Now that Spain has won and the Spanish are trying to figure out how they can possibly drink more over the next week than they do on normal weeks, I will have to stop thinking about soccer for another four years.
But before I do, a word about soccer for 4-year-olds. Dalia has also wrapped up her brief soccer experience, two weeks at an indoor kiddie place called Super Soccer Stars (I know, annoying name, right?) in our neighborhood. And while she never quite learned in her time there to sit on the couch, drink beer, and yell at the stupid fucking refs for 90 minutes the way I can, I think she likes the sport. I can tell this because she brings it home with her–sets up pillow-goalposts in the living room and instructs her little brother to kick the little plastic Wall-E through them.
My wife got to see her on the small Astroturf pitch at Super Soccer Stars, and gave a mixed report. Half the time Dalia seemed to enjoy herself, and she understood the aims of the game pretty well throughout. The other half of the time she entered into a mode she’s been known to slip into from time to time, a sort of active self-pity. According to eyewitness accounts, she would keep running, but her arms would go limp and she would start sobbing “this is so hard, this is so hard,” while chasing after the ball. Which, based on what I saw Sunday, is a style of play that would qualify her for the Dutch national team.
To really emulate the Dutch team, though, she might have to combine soccer with her other extracurricular.