Youngest plays youth soccer. [Being half-English, he prefers to call it "football" like 90% of the rest of the world, but, seeing as we live in the U.S., that's a battle he fights every single day on the school yard. I have far too many other battles to fight on the school yard, so I don't take up his cause.]
The season is starting up soon, and we've received several missives from his coach regarding when practices start up, when clinics are, and so on. His first practice isn't until next week, so I've not actually met or even spoken to his coach.
Until his coach called me last night to tell me that Youngest has been moved to another team. And he was moved because, apparently, my husband is going to be the co-coach of this other team.
"That's news to us," I said.
Poor guy. He had apparently let the cat out of the bag before the mouse had a chance to run for cover. Blustering, he tried to backtrack. Maybe he was wrong about why Youngest was moved. Maybe it was the father of the other kid who was moved off who was going to coach. Maybe I should just forget what he had said.
As it turns out, the coach of Youngest's new team is the father of one of his best friends. When his co-coach dropped out because her kid didn't want to play soccer this year, he told the soccer powers-that-be that, if he could pick any other kid, he'd pick Youngest.
Because Youngest's parents are football-crazy and are, more importantly, most definitely saps.
Practices start Tuesday. Guess who's helping to coach? And guess who's the team parent?