Going Beyond Soccer Mom

Year after year, it was the same. Girls were the talent, men were the managers, coaches and officials. I wondered what kind of message all this was sending our budding female athletes.

Going beyond Soccer Mom

If it’s girls’ soccer, why
are there so many men?
One mother decides
to change the score —
by becoming a referee

By Ann Wright Pitts
SPECIAL TO MSNBC.COM
reprinted with permission
(c) 1999 MSNBC 

July 8, 1999 — I never thought of myself as the Angie Dickinson type, yet there I was under the September sun, enforcing the law — soccer law. What did I know about soccer? Growing up in 1950s Bellaire, Texas, a steaming suburb of Houston, I spent every waking hour indoors within 10 feet of the air conditioner. I was exposed to only one athletic activity: twirling. Year after year, it was the same. Girls were the talent, men were the managers, coaches and officials. I wondered what kind of message all this was sending our budding female athletes.        COMPARE THAT to my daughters, who participate with hordes of other girls in enough physical challenges to create their own sports channel. But here in Southern California, soccer is the favorite. Based on sign-ups, ours is one of the largest regions in the country for the American Youth Soccer Organization.
        As I cheered on my 7-year-old daughter’s soccer team, I couldn’t help but notice that the coaches and referees were all dads. Two professions seemed to dominate the groups. Lawyers volunteered to be coaches. Engineers who worked nearby in the defense industry became referees. Year after year, it was the same. Girls were the talent, men were the managers, coaches and officials.
       I brought snacks, sewed team banners and tried to understand the game. The other women sat equally clueless on the sidelines, cheering, tending younger siblings, wandering in and out to drive kids to their various activities. Classic soccer mom stuff. I wondered what kind of message all this was sending our budding female athletes.
       
WOMAN IN PURPLE
        Then one season my daughter was drafted by a woman. Janice had been a top player in college, and now combined her strengths as part coach, part mother. She often wore a purple T-shirt (team color of the Purple Piranhas) that said, “It’s not the size of the woman in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the woman.” I had also seen this quote with “dog” substituted for “woman,” but the idea inspired me. I started helping at games as an assistant referee, waving a flag when the ball went out of bounds.Next, full of idealism and determination, I attended a clinic to learn how to be a center referee. That’s the one on the field who makes the calls and runs the game. After two night classes and a written exam I qualified for a regional badge, certifying me to ref 6- to 10-year-olds. This may sound like small potatoes, but it is a big responsibility. Good referees teach young players about fouls as they manage the match.
        With a head full of rules, I went onto the field to referee my first game. Wearing the uniform was my first test. I was issued the standard men’s uniform, size Small. Surely I could overcome the awkward placement of my badge on the tip of my left breast until they could order me a women’s size. At least it was in that safest of fashion colors, black. And I’m a sucker for knee socks, with the right accessory of course.
        I stood at the center circle and blew my whistle for the kick-off. Running with a herd of excited girls, I felt the thrill of the game. For the first time in my life, I wore cleats. The traction gave me control I never felt in running shoes. The girls were skillfully communicating and passing to each other in a way you could never fully appreciate from the sidelines. It was exhilarating.
        Thinking on my feet wasn’t easy. I kept getting confused about which team had fouled. Finally, with about two minutes to go in the game, I signaled the wrong direction. The players were confused too. The coach started screaming at me and waving his arms. The parents took their cue from him, shouting and motioning with hand gestures more associated with a wrestling match. These were people I knew at school and ran into at the grocery store, even close friends.
        I panicked. Consumed by embarrassment, I ducked my head and ran to the car. The game was all but over anyway, I told myself as I gunned the engine and sped away. I imagined them chasing me in my rearview mirror.
        This was hard. I was going to have to get better at it.

ANONYMOUS AMONG THE GUYS

        Oddly enough, boys’ games provided me with a degree of anonymity. Since I had daughters I would not know as many families. And they would not know me. So boys’ games provided a safe haven where I could hone my skills with a tad less public humiliation. No wonder I was the only woman referee around. This was for people who enjoy combat. It is you against a mob of parents, only half of which like your call. The coaches especially showed no mercy, flagrantly supporting only those decisions which benefited them, complaining, harassing and sniveling whenever a call went against them. Who needs that kind of abuse?
        For me, reffing was somewhere between challenging, embarrassing and empowering. Our class instructor drilled us on how to command authority so we could stride out confidently and “own the field.” I walked out there and felt like I rented it. When I showed up, coaches couldn’t hide their dismay with this unfortunate turn. Dads were more suspicious. Or they wondered what I was trying to prove. However, moms looked at me in awe. The kids really dug it. And my fellow referees welcomed the sight of an official with nice legs.
        My baptism by fire would come. Four weeks later at a boys’ game, a 6-year-old from the Weedwhackers tried to slug the goalkeeper for the Red Fireballs. The goalie’s huge dad came running onto the field. Red-faced and steaming, he grabbed each boy’s arm in his fleshy hands. He squeezed so hard their fingers turned purple. He grunted at me through clenched teeth, demanding justice. He insulted the coaches, who approached him as if they had come upon a rattlesnake.
        This was my moment of truth. I centered myself when he exploded with profanities. It was all clear to me now. My job was to talk this guy down, free the two boys, and leave the son with his dignity intact. I took a deep breath and calmly stopped the game, then told the players to sit where they were standing. “Let’s talk over here,” I said to the guy casually. He finally let go of his wide-eyed captives. I walked him to the sidelines, where in private I threatened to send him to the parking lot if he didn’t back off. He would not be able to watch his son play, a fate worse than death. I watched the thought sink in. He sulked for a minute, then slinked over to his lawnchair.

CURTSY FOR THE FANS

        When I took my place back on the field, an unexpected thing happened. The parents and kids began to applaud. Caught up in the moment, I did a very unprofessional thing — I made a little curtsy. The crowd went wild. I finally had power.
         For every weird moment there have been scores of unforgettable ones. Once, I was assigned to a girls-under-12 game starting at noon. A hot dry wind blew in from the desert. It took your breath away. The players ran hard despite the sweltering heat. In the midst of a drive to the goal the sprinkler system kicked in, drenching everybody. Gleefully we ran through the cooling spray. Wet jerseys clung to our skin. Smiles of relief spread across the girls’ faces, and we never broke stride.
        Countless times the kids have called to me, “How many minutes left?” I know my answer gives them some kind of hope. Win or lose, it will be over soon. When a goalie gets scored on and sheds a tear, I join the teammates saying, “Good try.” But nothing means more than a 10-year-old saying after the game, “Nice job, Ref.”
        There are about 95 active referees in my town. A handful are women but I rarely run across them. As I stride onto the field to run a game, I imagine the fathers standing on the sidelines thinking, “How can her husband possibly find this attractive?” Indeed, maintaining one’s feminine identity while laying down the law is its own challenge. As it turns out, this volunteer job is just as tough on men. Putting oneself in the midst of conflict causes even the most confident person to question their calls. I found support and friendship in this unlikely group. They’re the nicest guys you could ever meet.

SOCCER LINGO OVER COCKTAILS

       Sticking it out has been tremendously rewarding. In the fall, my encyclopedic knowledge of the laws of soccer makes interesting cocktail conversation. There is always someone who needs an explanation of offsides, which by the way is a football term. In soccer it’s offside. I have gained a deeper appreciation of the kids’ efforts and a better understanding of “the beautiful game,” as they call it in Brazil.
        Now two years later, I have finally found some familiar ground in this man’s world. We experienced referees wear only Italian leather turf shoes, and use the Mercedes Benz of whistles, a little German number called a Shrill Refline. A nice Prada handbag is not so far from here.

Ann Wright Pitts is a freelance writer and art director living in Manhattan Beach, Calif. She currently holds an AYSO area badge and referees youngsters up to age 14. is a freelance writer and art director living in Manhattan Beach, Calif. She currently holds an AYSO area badge and referees youngsters up to age 14. is a freelance writer and art director living in Manhattan Beach, Calif. She currently holds an AYSO area badge and referees youngsters up to age 14.

Last updated July 03, 2006 at 12:44 AM