Farewell, Arrows

This weekend marked the start of soccer season for the Capital Area Soccer League (CASL), the huge youth soccer organization in our area. Scott played on CASL soccer teams from his first year of eligibility, back when he was four or five, until this spring. This fall, he decided to stop playing soccer, both because he wasn't enjoying it as much as in the past and because he wanted as much time as possible to focus on doing well in ninth grade. I respect his decision.

I also gain in some ways from his choice. I don't have to get up early for games on Saturday. I don't have to sit in the heat for a few hours on sweltering Saturday and Sunday afternoons. I neither have to coach nor feel guilty for stopping coaching after doing it for over three years. I also don't have to feel bad about being such a poor coach, because though I thought the world of the boys on the team and I did my best, I just don't know that much about soccer.

All that said, I'll miss it. I'll miss Scott's team of many years, the Arrows. I'll miss seeing him in his number 17 shirt, first with his first name on it and then, as he grew older, with his last. I'll miss the moments when the boys were clicking and their efforts from practice paid off during a game. I'll miss the excitement of watching them stop a goal or score one.

I'll also always remember a great deal from these years of soccer: the boys, the great plays, the silly moments in practices, the time Scott scored a goal from about forty yards out on a penalty kick, and so much else.

I was and am proud of Scott and all the other Arrows for trying hard, week in and week out, and for being first good boys and then good young men.

Most of all, I'll miss watching with so much pride my heart could scarcely contain it as number 17, Scott, my son, who for years was the leader and center of the defense, ran across the field at full speed to confront an attacker, give his all though he could not know the outcome, and play the game as best he could. In soccer or in life, a father can ask no more of a son than that.

Many voices, many songs

After this morning's soccer game (a hardfought 0-1 loss in which the Arrows played very well), several of us in my extended family went to a Raleigh street fair, Artsplosure. We ate street food--always a favorite activity of mine--and wandered slowly through the many arts and crafts booths.

As you might expect, some of the art worked for me, and some did not. To be completely truthful, most of it was not to my taste. That said, I uniformly admired the passion and dedication of the artists who braved the heat and, probably more importantly, the vast indifference of most passersby to display and hawk their treasures.

That indifference is a foe all artists must face. For many years, I fought an internal war over writing, unable and unwilling to give it up, but also so sure that I would be embarrassingly bad at it that I could scarcely make myself do it. In the course of the over two decades of this struggle, I produced and sold about a dozen stories, a pitiful output for all the time and heartache. Finally, about two years ago I decided to write at least a little bit every day, because by this technique I would no matter what be creating something daily.

I still carry on the same internal struggle, and I remain convinced at a very deep level that I'll never write anything truly worthwhile, but now I have one novel done, another in progress, and a few new stories and story rewrites in print. I intend to keep writing no matter what.

A poster in the music room where my kids used to practice said something to the effect of "if the only bird in the forest who sang was the one with the prettiest voice, how sad the woods would be." In art as in all things, no single arbiter exists, so even saying which voice is prettiest is, I believe, impossible. Despite that fact, every artist I've ever known wrestles with some mutation of this problem.

So I have come to admire all the Artsplosure artists and craftspeople, as well as all the artists and craftspeople who toil daily at their passion no matter the reception, for keeping on singing their own songs in their own voices. The forest is large enough for us all.

And now, a quiz: At one point in the afternoon, we stopped at a purveyor of good chocolates, Peche, so some in our group could indulge in sweets and all of us could rest in air conditioning. My daughter, Sarah, particularly enjoyed her stay there. These two pictures are both from today's Artsplosure expedition; can you spot my daughter?

(Hints: She's the one with the smaller nose, and she's sufficiently beautiful that I know you're wondering if I'm really her father. I am; the sense of humor resemblance tells the tale.)

The Arrows

My son, Scott, plays on a soccer team called the Arrows. He's played on this team for at least the last five years, maybe longer. They play in the Capital Area Soccer League's (CASL) recreational division, which means they play for fun and love of the sport (or because their parents make them). I coached this team for about three years. We won some and lost some, lost more than we won, and had a fair amount of fun, as well as some grueling practices; I believe in practicing hard.

The Arrows played two games today in CASL's end-of-season tournament, the CASL Cup. They lost the first and won the second. One coach missed the first game, so I acted as assistant coach for it. Though they lost, I was proud of their effort, particularly in the second half, which they dominated.

Scott primarily plays the center of the defense, a position soccer types call "Center D," and it's his job to run the defense. He's good at it. I told him I'd embarrass him by putting him in my blog, and I took a lot of pictures for that purpose. Being a sensible young man and a clever one, he made the argument that I shouldn't be putting pictures of him on the Internet. So, I chose a safe one, an image of his back.

This image also triggered another reaction in me. Prior to this season, the shirts for the Arrows always showed only first names. This year, they changed to last names. It was odd to see a Van Name on the field; the only previous shirts I'd seen with that name were mine.

I think the world of the Arrows, and I was proud to coach them and to know them. They are a great bunch of guys.

They also served to remind me that all over the world, in countries near and far, lands friendly and hostile, parents are watching their kids play games, rooting for their children, fearing for their safety, loving them, and doing the best by them that they can manage.

I'm just another one of those parents, but these soccer games helped connect me to the world, and as a guy for whom alienation is a huge issue, I appreciate the connection.

When I get angry at the people in other groups, other nations, other anything, I try to remind myself that even if I believe the others are wrong, even if I truly despise them, they are humans, parents and children, moms and dads, sisters and brothers, men and women, and they all have their own Arrows whom they love and cheer for and cherish as fiercely as I love and cheer for and cherish my son.