The Saddest, Sweetest Thing

Coach was late to the soccer game, so one of the team parents asked me to get the girls warmed up. I obliged, which is how I met the match referee, Alexander, who was probably 16 or 17 years old.

He asked if I was the coach, and I admitted to just being a regular-old dad. He laughed and said it was his first day reffing. I used to ref soccer games in high school too, and I used to worry about intense parents back then. It must be so much worse now, and especially in Manhattan.

I told Alexander that I was sure he’d do great and that these 8- and 9-year-old girls were super sweet. I also told him our team parents are very chill, which is true, at least as far as I’ve seen on the sidelines.

Coach came before the match started, which meant I went to go hang with the other parents. We’d beaten the other team pretty handily a few weeks back, so the parents were feeling pretty confident. But soon after the opening whistle blew, the other team had scored a goal. And then a second. And a third. And a fourth.

We were suddenly down 4-0, and while the parents were still pretty reserved, they had clammed up a bit. I think we all just felt bad for our girls. I know that I did.

When one of our girls started darting up the sideline with the ball just a few minutes later, the parents cheered her on, cheering for her to get around her defender. She slid the ball around her defender and went to chase it, but she tripped over the defender’s outstretched foot and tumbled to the ground.

It wasn’t a terrible foul or a terrible fall, and none of it looked intentional. But as Alexander blew his whistle and walked over, one of the dads next to me asked jokingly: “Yellow card?”

Alexander looked our way, and he must have thought the suggestion came from me, because we locked eyes, and started reaching into his pocket. I tried my best to signal that it wasn’t me and that he shouldn’t give the poor girl a card. But he was walking towards her now. He stopped before her, pulled the card from his pocket and raised it high in the crowd for everyone to see.

The girl let out a sob and looked at her parents, just a few yards from her. They tried to reassure her that it was okay. We did too, and so did the player from our team who had fallen. Can you imagine, being tripped by someone and then going to console them because they were hurting?

It was so sad and so sweet. This poor girl. She didn’t mean to break the rules and she certainly didn’t mean to hurt her opponent. She was just trying to get the ball. I was primarily a defender in soccer too, so maybe I’m a bit biased here. But I also know enough about soccer and about 8-year-olds to know that there was nothing malicious about her play.

I also remember my first time getting a yellow card, which happened when I was a few years older than her, on a play that wasn’t very different. I recognized her remorse and embarrassment, that I had violated the rules so badly that a foul call wasn’t enough. There had to be some sort of public announcement.

I watching this poor girl, crying and looking to her parents, wondering what the consequences would be for her mistake; wondering if her transgression would lead to anger or punishment from them. Isn’t that the worst feeling? I don’t think what I did was so terrible, but what if it was?

My sympathy was with her, and it will stay with her for some time, probably far beyond how long this moment will stay with her. The innocence, the concern, the sadness, the sweetness. All because of one poorly-timed tackle, one poorly-timed joke, and the newness of a fresh referee.