‘But You Like It, Right?’

I took 3-year-old Annabelle to her first soccer “practice” last weekend. By “practice,” I mean a big, open field filled with 15-20 kids running around with two coaches for 45 minutes.

I very much wanted Annabelle to like this practice.

Sure, we had some things going against us. Bridget was at a bachelorette party, so I had 1-year-old Aurora with me. The age range went from 3-6, meaning Annabelle was one of the younger kids there. Also, Annabelle had never played soccer in any way, shape, or form.

Here’s how it went:

10:57 AM: We arrive three minutes early, fresh off a successful dance class. (Annabelle likes dance.) As we get out of the car, I see three kids walk by with cleats and shin guards. Annabelle is wearing shorts that are too small and Frozen sneakers. Oh no.

11:00 AM: Practice starts. Two nice (and European!) guys introduce themselves and ask the kids to follow them to the middle of the field. Annabelle won’t go alone, so I tell her I’ll join her for “just a minute.” Meanwhile, Aurora is in a stroller by herself. For two minutes. Then five minutes. Then eight minutes. I could see the stroller (I’m not a psycho), but this obviously isn’t good. Big oh no.

11:08 AM: As the kids start their first drill—red light, green light—I tell Annabelle that I have to go get her sister. She insists on joining me. I return to the field carrying Aurora and holding Annabelle’s hand. Other parents look at their cell phones, sip handcrafted beverages, and chat about the weather. I, on the other hand, am sweating profusely under the 80-degree sun. “Let’s go find your ball, Annabelle.” We sort of participate in the drill.

11:15 AM: Water break. Yes! Annabelle drinks her water and I can finally get a bottle for now crying Aurora.

11:20 AM: I sit on the field feeding Aurora while Annabelle kicks the ball (all the kids still have their own ball at this point) around us. She smiles, laughs, and even responds to the coach. When he says “green light,” she kicks the ball as hard as she can and runs after it. My sports-loving heart floats.

11:25 AM: Aurora is fed and smiling (we’re still on the field) and Annabelle is getting even more excited. She’s even dribbling a little! “Way to go, honey,” I say. “I’m so proud of you!”

11:30 AM: Another water break. “Okay, only 15 more minutes, Annabelle. Are you liking it?” She pauses. And thinks. “Yes!” My heart is now in the clouds.

11:31 AM: “Okay,” says the coach. “We’re going to split into two groups and each group will use only one ball. Your team will defend a goal and I’ll defend a goal.” Annabelle, Aurora, and I make our way to Annabelle’s group. I move back 10-15 feet to pretend I’m on the sideline.

11:34 AM: The coach starts dribbling. “Go get it, Annabelle,” I say. “Go get the coach!” Instead, Annabelle runs to me. Much bigger kids (with cleats and shin guards!) chase the coach. One kid falls over and starts crying. Annabelle is near tears. Disaster.

11:36 AM: The coach starts dribbling again. Annabelle stays by my side. “Don’t you want to play? Go play with the kids,” I say. She does not. She starts complaining about being too hot and the wind, of which there is none.

11:39 AM: “Honey, just give it a try,” I implore, pretending my arm is not about to fall off from holding a writhing 21-pound baby for 30 minutes. “See if you can get the ball.” No. She begins crying. I feel like a bad father. Visions of Texas high school football run through my head: I don’t want your life, Dad! Snapping back to reality, I tell her to just watch. She sits and picks grass.

11:43 AM: Annabelle tells me she wants to go home. “Practice is almost over, hun,” I say. “Just a couple more minutes.”

11:45 AM: Practice mercifully ends. The coach gives everyone a high-five. Annabelle seems to enjoy this interaction. We go to the car.

“So,” I say to Annabelle, “did you like it? Should we try it again?”

“No.”

“Maybe just one more time? It’ll just be me and you next time,” I add. “No Aurora.”

“Okay,” she says, clearly just wanting to end the conversation.

“But you like it, right?”

I’m still waiting on an answer.

You Like Sports, Right?

I love sports. I play them, watch them, and fantasize about them. I love the drama, the excitement, the stories, the teamwork, the leadership, the winning, and the losing. Love, love, love. In fact, "love" may be the wrong word. It's not quite strong enough.

I idolize sports. There, that's better.

Sports, in all forms, have been an enormous part of my life for as long as I can remember. Quite possibly, more than anything else, they've made me the person I am today. It should come as no surprise, then, that I want my daughters to love sports, too.

But what if they don't?

It's a real possibility. Consider a recent conversation I had with Annabelle:

Me: "Annabelle, do you want to play soccer or take dance lessons?"

(Bridget and I figure we'll start with one activity and see how it goes.)

Annabelle: "Dance lessons."

Me: "Right, but soccer is awesome. You get to kick the ball, run around ..."

Annabelle: "I want dance lessons."

Me: "Are you sure? I mean, soccer is so universal. It's really cool."

Annabelle, now laughing: "Dadddd! Dance!"

Me: "Okay, okay ..."

And then we both laugh and I die a little inside. Her first dance class was yesterday. I'm told it went well.

I have nothing against dance, of course. But dance, and I hope this is okay to say in 2016, isn't a sport. Yes, yes, it's hard. Yes, there are competitions. But it's not a sport. It's a vigorous activity.

What I'm talking about is stuff like basketball, soccer, or even running. I'd totally settle for Annabelle and Aurora loving running because I could do it with them.

But what if running can't even make the cut?

I've tried — and continue to try — on numerous occasions to get Annabelle to love sports. She knows our favorite team ("the Cuse!") and loves watching college football with me on Saturdays. Sort of. After five minutes, watching college football devolves into her jumping from the ottoman to the couch again and again and again ... "Honey, look at that catch!" She looks. And shouts: "He made it!" Back to jumping.

I even trained her from a young age, putting on sports whenever she'd cry late into the night. One of my happiest moments in my first year of parenting was a three-week-old Annabelle sleeping on my chest as I watched the Iron Bowl. (Maybe someday she'll know what that is?)

This isn't a gender thing, either. It is 2016, after all. Girls are just as likely as boys to become superstar athletes. (I wrote a bit about gender equality in my first post to this blog.) But I can't lie and say I don't get jealous when I see my friend's son, clad in a football helmet and goalie gloves, cramming as many sports as possible into a given Sunday afternoon.

Annabelle is only 3, so there's plenty of time left for her to develop a life-long love of sports. She could be a great shortstop, a shifty point guard on the court, or an all-state hurdler. Or maybe all three! And obviously, no matter what she chooses, even if she hates sports, I will love her and support her completely. But I would really would prefer she love sports more than life itself.

As for Aurora? Well, she can't really crawl or walk yet, so we'll be watching lots of football later today.

"Honey, look at that catch!" She'll stare. And I'll hope.