Ask and You Shall Receive

Heidi, ever the conscientious coach, did some research into dribbling drills for 5 and 6-year-olds when the head coach let her know that she would be handling that station at today's practice. She found one that looked fun but required hoops, like croquet, but big enough for a soccer ball. 

"Are you going to the store today?" she asked me this morning. "Will you look for hoops?"

"Where, at the hoop store?" I grumbled irritably, but agreed. 

My first stop was Target, and although I thoroughly scoured their sporting goods aisles, I did not find anything useful. At my next stop, the big box sporting goods store near us, I found two dozen adorable little cones, which I purchased, but no hoops. It occurred to me that a hardware store might carry something we could repurpose, so that big box was my next stop, unfortunately, to no avail. 

I knew there was a craft store around the back of the strip mall, and so I headed there next. On the way, I spotted a five-dollar store I'd forgotten about, and so I parked in between and went there first. There was nothing in their sports section that would work either on its own or with the mini cones, and I was just about to walk out when I saw a box of pool noodles on clearance for a buck a piece. 

I plucked one from the box and bent it into an arc thoughtfully. A possibility was definitely there, but I needed something to hold it in place. I figured I could spare two dollars in pursuit of the concept, and so I skipped the craft store and headed home, mulling the situation over.

The cones were out, although they were so cute I knew both Heidi and the kids would be charmed by them, and so they were in on their own. Back at the house, I cut the noodles in half and considered how they could be kept in the shape of an arch. I thought of garden stakes, and then it hit me. Wooden skewers! I took one of my half noodles outside with a couple of skewers and stuck them in the ground. Then I bent the noodle and threaded the skewers through the center hole. 

Voila! There was a colorful dribbling hoop. Total cost? Fifty cents.

And? They were a big hit at practice, too.

Off Peak

When Heidi and I pushed our way through the plate-glass doors into the black-lit gloom of the bowling center this afternoon, the place seemed deserted. Once our eyes adjusted to the light cast by the enormous TV screens playing a combination of music videos and football games at the end of each darkened lane, we saw just one other couple sitting at a table, eating chicken wings. 

It took a little while for anyone to emerge from the back and check us in; so long in fact, that had I not been committed to testing out my new ball, I would have been tempted to leave. Eventually, a personable man of perhaps 30 waved to us and made his way behind the counter. "What brings you in today?" he asked, ignoring the obvious.

"Believe it or not, we're here to bowl," I answered, stating the obvious.

He laughed and looked around the cavernous, nearly empty building. "Well, thanks for renting out the whole place!" he said.

Go Cheetahs

This fall, Heidi agreed to co-coach a kindergarten soccer team with one of our former colleagues, and today was the first game. The weather at the park when we arrived at 10 am was classic: blue skies, lots of sunshine, and a light breeze. The place itself was chaotic: cars were parked along the entrance drive, families packing their minivans to leave the first set of games, while others arrived for their own contests. 

Ordinarily set up as two regulation soccer pitches, the green was now haphazardly dotted with a dozen or more small nets. Upon closer inspection, we could see faint chalk lines marking the space into six or possibly seven small fields. It was disorienting until we spotted the blue and red jerseys of the Cheetahs and headed over that way. A minute later, the other team arrived in their black and gray kit. It turned out that they were the Cheetahs, too.

The match was four-on-four, played in four 8-minute quarters with at least three squad substitutions per quarter. Neither team fielded a keeper, so it was open goal. There were no referees, and the coaches ran the field with their teams, reminding them of the rules as they played. 

Of course, no one kept score. Officially, that is. I did hear a couple of dads talking about how many goals their players made. Even so, two things were certain: the kids had a good time, and the Cheetahs won.

You Crazy Kids

"What does he look like?" I asked a friend and former colleague about the teacher I was subbing for. He was a new hire this year, and I hadn't met him yet. Still, the way the kids talked about him in the first two classes made me curious. 

"Oh!" I heard more than once. "Mr. C. does NOT play!" and I sort of believed it based on his notes to me. If anyone even looks at you the wrong way, he wrote, leave the name. I will be the bad guy!

"He looks like Benson Boone," my friend laughed. "Young and kind of goofy."

"Who are you in for today?" a young teacher asked me at lunch, and when I told her, she nodded. "I went to grad school with him."

"Someone told me he looks like Benson Boone," I said.

She looked at me skeptically. "Do you know what Benson Boone looks like?"

"Of course!" I answered, a little indignantly, although it was a fair question. 

She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of her friend. He had a mop of curly hair and a wispy beard and mustache.

"I guess there's a little Benny Boone vibe there," I shrugged. "Does he do backflips?"

"No," she replied, and I think she was satisfied that I knew what I was talking about. "But he does do handstands!"

It sounds like he plays a bit to me, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

Back in Time

My continuing exploration of the sub life brought me to my old classroom this morning. Just a little over a year since I packed all my things and turned the lights off on what had been my professional home for over 30 years, the room has gone from being a longtime English classroom to U.S. History and now, math. 

For all that, I didn't feel strange or even the least bit emotional at all walking back into room 275 as the teacher in charge. And despite having the same old vintage trapezoidal tables that had been mine for so many decades, the original chalkboards, and even a couple of decorative stuffed dolphins that were gifts to me, it almost felt like a different room. 

Then at 9:38, the principal came on over the loudspeaker and asked for our attention. "Oh, it's September 11," I recalled out loud, and as we listened to her words of remembrance and then observed a minute of silence, I thought how right it seemed to be back in that room, just a mile from the Pentagon, and the place where I was 24 years ago.

Plus One

"Do you have a minute?" a teacher across the hall asked me this morning when I was subbing. We were standing outside our doors as the students arrived, which is the expectation for staff. I did not have a homeroom assignment, so I had more than a minute.

"Sure, what's up?" I replied.

"This student needs help with her locker," he told me.

"Oh boy!" I said gleefully, because teaching sixth graders how to open their lockers was always one of my favorite parts of the beginning of the year. (I also thought of my recently retired friend, Mary, who told me just yesterday that helping kids with their lockers was one of the things she absolutely did not miss.) "I'd love to help! Take me to your locker."

She gave me a curt nod and, with an anxious expression, turned and walked away, her backpack slung over one shoulder. I caught up to her, and as we threaded our way through the crowded halls to the even more crowded locker area, I tried to reassure her.

"Don't worry!" I boasted. "I've taught hundreds of kids to open their lockers! Maybe even a thousand."

She looked at me skeptically. 

"No! Really!" I said. "I used to work here. I taught sixth grade for over 30 years. I have a very high success rate!" I laughed, but she didn't crack a smile. "I predict you will be able to open your lock in less than 10 minutes," I added confidently. "What do you think?"

She raised an eyebrow. "No," she answered.

She handed me the combination, and I removed the padlock. Then we stepped to a quiet place along the wall, where I snapped the lock closed and gave it to her. I talked her through the process once, twice, and then again. I reminded her to turn the dial slowly, reverse directions, and spin it clockwise a few times and start again if she messed up. 

When she had opened it successfully four times, she looked up. "I've got it now," she said, walking back to her locker. "Thanks," she tossed the word over her shoulder.

"Yasssss!" I said to myself. "Make that a thousand AND one!"

Bottom of the Standings

I was optimistic that my new bowling shoes would improve my game this week. And? During warm-up, they seemed to. I bowled three strikes in my five practice frames. Unfortunately, I only bowled three more the rest of the morning, and with mostly open frames, my average actually fell. All around me, women ten years (or more) my senior were killing it, especially compared to me. 

My teammates were patient, but our third-place ranking from last week is gone, and I know I'm substantially responsible. "I look at it like this," our team captain told me philosophically, "you have some good days and some," she shrugged, pointedly, "better days. It's just a game." 

And afterward, a friend told me that when she first joined the league a few years ago, her husband asked her how she did. "Not too bad," she told him. "I got fifty-something."

"Aren't you bowling ten frames?" he replied incredulously.

She laughed when she told me the story and added, "We have a lot more bowling this season! Have fun and don't worry."

Even so, I went right out to the pro shop and got myself a ball. And you better believe I'm going to practice this week!