I attended my 84 millionth soccer game the other day. After four kids and 15 seasons of watching youth soccer, I can proudly say one thing: I still don’t understand the rules.
I asked a friend if he understood them, and he claimed he did. Yeah, right.
Face it, in youth soccer, the kids basically run around while the parents yell at them.
“Kick it, Johnny!”
“Go, go, go, go!”
“Wrong way, Billy!”
More than anything, soccer is an opportunity for adults to root on kids, which is not entirely bad. After all, we all need someone rooting for us, including me.
For example, I’m sitting here in the basement of our house on a Saturday night. Patti and the kids all have something going on, so I thought I’d do some writing.
It probably occurs to you that writing is a lonely occupation. I was thinking about that while watching the soccer game today. What would it be like to have a crowd rooting for me while I wrote? I could do it in the Rose Garden and project the story onto a huge computer screen, and the crowd — all 20,000 of them — could watch every word as I typed.
The Blazer cheerleaders would do a few dance routines and my personal trainer and coach would be on hand.
I can only imagine what it would be like….
I run onto the field, pumping my fists to rev up the crowd before I sit down at the computer. The cheerleaders jump to their feet, as they anticipate a level excitement far exceeding anything they’ll see from the Blazers all season.
The crowd applauds wildly as the announcer says, “Ladies and gentlemen! The one, the only Carl is ready for the kickoff.”
I warm up by writing the name of the column and the date it will run in the paper.
The cheerleaders chant: “Carl, Carl, he’s our man. If he can’t write it, no one can!”
I write the first sentence, and the crowd quiets down to comprehend its brilliance.
“Good lead!” the coach yells. “Baby, you nailed it!”
I start to get my Big Mo going. Word after word, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph race across the computer screen.
“Oooo. Nice metaphor!” The crowd applauds as I reach for my cup of coffee.
Now comes the tricky part. I’m listing a few things and I don’t … want … to … mess … it … up ….
“Watch out for that semicolon,” coach yells.
I put it in just the right spot.
“YES!” the crowd roars in approval.
Then, a near disaster.
“A misspelled word!” the coach yells. “What were you thinking?”
I shrug it off. The trainer comes out to massage my hands during a brief time out, and it’s time to bring it all home. I pull together the loose ends, deftly tying the story together, with just a touch of humor for good measure.
One by one, the people in the crowd pull out their cell phones, click them open and wave them in the darkness as a sign of solidarity.
I tap out the final few words, and the arena erupts in cheers.
“Great ending!” the coach yells and runs out to give me a high five.
I click off the computer, take a victory lap around the arena and head for the locker room.
No to be denied, the crowd chants: “Carl, Carl, Carl!”
The head of security pleads with me: “You better go out there for a final bow, or they’ll destroy the arena!”
Wanting to avert a riot, I go out for another victory lap.
“Carl! Carl! Carl!”
Finally, exhausted, I run for a waiting limousine and speed back to the hotel.
After 15 minutes that can only be compared to the 1964 Beatles tour, the announcer hollers over the P.A. system: “Ladies and gentleman, the Carl has left the building.”
No comments:
Post a Comment