The Mighty Ducks took flight for the first time last night, our opening game coming less than a week after our first practice. We play soccer, but it felt more like the opening weekend of hunting season.

If you want to put a positive spin on it, no 5-1 loss is ever going to feel as close as yesterday's defeat at the hands of River Oaks Baptist.

But it's like Gordon Bombay said: "Ducks fly together."*

*If you haven't seen the movie, you won't get it.

In Emilio We Trust.

When two of your players -- including the ringer, Wang, whose name I will sadly never get to yell now -- quit before the season even starts, "Ducks fly together."

When you're left with a roster of only 12, leaving us with no subs, should anyone not be able to make it (as happened last night), "Ducks fly together."

When you only take a total of three shots on goal, two less than the number scored by the other team all night, "Ducks fly together."

And when everyone is dead tired by the half, since they're all in fifth and sixth grade and playing on a FIFA sized field ...

"Do I have to play?" Our left midfielder was sitting on a cold metal bench, and her cheeks were steaming hot. Flushed and red, she was panting like a dog on I-10 as she clutched her water bottle.

"Yes," I said. "You have to play. We only have 11 kids. You have to play." Everyone else, except for our goalie, was exhausted as well. As a matter of fact, another midfielder had asked if there were water breaks during the game, about three minutes after the opening whistle. The girl with the flushed cheeks well aware that we did not have anyone to sub in for her.

"But..." she was clearly beat as a street, but so was everyone else. "Can I just sit out this half?"

I stood there staring at her, trying to decipher if she was playing dumb like a fox or was being sincere. Did she think this word trickery would work on me, or did she really not realize we only had one half remaining? The girl goes to private school. But then again, she is only 11. I couldn't tell.

"There is only one half left," I said, before briefly explaining the concept of quitting versus quitting on your team. "You're playing."

Ducks only fly together if they admit they're ducks. Before the opening kick -- actually, up to the moment that Matt and I had to get off the field so the game could commence -- there was continued dissension as to whether or not this was the case. Not about what positions they were playing, or questions about where they should be standing on the field, but about what our team name is. If you'll remember, there is a strange obsession with Mexican food among the players on our roster.

"All right Mighty Ducks, let's go!" I yelled as my co-coach and I jogged towards the sidelines.

"Noooo! Not Mighty Ducks!" came a chorus of 11-year-old girl voices.

I stopped jogging.

"Yes. Mighty Ducks. We are the Mighty Ducks. I don't want to hear any more on this topic." And tried to just keep moving, as if that would add some sense of finality to the dispute.

"NOOOO!" The ref was standing there with the ball, staring at us. The other team, they were all ready in their positions. They seemed to be on the same page regarding their team name. We weren't quite ready for the season to start, it appeared. "Tortiiiiiiillas! Can we just say Tortillas and y'all say Mighty Ducks?"

I had turned back around at this point, slowly inching my way towards the sidelines, in increments. "NO! MIGHTY DUCKS! END OF ARGUMENT!"

There was continued discussion among the girls most vocally opposed, but I nipped it in the bud. "We will talk about this after the game. For now let's just concentrate on playing!"

Which brings me to the reason I was so proud of our team during halftime. They finally caved.

"All right y'all, we're only down two goals, we can tie this thing!" I yelled as we brought it in for "Mighty Ducks on three," right as the second half was set to start. I was expecting a repeat of what has happened at both of our practices so far: Matt and I yell the real team name with our deep, 24-year-old man voices in an attempt to drown out the sea of high, 11-year-old girl (with a few boy) voices screaming whatever they would order at Molina's. But that's not what happened.

"ONE, TWO, THREE!"

"MIGHTY DUCKS!"

I was blown away. All 11 of them, plus the two coaches, together.

"That was amazing," I said to Matt, as our kids jogged back onto the field into their assigned positions, which they seemed to take only as suggestions. Once the ball got rolling, it devolved into a display of how much everyone was willing to run after the ball, or stand around hoping it would come to them.

Down 2-0, we went out and got outscored 3-1 in the second half.

But it's church league. I really could care less if we win or lose. All that matters is that I can use the Emilio Estevez quote now to motivate them. Ducks fly together.

Oh, and I am going to tell them to call me Coach Gordon Bombayless from now on. Gotta milk this baby for as many jokes as possible.