Simon is reaching the age where it is appropriate for his parents to push him into activities in which he would otherwise have absolutely no interest. Er. . . that is, Simon is SO excited that he’s going to be playing Bantam (read peewee) soccer this fall. I was so excited about getting him involved, that I went out and signed up to get certified by the Virginia Youth Soccer Association as a U8-U10 coach (there was nobody offering the U6-U8 course locally).

The course was very valuable, and immediately shattered all notions of coaching youth soccer that I had from my elementary school soccer days. Kids want to have fun? What?! Shocker! No laps?! No LINES?! Half of my time spent in peewee soccer was running laps and standing in lines for certain drills.

The course was run by a coach with over 25 years of coaching experience, and boy did it show. We spent the afternoon out on the field. He first showed us some drills (and quickly exposed our beer guts and poor conditioning), and then we spent a couple of hours watching him actually work with the kids. And I learned that coaching youth soccer is probably more of an art form than anything else.

I have my doubts about coaching a team that Simon is on. I’m not sure how he will respond to an environment where his father is an authority figure outside of “Dad.” But we’ll give it a go this fall and see what happens. Next step? World Cup 2026!

Quick Update: I forgot to include this little conversation I had with my brother’s roommate right before this series. An “Overheard in the Stands,” if you will.

Steve (Murray’s Roomate): You know, all it takes is one big play.
Me: Steve, what have you seen in this game that makes you think we’re capable of even a single big play?
Steve: *shrugs*

So yeah, this shows what I know:

Go Hokies!

Mom: Oh the Yankees are just terrible. Our starting pitching is awful and we can’t win at all.
Me: Welcome to being a Washington Nationals Fan.
Mom: We can’t drive in runs when we have two or three players on base!
Me: Welcome to being a Baltimore Orioles Fan.
Mom: Yeah, but we pay these players enormous salaries and they can’t score at all!
Me: Welcome to being a Washington Redskins Fan!

Look at that form. At 2 years old! That’s sick.

Me: Aw Man!
Kate: What?
Me: Daniel Snyder just bought my sports talk radio station!

Edit 04/18/08: The Caps ended up losing 4-3 in double OT. But it doesn’t make this any less cute.

Of course the REAL news in the football world has nothing to do with the Super Bowl, the Patriots (aka “Choking Dogs”), or the World Champion New York Giants (you have no idea how difficult that was to type). The real news involves the 2008 class of Hall of Fame inductees. This class will include two Redskins: Darryl Green and Art Monk. Redskins fans are happy that Darryl is in, but we are THRILLED for Art Monk. Monk had been passed over several times, and we were all getting a little nervous that his classy and quiet demeanor actually hurt his chances of getting into the Hall. But never fear, enough Washington area sports writers made his case loudly enough, that the rest of the Hall of Fame voters finally came around.

Monk was my favorite player when I followed the Redskins as a kid. He was always good for a 15 yard out when you needed 14 yards for a first down. And if you were inside the 20 and you didn’t throw a fade to Monk in the back of the end zone, you were a fool. He was the possession receiver the Redskins have so desperately been missing for the past 10-15 years. The guy was a premiere receiver in an age where the NFL was not the pass-first circus that it is now. He was also a class act. There was no taunting in the end zone. No pulling out of cell phones (Joe Horn), donning of pretend Hall of Fame jackets (Chad Johnson), autographing of balls (Terrell Owens), or pretend pulling down of pants (Randy Moss). Monk was a good sport throughout his career and let his play on the field do the talking. There was no better football player to have for a role model than Art Monk. I’m glad that he’s being rewarded for it. Congrats, Art.