Driving to work this morning, daydreaming about how wonderful the league trophy will look on the shelf in my den when a parent calls with some troubling news. It seems her son may miss the occasional game due to a clash with his cello recitals. No, seriously. I checked to see if there was a television crew filming me from the back seat as part of some Candid Camera sketch. She had to be kidding, didn’t she? Well, eh, no.
I try to tell her you can’t put false Gods before the kid like that. It’s soccer and then everything else in his life. I’m sure the cello teacher is telling her the same thing. After all, the kid is ten now. He’s not exactly a spring chicken anymore. He’s old enough to choose one and forsake the other forever. Time to grow up and all that.
Of course, there’s no reasoning with some people.
‘His teacher says he’s gifted and might be the next Yo Yo Ma,” says the mother.
“Yo Yo what?” I ask.
“Yo Yo Ma, the greatest cellist of his time.”
“There’s where you are wrong,” I point out. “I’ve never even heard of Yeah Yeah Yeah!. He can't exactly be the Landon Donovan of the cello if I don’t know him, can he?”
She didn’t come back too quick from that one, I can tell you. Still, these mothers and their desire to raise well-rounded Renaissance children will be the death of me and of this team. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.
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