not his strength. In fact, Doni would normally become disinterested with the game shortly after kick-off and preferred to scrutinize the action from atop my shoulders, bouncing happily while I jogged along the sidelines.
Another teammate, a talented and cute girl I'll call Lisa, would burst into tears for no apparent reason during every game. If the opposing team scored, Lisa would cry. If Lisa recorded a hat-trick, she'd cue the waterworks. It was a strange, anti-Pavlovian routine; I divided my time during games between consoling Lisa and preventing Doni from consuming ladybugs.
I wanted to be a good coach because I know how substandard some can be. Back in junior high school-where everyone is already confident and self-assured-I was sixth man on the JV basketball team. Instead of enjoying the glamorous life of a junior high varsity athlete (which, presumably, involves globe-trotting with Paris Hilton and trashing luxurious hotel suites), my ineptitude caused my social clout to equal that of the assistant towel-boy, whose weekends were highlighted by shuffleboard at the Holiday Inn.
But I persevered, air-balling my jump shots and tripping over imaginary objects scattered on the court. Despite my lack of skill, I hoped to earn recognition from our head coach, a guy fond of giving his players nicknames. This was a grown man, dissatisfied with his life and athletic accomplishments, living vicariously through pubescent boys. At least that's how I rationalized it; other kids, with action-figure triceps and sculpted cheekbones, earned monikers like ""Ace"" or ""Hawk"" or ""Gorgeous George."" Conversely, I was ""Weasel Lips,"" riding the pine.
I'm proud that we had an excellent season; by the end, Doni had refrained from chewing on insects and Lisa played without weeping. I rarely think about my former hoops career, though I remember that my coach was a huge Michigan football fan. So on behalf of Doni, Weasel Lips and the rest of the Power Red All-Stars, I'd like to thank Brian Calhoun and the potent Badger offense for granting me retribution. Some say revenge is a dish best served cold-or, in Doni's case, with a side of caterpillars.
Dan's a senior majoring in Finance who once struck out in t-ball; email him batting tips at detierney@wisc.edu
