Wyatt's soccer team almost didn't get to "be", because they didn't have a coach. We've been getting emails for weeks pleading for someone to come forward or the team would have to fold. Definitely way, WAY out of my skill-set.
One of the other boy's mom, who also works FT at the hospital, (and still plays competitive soccer herself) graciously stepped into the gap so the boys could play. Great, problem solved, right?
Not so fast.
They have no one to play against.
None of the other teams in their age bracket could get enough players to field a team. Which is a major bummer, but even more so because the league has known about the problem for weeks, yet continued to plead/pressure for a coach for our boys, while not telling us the whole story.
Sounds like they may be able to switch to indoor and have a mini-league with four teams. (This works because you have less players on the field, so need less to make a team.) But it's just not the same. And today - opening day - they had no game.
Gunnar did (have a game), however an hour or so before the game he insisted that he was going to die and couldn't possibly play. Why, you might ask?
He's really been missing me while I've been at the hospital with Tate. Really, really, really.
When Tate and I arrived home this morning, Gunnar and Wyatt were at the neighbors' on their bikes. While I was making lunch I heard him calling loudly for me and my first thought was, "Oh! He's so excited I'm home he can't wait to see me!"
But, no. Those were cries of pain. He'd crashed his bike in the alley and was limping home bleeding from his left hand and knee, which were embedded with dirt and gravel.
Trauma and drama. Screams, tears, and woe.
(Truly, it made me deeply appreciate how very calm Tate has been through his ordeal.)
I was finally able to soak most of the grit out in a bath, clean the wound with peroxide, and bandage it up for the game. I consoled him that he was now a "Gunnar, with authentic battle damage."
But wasn't it a gorgeous opening day?!
Gunnar is purple, #4.
Gunnar is purple, #4.
Wyatt went to bed slightly feverish and complaining of stomach pains.
It's got to be the power of suggestion. It just has to be.