I'm not a soccer mam. I am not one of those mothers who accompany their children to soccer practice on Saturday at dawn or at soccer tournaments this weekend. I do not settle down at the edge of a field like I was at the beach with my folding chair, my thermos of coffee and my cooler. Oh sure, I can get carried away on the edge of a field, enthusiastic about facing a game built to faint with pride when my son scores a goal ... Because I love soccer. When Battiston has been a knockout in 1984, I raged when France won the World in 1998, I rejoiced when the same French won the Euro in 2000, I marched.
But for me, a weekend tournament is a torture. And I confess: I pray the Gods of the stadium to give them a quick victory to the opposing team which would release me as soon as possible from the drudgery.
What bothers me in elite soccer is not soccer, it's all there is around: coaches who yell at their players, who sacrent on the opposing team, who forget that soccer Parents is a game ultra partisans who scream at the players of the opposing team, leaving coach swearing on their children and who forget that soccer is a game
These practices are not widespread but they are common. As in all sports where dreams of glory and success staying more in the stands and on the ground. Where the major project on children of inflated expectations and dreams not always fair play.
Anyway. My son won champion of the tournament. He came home, proud as a peacock, her medal around her neck.
The cadet wants to get started. Maybe I should think about investing in a folding chair.
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