The several regular readers I have know that Youngest is futbol crazy. Give that boy a futbol, and he's all over it.
Oh, sorry, you're mostly Americans. I don't mean handball crazy. You know, that silly game where people repeatedly hold a pigskin and pretend it's football. That game that has the greatest commercials of all time every year the first week of February. You know the one, right?
All right. All right. I'll call it soccer for you people.
Youngest is soccer crazy. His dad is, too. And everyone I hang out with on the weekends is as crazed.
He's good. Really good. Not just "mom says he's good," but really good.
He got picked to go to the tryouts for the Olympic Development Program.
This is getting too convoluted.
I'll stop now.
They sent out a cut list for those not asked back for the third tryout next month. I looked at the list and saw that he didn't make the cut.
I was sad.
He was okay with it.
He moved on.
Saturday, at our tournament, the father of another kid on the team asked if they should bring him for the final tryout, when Pete and I are away. I teared up a little and told them he hadn't made the cut. He and his wife argued with me, but I was sure.
I was totally sure until they proved that I was wrong. I had been looking at the numbers for the GIRLS team, not the BOYS team.
Because, duh, you have to choose one.
So, Youngest is going to the final tryouts. He might make it, he might not. Thank you, new friends, for proving me wrong.
I've never been so happy to be wrong in my life.
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