Tony Cesare: My Daughter, the Pink Striker

“What sports do you want to play this summer, sweetie?”

“Um, I don’t know, how about singing and dancing?”

“Singing and dancing aren’t really sports honey. What about soccer? All your friends are playing.”

“I can be with my friends? I want to play!”

“You have to listen to Coach Patrick during practice, ok?”

“Ok Dad, can I have a pink ball?"

“Sure honey.”

So soccer it is.

This is the first year for “organized” sports here at Cesare Manor and I’ve been busy preparing. I dug around in the garage and came up with my old bat bag stuffed with my baseball and softball equipment. Unzipping it produced a cloud of 20 years worth of infield chalk and dirt, revealing my trusty Wilson A200 mitt, several lesser Franklin models, assorted aluminum bats, 4 batting gloves, spare shoe laces (black and red), six bucks or so in change and several mini bottles of Jose Cuervo Gold.

“Daaad, why do have little yellow bottles in your bats bag?”

“Oh, um, Dad used to play on a lot of co-ed softball teams and sometimes after the games he would mix the Tequila with our Gatorade for a post-victory cocktail with the girls and then afterwards we would...um, you know really it’s a story for another day honey.”

Baseball I was prepared for. Soccer, less so.

I did have a brief if unspectacular season as the back up goalie of our advertising league team so I do own a pair of those freakishly oversized goalie gloves. For having never played the game I thought I was pretty good. Hell, I played goalie in ice hockey. How hard could this be? One game in and the hysteria from my mostly Irish teammates told me this game was somehow different. To this day I can still hear them screaming in heavy brogue “Git back in the FRICKEN’ GOAL TONY!!!” every time I sprinted to play the ball. About the same time I noticed how much bigger the net was then what I was used to. Wait, I don’t get to use a stick?

I blame my dad. I’m a first generation American. He was born in a tiny town overlooking the Mediterranean and didn’t come to America until he was a teen. Baseball he could give a crap about but I always assumed he had soccer in his DNA which of course would be passed on to me.

He didn’t.

Occasionally he would watch a game when L’Azzuri were playing. I’d hear shouting coming from the basement and descend to find my dad and uncles focused on our 14” Quasar black and white. One uncle would be playing with the rabbit ears trying to get a clear signal from channel 48 1/8 while another would pace the room like an expectant father, puffing on his cigarette like a choo-choo train.

Every few minutes the room would erupt in a chorus of expletives so vile and horrific that they defied translation into English. They’d jump up and down and wave their arms as if they were in the stands and not on a couch a thousand miles away. My dad always seemed more amused by my uncle’s passion than the game itself, but I was always confused. I didn’t understand this game. What the hell is everyone so upset about? It’s not like anything ever happens. As far as I could tell, no one ever scored. A tie? It ended in a tie? Are you kidding me?

Flash forward 30 years and it was my sincere hope my daughter would someday have her own Brandi Chastain like moment, kicking the winning goal for team USA and sprinting across the field in rapturous celebration (minus the whole take-my-jersey-off part) while a grateful nation celebrated around her. She could be the footballer I never was and maybe she'd give a shout out to Dear old Dad during the post victory interview: “I want to say thank you to my Dad, who was always there for me with encouragement and post game juice boxes, I wouldn't be here today if it wasn’t for his dedication and selflessness! I love you Daaady.”

I splurged. I bought those huge collapsible soccer nets to set up in the yard. I visited 10 stores until I found a pink ball. I set up a fence to protect my tomato plants from errant corner kicks. I made my son play goal and forbade him from making any saves (so as not to hurt her confidence too early). I cleaned up the dog poop. We played scrimmages together and I flashed all the moves that I didn’t have. I demonstrated how sometimes you advance the ball with your head but never your hands. I gulped down Advil like tic-tacs. I stocked up on juice boxes.

The first sign of trouble was when she refused to “head” the ball because she didn’t want to wrinkle her Minnie Mouse head band. Slowly I began to realize that while she loved playing in the yard with Dad, she was doing so more for me than for her. The reality is that if your daughter needs a pink soccer ball to get enthusiastic about playing chances are she’s not nailing down that Division 1 scholarship anytime soon.

My suspicions were confirmed watching her play this season on the rugged pitch of . On the one hand she hustled after every ball that came her way. On the other hand, though, she treated the ball like it was made of Saran Wrap filled with tarantulas and broken glass. Somehow she managed to avoid actually kicking the thing all season long. How is that even possible?

Watching her turn cartwheels and engage in animated conversations behind the play, I realized she enjoyed running around with her friends on the field most of all as long as that pesky soccer ball thingy didn’t keep interrupting them. As long as she could do that and there were plenty of post-game snacks, she was happy.

She inherited both my dad’s relative indifference toward sports and her dad’s limited (ok, non-existent) soccer skills. Oh well. On the plus side she also inherited her dad’s gift of gab and could often be seen leading the post-game sideline planning for future play dates. Despite her aversion to the ball her teammates really liked playing with her. A lot of them are fellow Girl Scouts and this year they voted her “Most Friendly and Helpful”.

You know what? Screw soccer. I’ll take friendly and helpful over Brandi Chastain any day.

Addendum: It's 2 hours 21 minutes until L'Azzurri battle Spain for the Eurocup, time to begin the process of painting an Italian flag on my face. Forza Azzurri!