Of all the sports that my little monsters (ages 8 and 10) play, I think soccer is my favourite. The incredible weather that graced opening weekend of the North Toronto Soccer Club spring league, just added to this sentiment.

The guys play everything that moves, including piano. Squash, tennis, snowboarding (used to be skiing), tackle football (used to be flag), track, boxing, swimming, curling, flag rugby, hockey, basketball and even chess. City leagues, school teams, our local sports club and Northern Ontario ski hills, have all cashed our cheques to allow a wee Harrison to perform as a wanna-be point guard, Olympian, goalie, Grand Master, flyweight, skip, prop, defensive back, quarterback, right wing, left wing and even a standing long jumper. Long jumper?

Thankfully my guys don’t need to be sitting in front of a screen to be entertained. (But let’s be clear; between the iPods, Macbooks, Xbox Kinect, Wii and cell phones; they have plenty of screens).

There have been some great moments. Some exciting chess tournaments with upset victories. An unexpected fourth place in a regional track meet. The topper was probably a runaway victory for the Grade 5 City Flag Rugby title! But most of the time, my guys are just regular kids playing sports, going from one house league to the next. Enjoying the games, not always the practices. Working hard and chasing loose pucks. Talking on the bench and making new friends. Wondering which Mom brought snacks and is she a health nut or did she bring something sweet?

So, why soccer?

I don’t know. Maybe because it coincides with good weather, getting outdoors and reintroducing yourself to neighbors you haven’t seen since the Christmas drop-in six doors down.

Maybe its because you get so close to the game, you can practically touch your kids when they play. Maybe it’s because the parents seem more social than in other sports. Maybe it’s because when we play, there are always eight to 10 games happening at once, making every Saturday morning and Tuesday evening a sort of community festival. Heck, it might even be because my Starbucks somehow tastes better sitting outside in a folding chair.

Like a lot of parents, I also appreciate the volunteer coaches. Who can’t appreciate someone who is going to take care of your little gaffer for an hour and not charge you 10 bucks? But seriously, coaching kids this age is one part babysitter, one part sports instructor and one part parent for an hour.

Admiration aside, I didn’t want to be one – a soccer coach, that is.

I’ve coached my son in flag football for two years and we didn’t do so well. He played great but I over complicated things. It was hard to remember these girls and boys were eight and nine and not the near-men I coach in high school football. But a few weeks ago, the desperate cry for help went out from our soccer association. Not enough coaches. Player registration is up. Volunteerism…not so much.

I considered it the first time, but then realized: I know nothing about soccer! The only time I coached a game was a dire emergency two years ago when my then six-year-old’s team had all three helmsman away on the same night. While we did break a multiple game-losing streak with an 8-1 slaughter, I think the fact I also played goalie for our guys, may have had something to do with it. (Kidding!)

So I ignored the plea…

Until it went out again the week before the season was to start. “No coaches, no teams folks. Need your help.” So I sent out an email and my virtual hand. Voilà! I am a coach. An assistant on my ten-year-old’s team. But a coach nonetheless.

Needless to say I was nervous. These kids are 10. It wont take them long to figure me out! I barely know a free kick from a pitch. Why do they call it a pitch anyway?

I arrived a bit later than I wanted on Sunday for Day 1, Game 1 of the grand experiment. Feigning confidence I introduced myself to the headman and asked him what I could do. Staring straight at him with all the concentration in the world, I tried to comprehend his comments. He talked about our game plan, what style we should play, and how we should evaluate the players. My focused brow must have had him convinced I was taking it all in.

Truth be told, I was actually staring at his jersey. There it was in front of me, right before my greedy eyes. The real reason I was coaching. The jersey! I didn’t know it until just then. In fact, I felt a bit guilty. I was just like the kids, I wanted the jersey.

Our team is sponsored by Nestle, some brand called Milo. Given they are supporting us and the business I am in, I had better figure out what Milo was. We are Team Germany (most of our divisions use countries as team names). Our opponent was also Milo. I think companies must have bought whole divisions. Funny given my profession, I don’t know. But at the big field there were lots of unsuspecting kids helping Tim Hortons, BMO (disclosure: my client), Pizza Pizza, Public Mobile, Nestle and a host of other national brands and some local outlets market, their brands.

Back to the jersey. After the briefing from my HC we started handing out uniforms. Kids asked for their favourite numbers. One told us he could only play if he wore 14. Well 14 was gone, and last I checked he was doing just fine wearing 2 or 8 or some other number. But who am I to judge? All the while, I kept hoping and praying I too would get a jersey. I was sure that in the past all the coaches got jerseys. I needed this!

How else could I command my young squad of Zidanes and Messis? Authority needed to be bestowed upon me.

At long last the HC must have picked up on my vibe. Or perhaps my sweat-provoking anxiety. He opened up another bag and presented me with my colours. How proud I was. All 230lbs of me swelled (not a pretty sight on a sunny day), as I donned the black jersey. Smack across my hefty left boob were the five letters I so craved. C-O-A-C-H. Oh what pride.

I was now part of the team. Part of the squad. I was now included. I was a part of the team.

This year soccer just got a little more rewarding.