Nike- Write the Future – Football (Futbol), Soccer – AWESOME Video

I admit I wouldn’t know much about these guys if it weren’t for Peter’s passion for it. However, after several years, I can recognize the beauty of the game, and many of its players. . . heee! Anyway – this is a great video – watch!

The Highway at 4 p.m. on a Lovely Winter’s Afternoon. . .

My friend Robin posted a picture of Shaver Lake in California during its winter splendour. I miss Shaver  . . .where you could leave the snow behind after playing for a while. . . here is what  some days in winter can be like in Lanark County, Ontario.

Bet it looks a little different from when some of you visited, right?

Lost In Love With Soccer? Nope, Just Lost Somewhere In New York

Theoretical itinerary (as they always are):

· Friday, 1:00 p.m. sharp: Pick up Nuria from afternoon classes with car loaded, gassed and ready to hit the road for Batavia, New York to rendezvous with soccer team at hotel for weekend tournament in Brockport

· 3:30 p.m.: Stop for bite at The Cracker Barrel. If not hungry, proceed to next Cracker Barrel. Continue along Cracker Barrel path until hungry.

· 6:00 p.m. Wait in lobby of hotel until rest of team arrives and checks in.

· 7:00 p.m.: Light supper with team

· 9:00 p.m.: Lights out for. . .

· Saturday, 6:30 a.m. wakeup call.

· 7:45 a.m.: Leave hotel for first tournament game at 9:15 a.m.

Actual Itinerary:

· Friday, 1:00 p.m.: Go pick up Nuria from classes and let her buckle up her confused soul into the car sans Peter. Jet to the gas station to fuel up, jet to Timmy's to get those iced caps we can't seem to live without.

Run back into the house to finish packing while vital articles of clothing are still tumbling damply in the dryer.

Peter has gone to the hospital to check on his dad (he's 99 now, and has a fever too often to let him out of the hospital. He is in good spirits and doing well. Will update you when I know more. I am going to visit him tomorrow. Peter has been going every day.)

Peter comes home, double checks the double checking while I try to remember everything I am forgetting (ironic, ain't it?).

3:30 p.m. Hit the road.

· 5:00 p.m.: Delayed at border offices for documentation for our Spanish senorita.

· 5:45 p.m.: Finally in the U.S.A.

· 7:00 p.m.: Stop at Cracker Barrel (at last). Send text message back to Cousin Amy in California to tell her our location. Am not allowed to print what her reply was. It wouldn’t be polite (okay, she said YOU SUCK) Lovingly ate biscuit with butter and honey in her honour. Also ordered the hash-brown casserole without the casserole in her honour. Was told it was too late to order breakfast.

· 9:45 p.m.: Wait in lobby for most of the team

· 11:50 p.m.: Lights out for 6:30 wake up call. It isn’t going to be pretty.

Saturday morning was too early for all us. We all piled into vehicles, Peter and Google maps to guide the caravan through the back roads of Batavia and the surrounding area to the tournament.

If only the roads had signs. If only State University New York (SUNY) was built somewhere inside a city boundary. If only one of the five to eight vehicles had GPS, I may have nothing to write about (and if you believe that. . .).

But the fates had deigned to make our seemingly simple, 30-minute-route of lefts and rights into a surreal adventure of almost an hour of wandering through a vast landscape of unmarked roads, creepy wagons full of stuffed animals and several stops on the side of the road to conference about what direction we should really be traveling.

Without a good cup of coffee and my required 8.5 hours of sleep, I’m sure Nuria stifled more than a healthy amount of nervous giggles as Peter and I discussed what Google maps really had printed on that paper. I’d read it and he’d ask if I was sure. So I’d make him read it. Probably not the best thing to do when he’s driving.

When we ended up on the correct road quite by mistake, Kathy, her van full of orange-clad teenage girls, decided to take the lead. We’d failed in our role of follow-the-leader and it was time for us to let someone else play. Google was failing us, miserably. And Kathy had a map. A real map that somehow made unmarked roads as discernable as the yellow brick road covered in neon-high-gloss paint.

So almost an hour into our 30-minute drive we made it to the tournament.

Peter opted out of being the pace car for the return trip.

Saturday afternoon, another parent, Terry, went and purchased a GPS.

Guess he doesn’t want that to happen again. Front yards with giant wagons full of stuffed-animals would scare anyone into a GPS.

Mistress, Thy Name Is Soccer!

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?