Youth Soccer Lockout

Crikey is an avid soccer player. He and his peers are now far enough along in their training (development) that the games are less like those throbbing bands that marched across the Bugs Bunny cartoons, clumped together with instruments bouncing everywhere and more like... soccer games. Finally, attending his sporting events has transformed from maternal obligation (I love watching him play) to an experience I enjoy in its own right. I even like going to practices, though I rarely do, since Kermit really can't swing them (it ain't pretty).

However, I'm still ADD, still not a "HUA" sporty mom and therefore remembered to register the boy for the first practice of the spring season...2 hours before said practice. Scramble for keys. Put dinner on hold...crap, crap, crap...

To set the stage further, practice was held at the Middle School since the soccer fields are currently under 2 feet of snow and it's about 15 degrees out.

I called Johnny, our next door neighbor, and asked him if he could hang with Kermit for the 20 minutes it would take me to drop off Crikey, pay the fee and come home. Understanding gentleman that he is, he agreed.

Between the boys' winter breaks (which did NOT overlap), their independent cases of food poisoning, Mopping Days and errands - I was running ragged. When this worn down, my speech patterns become something like Yoda meets Hammy (Over the Hedge) meets a talkative Minion (Despicable Me).

It did not help that Crikey decided to go with sports pants and a t-shirt - no coat. Eh hem. 15 DEGREES.

"YOU. WITH THE ARMS. CLOTHES ON THEM. WEAR. NOW. IT'S COLDNESS. WEARING CLOTHES. NOW." This witty repartee was punctuated by my spastic movements: grab purse, grab phone, where's my iPod? etc., etc..

Now Johnny's mother, Elle, is one of my very best friends; she and I are also each others' favorite drinking buddies (a post of its own). Therefore, this young man has a fairly decent idea of my drinking habits (which could be worse). In this frenzy, the absurdity of how my behavior must look hit me. I stopped, started laughing, looked at Johnny and joked:

"I swear I've not been drinking." (never mind the laughter that's now bringing tears to my eyes) "Honestly." And then I walked into the door. Thud. Sigh. "REALLY."
When we moved in, Johnny was about 6 years old. I've seen him grow from a sweet little kid to a level headed teenager (apparently, they DO exist). He is also the King of Last Minute Babysitting. We would be lost without him.

Naturally, he chose this moment to go all Smart Ass Teenager. In reply to my "honestlys" and "reallys"...big grin, through chuckles:
"YEAH. OKAY." (snarkle, chuckle) Humph.
Unbelievably, we arrived at the Middle School in plenty of time.

A couple words about this train wreck of architectural schizophrenia, from the mouth of Dr. Egon Spengler:

"This building should be condemned. There's serious metal fatigue in all the load-bearing members. The wiring is substandard; it's completely inadequate for our power needs, and the neighborhood is like a demilitarized zone."

It's also a multi-leveled maze with at least 100 exits.
I once worked in this creepy old ramshackle as a tutor. Tutors were expected to park in the rear lot, far from the main entrance/parking lot. Without thinking, I parked in my usual spot. Door number 1? Locked. 2? Locked. 3? Locked. Aaaand so on.

15 degrees, and in my rush, I'm in jeans, a sweatshirt and Crocs. Irony and all.

The last door before the hall that connects the school to the YMCA is unlocked. With plenty of parking - but no matter. It's warm inside and I see my friends Stella and Traicy.

Like my first meeting with Elle, the description of my friendship with Stella is a post of its own. For now, suffice to say that she is a charming blend of quintessential Social Butterfly (in the very best sense of the word) and Sports Enthusiast (there's more, of course, but I want to do her justice...)

As for Traicy, she has the kind of positive energy about her that makes any room she enters a cheerful, happy place. I met her at one of Crikey's soccer tournaments and she was very amused by the bag of tricks I had brought to battle boredom. We hit it off so well that it didn't take long for me to forget the bag in the midst of the continual laughter. From obligation to enjoyment, to looking forward to soccer...? I have decided that I will only consent to assume the label of "Soccer Mom" if our sons are on the same team. Forever.

Now, I thought the adventure of getting there was good enough for a story, so I told it. I told it with the genuine (if naive) belief that, upon leaving, I'd go straight home, make dinner and be done for the night (Marshall said he'd do pick up).

Little did I know.

Conscious that I've left Johnny longer than I intended, and feeling very smug about the brainstorm of leaving via a door closer to my car, I take my leave, cleverly following the exit signs to a more logical choice.

Aha. Exit C6. I open the door, glance out. I can see my car - sweet! And just as I realize that I'm looking at my car through a 20 foot high, padlocked cyclone fence, I hear:

CLICK.

I'm locked out, ironically enough, on the fucking soccer field. With 2 feet of snow, 15 degrees, complete nightfall and no one to hear my screams.

I tried squeezing though the padlocked gate...which would have worked, if I weighed 80 lbs. Which I do not. While I have a bottom that only shows up in photo negatives, the upper half of my person is less Twiggy and more Dolly. I walked back to the door and called Stella. Since the practice was down in the bowels of the building, the lack of answer was no surprise. Where call signal fails, text often works. I texted both her and Traicy.

Still running late, I call my house to explain. The machine picked up.

ME: Hey Johnny, it's me. I'm sorry I'm running late, but I've locked myself outside of the school. I'm in the soccer field. I can see my car...
(at this point, the hilarity hits me and I start laughing)
ME: (choking out words) I can't fit through the padlock! I'll try climbing the fence, I guess! (gasp, wheeze)...

Behind me, the door opens. I see Traicy, eyes watering, bent at the waist, holding onto the knob to keep herself standing...and I lose it.

We are both laughing so hard, it took me a good 15 seconds to realize I was still on the phone.

When I pulled into the driveway, I saw Marshall's truck. Apparently, I called during the changing of the guard, and neither of them heard the message.

I walked in and reached for my apron. Pour a glass of wine; finish making dinner - a good plan...that never happened.

In his defense, my husband did hand me a half pound of penuche fudge before he said:

"You know, you worked at the Middle School, and I've never even been there. It would make more sense if you went to pick up Crikey. Do you mind?"

Three nights later, Elle came over for dinner. As I finished the story, she laughed and said, "so that's what he meant!"

"What "who" meant?"

"When Johnny came home the other night, he turned to me and said: 'Just so you know, Megan wasn't drinking.'"

POST SCRIPT: for the record, the neighborhood around the Middle School isn't quite a demilitarized zone - just not my first choice for a nighttime solitary hang out.