At 8:40 last Saturday morning, Ben was already at the field setting out cones, Harper was double-knotting her cleats in my back seat, and I had six one-dollar bills folded in the pocket of my jeans. Those six dollars are our concession-stand rule. They have prevented more Saturday arguments than anything else we've tried.
Fall soccer runs from early September to early November at our house. Ben coaches Harper's rec team, Harper plays defense with real feeling, and I run the snack schedule, which turns out to be its own small project. Here's how a season fits around two full-time jobs, and what it costs.
How the season fits around two jobs
- Tuesday and Thursday: practice from 5:30 to 6:45. Ben's clinic lets him leave early on those two days, which is the only reason he can coach at all. On Tuesdays Harper goes straight from piano to the field with a granola bar in the car.
- Saturday: one game, usually at 9 or 10. Ben gets there an hour early. Harper and I arrive 30 minutes early with two camp chairs, the snack bag and whatever she forgot.
- Sunday: nobody says the word soccer until Ben has finished cooking dinner.
Practice nights are the tight ones for me. Tuesday and Thursday are both office days, so I'm on I-565 until about 5:45. I drive straight to the field, watch the last half hour from a chair with my work bag locked in the car, and we're home by 7. Those are sheet-pan dinner nights, every single time, and I've stopped pretending otherwise.
Saturdays sometimes have to bend. On September 13 I hosted my first career coffee on Bank Street from 9 to 11 and made it to the field for the last 15 minutes of the game. Harper informed me I had missed the best clear of her season. Her coach, who is not a neutral party, backed her up. I believe them both.
Running the snack schedule
Every family brings the halftime and after-game snack once. With twelve girls and eight games, four families get the season off, and I put us first so everyone could see what I meant by "snack." The rules on the sign-up sheet, which the other parents agreed to in a group text:
- Orange slices or another fruit, plus water. That's it.
- Nothing that needs a cooler unless you're bringing the cooler.
- If you can't make your Saturday, swap with another family and tell me afterward.
Our Saturday cost $24 at Aldi: three bags of oranges, a case of water and a box of zip-top bags I filled at the kitchen counter at 7 a.m. Twelve girls ate every slice.
The $6 rule
The concession stand at the fields is run by volunteers, and it's honestly lovely. It's also where good moods went to die last fall. "Can I get a..." "You just ate." "But everyone else..." So this season Harper gets $6 per game. She can spend it on anything the stand sells. She can save it and roll it over to next week. She cannot ask for more.
Six dollars buys a hot dog and a sports drink, or a snow cone and a bag of chips with a dollar left over. Harper's ranking so far: the pickle in a bag is "underrated," the nachos are "mostly cheese from a pump," and the snow cone is worth every cent. Two weeks ago she saved her whole $6, then spent $12 the next Saturday on snow cones for herself and a teammate. That's within the rules, and frankly I respect it.
What the season costs
| Item | Cost |
|---|---|
| Registration | $95 |
| New cleats (she grew a size), Target | $38 |
| Team-color socks | $12 |
| Our snack Saturday, Aldi | $24 |
| Concession stand, $6 x 8 games | $48 |
| Gas to and from the fields | about $15 |
| Total | about $232 |
The shin guards from last year still fit, which saved us about $15. Starting next year, registration and cleats come out of the soccer and piano line in the sinking fund I wrote about last week, so they won't land on a single month. The concession money comes out of our eating-out budget, which feels right. It's the one place we eat out every Saturday.
Ben's coaching philosophy, which he said to me in the car after the first game and which I've thought about since: "Nobody's going pro. Everybody's running." His team has won two and lost one so far. Every girl has played every position at least once, and every single one of them knows where the snow cones are.
