Just for kicks

TRAVERSE CITY, Michigan – I spent last weekend here in the Cherry Capital of the World, where the great outdoors entices you to explore new adventures. Like climbing Sleeping Bear Dunes and visiting local wineries. Or spending carefree afternoons shopping downtown buying overpriced but delicious jam at Cherry Republic. And ending each day with spectacular sunsets over Lake Michigan.

We did none of those things.

Instead, we watched soccer. From morning till night. At least it seemed that way. This was my first-ever soccer tournament. And, if I’m being honest, probably not my last.

Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you? Neither did I.

A lifelong sports fan, I love Major League baseball, Big 10 football, LPGA golf and Grand Slam tennis. Soccer, or football as it’s known outside of North America, was never on my radar.

Until last weekend.

My oldest sister, a grandmother of 11 – just enough warm bodies for a soccer team! – convinced me to join her in northwestern Michigan’s prime vacation spot and home to everything Up North.

Little did I know there was also a 40-acre field of dreams known as the Keystone Soccer Complex in Grand Traverse County. Guess I’m in the minority. Hundreds of families and friends gathered there for a springtime tournament known as the Traverse City Cherry Cup. Minus the cherries.

It’s not that I don’t like soccer. My fair-weather fan interest in the sport emerges once every four years during the Summer Olympics.

For instance, I know the U.S. Women’s Football team has won the gold medal four times since it was first held at the Atlanta Olympic Games in 1996. They took gold that year and again in 2004, 2008 and 2012, when the team was led by superstar Megan Rapinoe (of the pink hair and women’s pay equity cause).

On the men’s side, I could pick England’s David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal out of a lineup. To my generation, however, the most memorable player of all time is Brazilian footballer Pelé, considered the greatest player in the game’s history. He’s 81.

Here’s what else I know about soccer:

• Players. Eleven players for each team are on the field, including a goalie. There are defenders, midfielders and forwards.
• No hands. Unless you’re the goalie or attempting a throw-in, you can’t touch the ball with your hands, meaning anything from your fingers to your shoulders.
• Fouls. In general, the intent is to go for the ball, not the player. You can’t kick, trip, jump at, charge, strike, push or hold an opponent. If a foul occurs, the team that was fouled gets a free, direct kick.
• Dribbling. This is when a player runs with the ball at their feet, usually trying to get past defenders on the other team. It’s awesome.
• Kicks. There are several different kinds of kicks. I cannot elaborate.

Being a copy editor, it is said, is like being a goalkeeper. You make hundreds of saves, but readers/fans only remember the ones that got by you. Tough way to make a living, trust me.

In sports such as hockey and soccer, goal scorers reap the glory, and even the best saves are often forgotten. As the last line of defense to keep the opponent from scoring, goalies are often underappreciated. Much like copy editors.

My great-nephew Andrew plays goalie, not so much because he wants the position, but because no one else does. Or can do it as well.

He’s quick, light on his size 6 feet and incredibly strong for a 4-foot 11-inch tall pre-teen who weighs 95 pounds soaking wet. He’s got excellent hand-eye coordination, fancy footwork and is aware of other players, including his own. A natural athlete, if you ask me.

He’s also smart, funny and full of useful information. Something I learned on this trip during our 3.5-hour drive was the proper way to eat waffles. One minute we’re talking about sunrises and sunsets, and the next it’s “L’Eggo My Eggo.”

“Never eat soggy waffles,” said the boy with AirPod ear implants from the back seat.

“I have no idea what that means,” said the clueless aunt from the front.

“You know. Directions. North, east, south and west,” he repeated, providing me with life-affirming directional skills at last. “Never eat soggy waffles.”

“Oh, like Kanye’s oldest child, West?” I replied knowing I’d poked the proverbial bear.

Shaking his head in disgust, he rolled his eyes and turned up the volume.

Apparently, the soggy waffles saying is one of many “mnemonics” used to help children learn. As in the first letter of each word to remember directions: N, E, S and W. There’s even a YouTube video about it with silly dances and annoying music that’s still running through my head, thank you very much.

After a drive-thru dinner of Butterburgers with a side of cheese curds at Culver’s (they owe us a vanilla shake!), we checked into our hotel and crashed without watching any TV except for a brief glimpse of an Ultimate Fight Club women’s match. It was horrifying.

Saturday: His team’s first game was at 8, as in a.m. God help me. Up by 6, a quick hotel coffee and banana, then off to Keystone soccer field by 7. Andrew went to warm up. We schlepped our chairs, cooler and enough snacks to feed an army to a nice damp spot. Then once we sat down, we moved to another nicer damp spot.

I wanted to throttle my sister.

The grass was green, the clear sky was blue, and the White Team was ready to play the Red Team. But wait. There are only 11 boys. Just enough to play. No bench.

Within the first 30 minutes, the score was 3-0. (Not us.) By the end, it was 6-2. At least I think so. Who’s counting?

Frankly, the Red Team seemed way too large to be 12-year-old boys. If it were up to me, I’d demand birth certificates for every last one of them.

I’ve got to say, despite the outcome, the White Team’s goalie was amazing. He leaned hard to his left. Lurched to his right. Stopped a rocket shot with his chest and held on to the ball for dear life.

And with every save, the crowd cheered their support.

“Go, Andrew! Let’s go, White! Get that ball. Kick it hard!”

I’ve never heard my sister yell like that. She’s a Soccer Mom with longevity.

Saturday night’s team dinner was at the Jolly Pumpkin on Old Mission Peninsula. The boys seemed relaxed and upbeat despite a winless first day. Andrew ordered a cheeseburger, but this time with truffle fries.

On the way home from dinner, we got ice cream. At Culver’s, of course. We were beat, in more ways than one.

Sunday: We slept in since their first game was at 9 a.m. It was pretty much a repeat of the day before, except our guys were the Blue Team playing a White Team. Two minutes in, it was 1-0. Not us.

“Get after it, guys! Come on, ref. That was clearly a foul! Even I saw that, and I don’t know anything about this game,” said the still clueless aunt.

As the Blue Team’s play deteriorated, so did the language coming from the sidelines. One horrified parent said the S-word and the F-word in one questionable play. Time stopped, and all heads turned to the sweet Romanian mother of two.

“Why was that word invented if you can’t say it?” she said.

Point taken.

The score was now 10-0. Definitely not us.

With just a few minutes remaining, Andrew was removed as goalie to play left defensive back. I have no earthly idea why the coach did this, but Andrew was ready to rock, despite the humiliating score.

When the head referee blew the final whistle, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. On the drive home, we sang “Another One Bites the Dust.” 

For dinner, Andrew had yet another cheeseburger at Buffalo Wild Wings. And a Shirley Temple with three maraschino cherries. I feel queasy as I’m typing this.

Then, we shopped till we dropped at Birch Run Premium Outlets, which are, um, just ”soggy” of Saginaw and ”never” of Flint. (See what I did there?)

Under Armour and Nike were loaded with bargains, and Pepperidge Farm had more Goldfish crackers than I’ve ever seen. At $1 a bag, Andrew was in heaven and got enough “souvenirs” for the whole family.

Yeah, perhaps it’s time for me to get on board the soccer train and join the 4 billion fans who watch the world’s most popular sport, played by 250 million people in more than 200 countries.

Maybe you can teach an old aunt new sports.

But I will never eat soggy waffles.