{Originally posted on The Wind In Your Vagina}

Jenna always works 1 day on the weekend and you can never really tell if it’s going to be Saturday or Sunday. When Jackson started to play soccer games on Saturdays, Jenna suddenly started working every single Saturday. What an ODD scheduling coincidence. Poor Jenna. She is deprived of youth soccer AND the joy of watching a 4-year-old girl who hates her brother’s soccer games. No parent should ever be asked to miss these experiences.

But then she got last Saturday off. At last. Jenna could come to soccer with us.

MetroDad recently pointed out on his blog that we’re raising a nation of pussies. The kids are urged to “use their words” in a world where they can’t leave the house without a helmet and a safety net. The crazy thing about Jackson’s soccer league is that this insidious process of wimpification is being extended to the parents. We’re being declawed. Before the kids were allowed to play their first game, we had to sign a Spectator Contract and initial each rule (and yes I’m totally serious).

These included limited shouting. If we do shout, we promise to shout only positive messages. We are to cheer for our team’s successes but not the opposing team’s mistakes. At no time are we permitted to question the calls of the referees (this sets an example of bad sportsmanship for the kids). And my favorite: After every game, we promise to ask our child what was the most FUN about the game.

Ahh Ha Ha Ha Ha.

Anyway, the Soccer Gods saw fit to smile on Jackson on this particular Saturday and he found himself with the ball and no opposing players between him and the goal. GO JACKSON! Nothing but green grass and a nervous goalie. O MY GOD GO JACKSON! A defensive player was gaining on him but he had plenty of time. TAKE THE SHOT JACKSON! The crowd inhaled—KICK IT JACKSON KICK IT—as the kid behind him slid—HURRY UP AND KICK IT—and tripped my kid into a defeated pile of elbows and knees. The ball rolled limply into the goalie’s hands, unkicked.

No penalty. The crowd erupted into a stifled grumble. But there was nothing we could do. We had signed the contracts. Even as we witnessed blatant and obvious unsportsmanlike conduct, the soccer league had removed our right to protest. It wouldn’t be nice. It might hurt the cheater’s feelings. Then the happy soccer game wouldn’t be fun or nice and a rainbow might catch on fire.

“THAT’S BULLSHIT!!!”

Jenna served as a channel for the soccer collective. Everyone looked at her. We all just kinda blinked. It’s such a relief when something explodes.

We can try to teach everyone to be safe and nice with the hope of creating a world of super safe niceness. But what about the need, for our own health and the culture’s, to scream that’s bullshit? What benefits for the system might reside in a theory of healthy rage? You tripped my kid. And that’s bullshit. You voted Yes on Proposition 8. And that’s bullshit. You’re trying to legislate the expression of anger and the boundaries of love. And it’s just all a bunch of fucking bullshit.

I hope Jenna has next Saturday off.