Pele' ain't got nothin' on this kid

Saturday was Mark's first official soccer game, and boy was it a good one! I wasn't sure how the boys would do during a real game. All their goofing around and smack-talk during practices had me worried.

I mean, Mark was goalie at the last practice, and when I looked over at him, he was wearing his scrimmage jersey around his neck like a cape, pretending to be a superhero. (I told him, "Why don't you pretend to be a goalie instead?") So I was a little apprehensive about how they'd do in a live game against another team.

Turns out my worries were unfounded. They played great, running all over the field, scoring lots of goals, and having a great time.

Mark was even into it. He still didn't want to get too close to the mob, but he did get the ball a few times, and even made this awesome attempt at a goal.



I'd like to say he kicked with all his might for the team, but the truth is, my cousin and I promised him ice cream if he makes a goal. (Hey, it's motivation, not a bribe!)

But the funniest part was when Mark engaged in a little housekeeping. There was a big hole on the field, which the referees had marked off with orange cones so no one tripped in it. With all the boys running on the field, some of the cones got upended, but no one took any notice.

Except for Mark, that is. As the mob of boys chased the ball upfield, Mark followed them -- but stopped mid-run to correct the cones. He placed them back in place, then continued running upfield with the other kids. It was hilarious.

Mark's team won easily, and the team got a good start on their pizza party money. (The parents contribute quarters in a coffee can every time our team scores.) And best of all, Mark didn't go low and have to sit out the game.

Can't wait for next week...

The return of Markel Jackson

My nephew Nicholas is obsessed with soccer. He told me he's moving to England at 13, when he signs his professional soccer contract.

His parents are okay with that; as long as he has a signed contract, he doesn't have to go to c o l l e g e. But apparently, that's not all he's skipping. His sister Hannah was telling me how early their high school starts (at 7:30) and Nick just gasped and said, "And that's why I'm not going!"

"When do you think soccer practice starts?" I asked him. "11 a.m.? Mid-afternoon?" I could tell he's Mark's cousin by his work ethic...

Nick's love of soccer was so infectious that even Mark was affected. Mark, the boy who refuses to run after the ball, actually played soccer with Nick, kicking the ball against a bounce-back goal.

At one point, the ball sailed past the goal and into the garage. Mark raced to get it, but was distracted by somethin' shiny. When he came out of the garage, he did not have the ball; instead, he carried a new accessory which he turned, then flipped up onto his head.



"Look what I found!" he yelled, excitedly. He tipped the straw fedora at a jaunty angle, flipped it to the side, and swaggered down the driveway.

"Yo, Nick,wassup?" he said in his coolest voice, but Nick was not impressed.

"Dude, where's the ball?" he demanded, but Mark shrugged. His temporary passion for soccer was lost to his first love, fashion.

Nick retrieved the ball, but not Mark's interest. Instead, Mark flipped the hat around his head, and started jumping up onto his toes, a la Michael Jackson.

"Ooh!" he shouted, then started dancing around the driveway. Nick kicked the ball at him, but Mark moonwalked around it.

My brother Tim had finished loading the car for our day's adventure.

"Hey kids, let's go!" he called out. "Nick, Hannah, come on." He paused when he saw Mark's new hat, then yelled, "Justin Timberlake, get in the car!"

"Hey Uncle Tim, can I have this hat?" he asked, and Tim nodded.

"You can if you get in the car RIGHT NOW!" he answered. Mark quickly scrambled into the backseat.

Kim cracked up when she saw Mark in his skinny jeans, pink shoes and black fedora. She couldn't get used to a boy who actually cared about clothes -- the boys in Northern California refused to wear anything but sports jerseys, she said.

"I thought having a boy made me immune to all the fashion trends," I replied. "But God sure has a sense of humor, giving me the one boy who cares about clothes..."

That hat never left Mark's head. It wobbled a little as Mark did the Thriller dance, but never quite fell off. I walked through airport security with my mini Justin Timberlake, and spent the next morning at the endocrinologist, where Mark received lots of compliments on his new hat.

He finally took it off Wednesday morning, but only because he was going to school. He didn't want to lose his hat the first day.

I think he's gonna save it for this weekend, when he's bringing sexy back.

Hold that soccer scholarship

Last night was Mark's first soccer game. It was a practice game, but Mark was thrilled to wear his new uniform. (I've noticed he likes his fancy sports uniforms more than he likes the actual sports...) He was also thrilled to bring his water bottle, which he'd frozen that afternoon.

The boys were antsy, excited to play. I was surprised at how fast the other team lined up on field, all in matching uniforms. They had obviously practiced together (a LOT), and their seasoned players knew exactly where to stand.

Our team...well, they were energetic. They weren't quite sure where to stand, and bunched up midfield, laughing and punching one another. The coach spread them out, blew the whistle and watched the other team shoot right past them and score a goal.

"Wow," said the grandpa sitting next to me. "They're never gonna get a pizza party playing like that!"

The other team made another goal, and then another. Things were looking grim, and they'd only been playing 10 minutes.

Pretty soon, our team woke up, and started kicking the ball. Most of them did, anyway.

Mark was trash-talking a kid on the other team when the ball sailed right past him. He watched it soar over his head and land near the goalie. Then, instead of helping out the goalie, he turned and ran up field, away from his team and the ball.

"What are you doing, Mark?" his coach screamed.

Mark shrugged and yelled back, "I don't know!"

It was painfully obvious he was being honest. Mark's terrified of getting kicked in the head, or the shins, and wouldn't get anywhere near the ball when the other boys were attacking it.

Twenty minutes later, Mark's enthusiasm finally surfaced. Unfortunately, it was for the ice chips in the coach's cooler. He and the coach's younger soon sat on the sidelines, fishing out dirty ice cubes and completely ignoring the game.

"Mark, eyes on the ball!" I called out to him. He took that as nagging, not warning, and dismissed me, until the ball flew dangerously close to him, followed by kicking cleats and stampeding boys.

"Whoa, that almost hit me!" he called out, surprised. I realized my supportive mothering skills are rusty, because the first thing I thought was, "Well, DUH!!" (Luckily, my filters were on and I didn't actually say that out loud.)

The ice chips ran out, so Mark started pounding his frozen water bottle on the ground. When the coach rotated him back in, he handed over the bottle. It immediately started dripping over my backpack through a small crack he'd pounded in the bottom.

I hoped Mark might try harder with a little encouragement.

"Good try!" I shouted when the ball came near him. He ran away from the oncoming mob of boys fighting over it.

The ball then dropped right in front of him, alone on the field, and he had no choice but to kick it. I yelled some more encouragement.

"Good kick, Mark!" I yelled. "Now aim it at the other team's goal!" It took most of the game, but he finally kicked it away from his own goal.

Mark rotated out of the game again, and sat down next to me. Now I was all into the game, and when another boy got in a good kick, I cheered him on, too.

"You never say 'Good kick!' to me," Mark pouted. I just ignored him and his selective hearing.

Mark's team had awoken from their first-game daze, and were kicking some serious booty. They scored a goal, prompting the grandpa next to me to proclaim, "There's the pizza party!" They scored a few more goals, and Grandpa kept upping the food quality for the party.

"Steak dinner!" he cried at the next goal. By the time the game ended, the boys were up to a lobster dinner.

The game ended as the moon was rising. The boys were completely spent, but happy. The coach gave a rousing post-game speech, which was mostly lost on them, as they smacked each other with water bottles and fought over who ran the fastest.

I left feeling pretty happy. Mark won't get anywhere near the ball, so I can pretty much kiss a college soccer scholarship goodbye. But not all is lost -- he was a good sport, he made contact with the ball, and he didn't actually kick the ball into his own goal. All of which I chalk up to a successful first game!

And who knows...maybe it'll spur interest in a college scholarship for something else...like science, or ice chip technology!

He's no David Beckham

Mark was really excited to start soccer last week. But I've realized he's more excited about the social aspect than the competitive aspect. He'd rather goof around during practice than actually scrimmage.

He did really well at the first practice, but he was burnt out by the second one. While the other boys aggressively raced toward the ball, Mark casually jogged behind. When the other boys crashed into each other in a mob of kicking legs and flailing arms, Mark stood back a safe distance.

He's more wily than athletic. When a kid from the other team threw in the ball, Mark yelled "Over here!" to confuse him. It worked, and Mark kicked the ball into the goal. It was such a successful move, he's tried it at each subsequent practice, though the other kids are on to him now.

But what Mark hates the most is the running. He's a good runner, and fast. He hates to continuously run up and down the field, back and forth, chasing the ball over and over again (even when I explained, "Um, that's how you play soccer!"). He said he'd rather play baseball because, "you only have to run a little bit -- just a few short sprints every once in a while."

During last night's water break, I gave him some friendly advice.

"Get in there and get the ball!" I said. "Stop goofing around and hustle."

He shrugged and gulped his water down.

"Do you see the other guys running?" I asked. "They're really hustling. You need to hustle, too."

He shook his head and told me, "But I'm not that type of guy."

"What type of guy?" I asked. "The kind who hustles?"

"Yeah," he answered. Then he dropped his water bottle, called out "Bye!" and meandered slowly over to his team.

Because apparently, that's the kind of guy he is...