Thirteen young faces look to me for guidance, as if my YMCA coach’s shirt suddenly empowers me with the wisdom of Red Auerbach or Vince Lombardi.  (I’d list a famous soccer coach if I knew one.)  The only five-year-old in the bunch I recognize is my son, Michael.  After two weeks of practices, I recall most of the names: a pair of Jacks (one white and one black), Marcellus, Linus, Bucky (which I pray, for his sake, is a nickname), Ezra... um... the Professor and Mary Ann.  Whatever.  The names on the backs of their jerseys would help if they weren’t all facing me.  I signed up for this why?

Ah yes, that’s right.  My wife thought it would be a great bonding experience for me and my boy.  Ignore the fact that I haven’t played soccer since I was in little-league – and when I played, the PeeWees started at age seven.  Seven!  These kids are seasoned veterans by the time they reach first grade! 

Michael hates the game.  “It’s stupid playing a sport where you don’t get to use your hands,” he told me, and I can’t disagree with him.  Still, it would have been nice if he told me so before I earned the disrespect and ire of the other children’s parents.  Taking this assignment was as voluntary as a military draft; if you want your kid to play, you have to get involved.  At least I don’t have to annoy my co-workers with persistent cookie-dough and wrapping-paper sales.

I tap six sweaty heads – white Jack, Bucky, et cetera – and point them at Coach Simon’s field.  For once, I keep black Jack on my side, so I won’t get shut out again.  It doesn’t matter how many drills I run for an hour every week, once game time rolls around, most of these preschoolers chase butterflies and watch clouds.  Strangely, my team is the only one affected by these distractions; makes me wonder if I’m coaching future bug researchers and weathermen.  (I understand how science geeks might not take up sports, but weather forecasters?  My friend Nick plays softball with the traffic-and-weather-guy on a local radio station.)

I position my boys in blue in a standard diamond formation, knowing the second the whistle blows, two of them will probably wander beyond opposite sidelines, one will sit down, and only black Jack will join the redshirts amassing around the ball.  It looks like I’m following the same suggested practice syllabus, but come Saturday, only the other teams play like pros. 

I hope my wife appreciates this while she’s spending her afternoon (and my money) shopping for shoes.

I shake the other coach’s hand, and he has the gall to ask me if I know what I’m doing.  I lie, nod, and blow my whistle.  Jerome – I can read his name on the back of his red jersey – steals the ball from Jack and dribbles into our goal with no interference.  Ten seconds may have run off the clock. 

I clap encouragingly and reposition my team, substituting Harris for Michael.  The last thing I want is for Harris’s folks to “show support” from the sidelines.  Apparently, his dad was quite the soccer athlete in college, which must have been before he got fat and lazy.  His apple didn’t fall far from his tree, as Harris is both fat and lazy, albeit without the athleticism.

Michael stands forlorn, his chin against his chest, lower lip protruding.  What an incredibly photograph this would make – if it wasn’t my son!  I want to yank off my whistle and throw it to someone, but when I ask for help, crickets chirp.  So, burdened with the game, I call Michael’s name and shoot him a wink.  It doesn’t appear to brighten his spirits.  I take two steps toward him and ready a hug, but the red team’s jackass coach blows his whistle and play resumes.  My attention is diverted as Jack actually moves the ball toward their goal, but what must be a fourteen-year-old (is that stubble?) shoves him, so the other coach and I check to make sure everyone’s okay.  As if Goliath was injured.  Jack isn’t sad; he’s angry and wants to confront the bully.  Harris’s dad – completely unrelated blood-wise, so far as I know – tells Jack to stand up for himself and eggs him on by putting up his dukes.  Great. 

I pick up Jack and place him back at midfield, lift Harris to his feet, and chase down Ezra, who claims to have spotted a rabbit running into the woods.  My promises that the bunny will still be there after the game don’t subdue his zeal to chase after it now.  Once his teammates hear about the animal, they desert the pitch in hopes of catching it too.  Remarkably, all of the parents are in conversation with each other, even though one of them only speaks Arabian.

Coach Red is kind enough to inform me his team is ready when mine is.  Thanks.  I hope he chokes on his whistle.

I collect three of the runaways – one on my shoulders, another under each arm – and stomp like the Hulk back to the field.  “Blue team smash!”  No one laughs. 

After a short (both time and size) huddle, I ready myself for seven more minutes of torture.  And then three more quarters.  I’d quit, but unlike the rest of these pious parents, I feel a genuine commitment to showing integrity to my child.  My child who is where?

I survey the field for his jersey, but with eight fields zig-zagging along both sides of a jogging path, there are multiple shades of blue and none I see contain my Michael.  I shout his name under the guise of subbing him in.  Heaven forbid any of the spectators think I can’t handle my parenting responsibilities any better than my coaching.  But I don’t see him.

I ask the closest Mom if she’s seen Michael, and she says, “I thought he was playing.”  Nice to see you’re so attentive.  I feel an urge, a wish to make everyone vanish if they don’t care about being here.  But I recant it when I realize such a wish would incorporate Michael.  Who has managed to disappear on his own.

I don’t want to create a panic.  No, I don’t want to show my panic.  As casually as I can, I lift the stopwatch and whistle straps off my neck and hand them to someone on my sideline that I think I recognize from Wednesday’s practice.  No explanation would help, so I don’t bother wasting my time. 

Crossing a nearby bridge takes me to a playground, but that’s in the opposite direction of the main building.  Did he run inside to the bathroom?  He knows better than to walk away without telling me where he’s going. 

Oh God.

With the hundreds of kids out here, only my fatherly instinct tells me that it’s my Michael being helped into the back of a white station wagon by a man I don’t recognize at all.  I scream, “Stop!” and break toward the parking lot, but I trip over someone’s younger sibling who crawled underfoot and land flat on my belly, winded.  I have no time to apologize.  I can’t catch my breath.  Get these people away from me!  I need to get my son!

I will myself to my feet and point at the car as it snakes through the crowded parking lot.  “Michael!”  My stumbling run betrays how pathetic I am as a father.  With the commotion on the fields, there’s little chance of me catching the Volvo on foot.