Between the Lines -- Byron de Arakal

It was a remarkable streak while it lasted.

We had, prior to the sun setting on last weekend, managed to slog our

way through roughly 10 seasons of youth soccer without having witnessed

the curious spectacle of flea-bitten soccer parents gone bonkers. But it

did end, sadly. And in a way that made one think of jabbing a finger down

one’s throat.

Here’s how the sordid scene unfolded, though I won’t be identifying

the culprits for fear any of them might be tobacco-spitting owners of a

small arsenal.

My daughter’s under-10 soccer team squared off Saturday morning

against a squad it had defeated earlier in the season. Entering the

contest, this particular collection of talented young ladies occupied

second place in the standings. My little girl’s team -- equally skilled

-- held the third-place slot.

Late in the first half, as one of my daughter’s teammates readied to

fire a shot on the net, an opposing player tripped her. The play

triggered a sharp report of the referee’s whistle and a penalty kick was

called. Now if the rudiments of soccer are foreign to you, a penalty kick

gives the offended team an unfettered shot on goal.

These penalty kicks are riveting dramas. One-on-one contests. Mano a

mano. The shooter and the keeper. My daughter’s teammate drove the ball

to the right corner of the goal. The keeper dove to her left, knocking

the ball away. Really, it was a nice play. Only slightly illegal. That’s

because the referee ruled that the goalkeeper had stepped forward across

the goal line before the ball had been kicked. So he ordered another

attempt. This time, the shot found the net.

As it turned out, it was the game’s only goal.

The entire turn of events touched off an unseemly insurrection among a

handful of parents -- and we’re using that noble term loosely here --

from the opposing side. One father spewed effusive condemnation on the

referee and spent the balance of the game stalking the sidelines like a

lathered Brahma bull at a rodeo.

Another gentleman hounded the poor referee until the final whistle and

after. And then there was the soccer mommy -- her leashed dogs in tow --

who upbraided the official on the sidelines for some number of minutes.

She had refereed many of her daughter’s games before, she chirped for all

to hear, and she never would have made “that call.” Well, bully for her.

The whole affair ramped up to witch-ugly at game’s end. That’s when

the two men surrounded the referee -- a volunteer who had to be thinking

that a cold beer and the Olympics were sounding pretty good right about

now -- as if he were Osama bin Laden or Jeffrey Dahmer back from the

grave. One of the protesters wrapped his hand around the referee’s arm to

get his attention. Only the intervention of the defeated team’s coach

prevented this stinky scrum from spinning into complete mayhem.

As my wife and I trundled our daughter back to the car, I could see

the opposing coach huddled with the torch-bearing parents of his young

players.

News broke later in the day that they had lodged a protest with the

local AYSO generals, and so I imagined the dialogue in that little

postgame klatch. “Don’t worry, we’ll get those little buggers. We’ll

strip ‘em of their victory. We’ll protest, by God! That’s what we’ll do.”

And all of it over a soccer game between 10-year-old girls. What a

planet.

I’ll grant that there’s some legion of dysfunctional parents out there

on the fields of youth sports whose lives are so tortured with

disappointment that they’ll go to war over a bad bounce of the ball. But

to express their indignation on an authority figure -- in this case the

referee -- for events of no lasting matter merely teaches the wide-eyed

kids who witness such tirades that petulance and tantrums are the best

weapons in the face of defeat. Any defeat.

Youth sports organizations shouldn’t tolerate it. If AYSO doesn’t have

a policy that demands the immediate end of a game and a team’s forfeiture

when a parent or coach curses or lays a hand on an official, it better

write one up quick.

In the meantime, play on.

* Byron de Arakal is a freelance writer and communications consultant.

He resides in Costa Mesa. Readers can reach him with news tips and

comments via e-mail at o7 [email protected] . Visit his Web site at

o7 www.byronwriter.comf7 .