I might have my kids enrolled in soccer but I'm not a soccer mom. Gardener, baker, writer, lefty, confirmed pacifist, yes, but not one of those who sit on the side-lines screaming at junior, "Get the ball! Get the ball! Get the ball now! Move it up! Move it up now!"

This is, however, the second summer of soccer practices and games for my son and daughter, ages eight and six. They enjoy the game. My daughter is a devil at miraculously getting the ball on a breakaway but still can't shoot on goal. She tries, though, always smiles as she plays, and turns frequently during the game to surreptitiously wave and blow me kisses. When my bespectacled son plays, all awkward angles, his voluminous black shorts floating around his knobby knees, nothing else exists but that ball, nothing else matters except keeping that ball out of his team's net, getting it into the other's. He wants to win.

Last summer my kids played on the same team. There were two players who were astounding (no, not my kids), boys who could smell a gap if blindfolded, who could make the ball dance in the air, who owned the ball as soon as the whistle blew. Their team won all the time. My son practiced at every opportunity and got better at defence and goal keeping. Those two boys started to kick the ball around with him before and after games. He was thrilled that they acknowledged him. He was in.

It's a different team this year. The talented boys moved onward and upward to the All Star team. My son's team has a first-time coach who is energetic and enthusiastic, who stretches out practices or has the team play early. The field is beautiful, not a weed in sight, flat, trim, adult size so at the opposite end the eight year-olds look like receding ants. It's by open land that lets the sunset linger and the cool evening wind blow. Last week, coach Nick from the team my son played on before, joined as an assistant coach. His daughter was in another region but wanted to play with kids she knew. They lost the first game. Creamed, I should say. They lost the second. My son was quiet as we drove home.

"Did you enjoy the game?" I asked.

"No. I don't want to play soccer anymore." This is the kid who constantly begs me to practice, who'll lasso any stray male on the schoolyard to kick the ball around with him.

"Is that because you lost?"

"Yes. What if we keep losing? We're the worst team ever." This is also the kid who can't shake his opinion once formed.

"Does it matter if you win?"

"Yes, of course it does," he said. "What if we keep losing?"

It's a good possibility, I thought, but I said, "Well, then you play to develop your skills regardless of the score."

He wasn't convinced and he wasn't excited about playing last night. I dropped him off with another mom who took him to the game. I came to the field late because my daughter's game was at another site. I set up my chair beside the mom. My son was playing with his usual determination, moving out to defend the net, passing it up the sides. The kids were playing as a team, anticipating the ball, spreading out.

"What's the score?" I asked.

"Three-two, for us," she smiled broadly, her darks eyes shined.

I heard assistant coach Nick speak to the next shift.

"See that?" His scary determination riveted the kids. "They're not afraid of the ball. They're playing their positions, moving up the field. You gotta do that. Watch #14, keep him blocked. He's their only player scoring and they're playing him all the time."

The other coach concentrated on the game, bellowing out instructions to the players on field. My son's shift came off. Assistant coach Nick congratulated them, told each player what they did correctly, gave them a game plan for the next shift. These kids listened and watched the game, rapt. A teammate, a kid half the size of the other players, ran like a cheetah and scored again. My son stuck to #14 like a fly on honey (I'm surprised he wasn't walloped). Assistant coach Nick kept issuing instructions to the waiting shift, telling the kids how they could do better as a team.

"I want you to win," he said seriously and loudly. "It feels good to win."

They moved the ball up again to the opposition's end, the other team valiantly tried to protect it, but one of my son's teammates passed it to another who kicked it in. I was by the net, saw the beauty of the play, and couldn't stop myself from jumping up and down, yelling, "Woo hoo!"

Does it matter if you win? Yes, it does. Assistant coach Nick was right. It feels good to win. Very good.

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About the Author

Denise is a writer and mother of three who blogs about everything at http://oneiopen.spaces.live.com.