- putting up with them wasn't worth never having you -

This is disappointing.

I can't believe (well, I can; I just don't like to) that people who work or volunteer on an amateur soccer board could be so wrapped up in their own affairs and the flow of capital that they'd be willing to bar the doors against thousands of kids and teenagers, preventing them from receiving the medals that they deserved. It's not a good situation, and I haven't researched the reasons behind the infighting too far, but you'd think they could put aside their (considerable) issues for long enough to let the tournament run.

In a past life - why hello there early adolescence - I played soccer until I realised that my teammates could teach Rachel McAdams' Mean Girls character a thing or two. Suffice to say that tae kwon do was a much better match.

So it stings to think that warring board members - whom, one would think, care about things like 'the love of the game' and 'teamwork' - "posted security guards at the office door to prevent the release of medals, trophies, and scoresheets to tourney organizers in St. Albert, Stettler, Three Hills, and Edson."

I've been mulling this story around in my head since this morning, and while parts of it set my teeth on edge, I can't help but grin at the thought of the father who "borrowed" old medals from his daughter's collection to pass on to a victorious keeper or defense, or the Edson residents who rallied and re-modeled old trophies from the Edson Arena to pass to winners of this competition.

To the kids who played through the politics - kudos.

To the parents, refs, and supporters who blew figurative raspberries at the posturing and "went anyways" - good on you.

Do what you can to remember that this (somewhere in there) is still a Beautiful Game.


♥ music of the moment: sitting waiting wishing

- if i am lost for a day try to find me -

When under stress, my mother and I are gardeners. On the morning (this morning) when our neighbour of forever was visited by fire and ambulance trucks, she talked about planting the last patch of garden as I hovered like a Victorian ghost at the front porch, alternately hugging my knees and dead-heading petunias.

My feet are still freezing, though I've moved inside. My parents, a house over and waiting for our neighbour to emerge, were talking with the EMS personnel and told me to go in. To wait (to not hover in my nightgown and a translucent cardigan in the public eye; they are still my parents) - but I obey only partially, feet wandering through the house and out the backdoor, still barefoot, wandering a circuit of my mother's garden and pausing to fortify sweet pea tendrils around a gauzy fence or admire the tea roses I bought her for Mother's Day.

And soon her footsteps follow mine; she is the more dedicated gardener, with "things to do, so she might as well do them" - her words to a neighbour also moved by the sirens drift to me through my bedroom window. I don't think sleep will find me again this morning, but while having pencil in hand and paper within reach may be my truest outlet, I'm learning that it's far from being my only one.


♥ music of the moment: calendar girl
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