I am bittersweet about the World Cup being over. Those were some of the best naps I’ve ever had.
A passion for soccer is not something that was put into my genetic coding. It’s a great sport, don’t get me wrong. Great exercise with crazy cool skills with the feet and such. That, I get. I’ve never seen another sport that makes the sing-along of team songs almost as important as the game. And the soccer riots? Now that’s passion.
But…where I have less than zero interest in the game, my husband’s passion for soccer is limitless. He is hungry for it always. He lives it and breathes it. He’s a dynamite coach with a true love of the game. He has jerseys and ahem…balls and whistles and clipboards and videos and books, and the phone calls and the emails, the board meetings…sigh. He even referees when he’s not coaching. He looks really cute in his little referee costume, - er uniform. I’m so proud of the dedication and the pride he takes in his volunteer job. If you see him, tell him I said hi and I miss him.
So my man loves soccer. I know all you other impassioned soccer people are wondering what the big deal is. The deal is, when you add soccer to an already demanding job or 4, there isn’t much time left for his other, most important volunteer job, and that’s me. We both volunteered. Volunteers are supposed to give of their time, talent and treasures, and give freely and joyfully. I have time, talents and treasures, and I’d share them with my man, if only he wasn’t sharing his talents with soccer.
I figure that if I want to remain number two in Peter’s life, then I’m going to have to compromise. I started doing a little research. I owe it to myself to have an informed opinion on why I don’t care for soccer. I turned on the television and land on a channel with a soccer game on in all its HD glory. I sat back to watch a few minutes and try to figure out what all the fuss was about. Wait a minute….who’s that hottie running all sweaty and masculine across the field? Oh, and that hottie, and that hottie….oh my. A name flashes across the screen. David Beckham. H-e-l-l-o there, Mister Beckham! I know that some call him Blech-ham, but hey, toss a beginner a bone, okay?
Upon further perusal of this game, I discover that there are several fit, yummy, glistening, heart-pounding-from-exertion men running around on that great big green field. And most of them seem to be on Team Italy. Too many to name, but I've had friends agree. There is wonderful eye-candy on those vast green fields.
Okay, maybe I judged this soccer thing too harshly. I press record, and I know my husband will be proud of me, taking an interest in his passion, finally. I’ll still act bored when I watch the games with him, but I’ll have a secret agenda….what team does Beckham play for, and can we watch his game? I know you’re all proud of my sacrifice. But hey, if you can’t beat them join them, right?
