Henrietta Hay's Column

On a beautiful fall afternoon you can sit in Mile High stadium and watch a Bronco game. Or you can sit in a lawn chair right here in River City and watch a bunch of 12-year-old girls play soccer. Thanks to my friend Katie I've become a soccer junkie.

Soccer is a very old game. According to the Concise Columbia Encyclopedia, the first recorded game was played in England in 217 A.D. Other reference books simply say that the game pre-dates recorded history, which is close enough for me. It is still the most popular game in the world and is probably played in every town in America by kids of all ages and both sexes.

This year I am following a U13 girl's competitive league team. Soccer terms are somewhat mysterious to the uninitiated. U13 means under 13 years of age. In the recreational leagues the local teams play against each other. But the competitive league goes statewide. It means the girls have become very good players, and that their parents are putting up enough money to buy uniforms, and big equipment bags, a lot of trips to the eastern slope, and an annual fee. If you are a grandmotherly type, you get in free, have a lot of fun and learn a lot.

I remember when these girls started playing in the 3rd grade. They stood around in mortal fear that the ball would come to them and they would have to do something with it. They were polite and unassertive, as good little girls had been taught to be. They tended to apologize if they bumped into another player, and were miffed if another player pushed them. Little by little they learned the athletic skills, and now at twelve they have also learned a great lesson for their future as women - you've got to defend yourself and fight for the ball. Maybe The newfound aggressiveness is partly the result of middle schoolers having more energy than they know what to do with. Soccer is a great way to vent it without getting in trouble.

The girls are great fun to watch. At twelve there are short ones and tall ones and chubby ones and slim ones. And they're all beautiful. Some are natural athletes and some are not, but they have all learned to play well. For some reason, which eludes me, most of them are named Megan or Katie or Emily. I wonder what was in the water 12 years ago. If I stand up and yell, "Good job Katie," I'm pretty safe. There are three Katies and a Caitlin.

For a couple of years I didn't bother much with rules. The object of the game was to kick the ball into the goal. Big deal! All the whistles and snapping of flags just added to the atmosphere. But as an ex-athlete I realized that if I were going to watch the game I had to understand it a little. It was not enough to bluff with the offside rule. My friend the philosopher tipped me off early on that if you frown and shake your head wisely and yell, "Offside," when the whistle blows while your team has the ball, everybody will assume you know what's going on.

Usually you are right. I still don't understand the offside rule. It seems to penalize speed, but I yell it with the rest of the parents.

Parents are not allowed on the playing field. This is a very good thing. Parents tend to get awfully excited over soccer when their kids are playing. While I have noticed that the parents of "my" team are generally quite polite, there are exceptions. Occasionally a difference of opinion over a call can bring a father to life rather violently, but it is the mothers who make the most noise. The referee, of course has the last word.

Fortunately there are not many injuries, but if a girl does bang up her knee or shoulder, she has immediate, compassionate and usually expert care. The parents gather round and one of the grandfathers is a nurse. As I said, it is a family affair.

Even when those beautiful fall afternoons turn to blustery winter afternoons, I'll probably still be out there yelling, "Good job, Katie - or Emily - or Megan."