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younger ages, there was no offsides rule and the teams were small-sided. The idea was for each player to have lots of touches on the ball. Kids like that. As an aside, the big problem with baseball for the young ones is that half the team stands with their mitt weighing down their hand the whole game. So, the kids on The Raptors had lots of foot-to-ball time. We practiced twice a week; games were on Saturdays. A couple of players dropped out over the three seasons I had that little team, but more signed on than quit. Practices had everyone doing something, which wasn't always easy to orchestrate. Janice, the assistant coach, took some kids to play Jaws, a game in which kids steal the ball. I was on the other side of the field helping the kids find the inside of their foot, which sounds peculiar, but kids want to kick the ball with their big toe and that just doesn't give them the placement and power like the inside of the foot does. I grabbed parents, who were reading in their cars, if they were there at all, to shoot the ball to kids practicing goalie.

By the third season, the Raptors were contenders. Their ball handling skills had improved; they had started to pass more quickly, and were starting to "see" the field. The goalie, Danny, was a small wiry kid, who just wouldn't back down. He once knocked himself out for a second after crashing into the goal post while deflecting a goal. He didn't want to come out of the game, but I nearly stroked out when I saw him bounce off that post and dragged him off the field.

We met each opponent twice a season. The coach of one opposing team told me that our team could never beat his. He beat us the first time. Janice and I were pretty ticked by his remarks. We laughed as we told the kids about the coach's disparaging words. When we met that team again, the boys were fired up and they beat the other team. But we never yelled at them when they did lose. We made sure the parents brought yummy end-of-game snacks. We gave certificates for every little thing from learning to cross the ball to giving a proper handshake to an opponent. Every player got a trophy at the end of the season.

My son is 23 and still plays. He went from being a Raptor, to a Mountaineer, to a Desert Storm player. He found his niche as a defender. He's 6'5, but seldom does he resort to bodily force to stop a forward; he gets to the ball first and whips it away. I coached my daughter when she caught the fever from her brother. She ran fast, had a feel for the field and a large arc of a cross, and she was recruited for a coveted right forward spot on a competitive team when she was 10 years old. The joy in the game was replaced by seriousness, and she bailed when she was 14, never to return to the sport. I was sad.

I know why my son never lost his enthusiasm for the game. He never lost the sense of fun. He shunned highly competitive teams. He said, "I don't want to be yelled at." His skills improved through the years by practice and by the teachings of talented coaches in the recreational leagues. I assisted some of those coaches and was in awe of their knowledge and finesse. And me? I was never a great coach. But I think I was a good soccer parent. I cheered my kids' enthusiasm for the sport, and wish that more parents would do the same. It is, after all, just a game - a beautiful game.

Learn more about this author, Claudia Bushee.
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