"Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate?

The Blue Tortillas!"
No. This is not a democracy.

Our first practice in the books, and only the one ice pack request. To paraphrase Frank the Tank, all in all I'd call it "a pretty good little Saturday."

My career as youth soccer coach has begun.

"Our team name is the Mighty Ducks. There will be no discussion about this."

Let me just say, coaching Little League, which I did three times at UVa, is way better. Any excuse to wear a baseball glove, spit and openly scratch my balls, while being granted access to 19 oz. bats with which to bomb home runs during post-practice home run derby sessions with my best friends, a.k.a. assistant coaches, is worth it. Especially on the days when, batting lefty and doing my best late 90's Griffey impression, I connected with one from the opposite side that left the park.

Pingggggg! God I love coaching Little League.

I like soccer, too -- I mainly just like the World Cup and Champions League -- but I am not really a soccer guy.

What I am is the guy who knows that a two-month commitment to coach his younger cousin's team is the least he can do for an uncle, her father, who took him to Asia on a two-week business trip last year, and paid for him almost 100 percent of the way. Sure, there was some "healthy family pressure/manipulation," as I call it, when being asked to take on the team-without-a-name. But like I said, it's my way of repaying the debt.

Our team name is the Mighty Ducks. End of discussion.

Only Twerner and I really appreciate the joke. The players, if they've even heard the phrase, are too young for it. The parents, they just don't see the humor really. But isn't that about hockey? Yeah, it's youth sports. Good enough.

Of course, we're dealing with fifth and sixth graders, most of them girls. If they don't like the team name, they let us know. And they don't like the team name.

"We don't like 'Mighty Ducks'! Let's be the Tortillas!"

"Yeah! The Blue Tortillas!"

"We're not the Tortillas," I deadpan. "We're the Mighty Ducks."

"Let's be the Tacos!"

"You guys, that is so racist," I try. "What, just because someone speaks Spanish, oh, they like soccer?" No one gets the joke. They're all 11-year-olds.

"Tortillllllllas!"

"Y'all don't seem to understand," I say. "We choose." I look over at Twerner, and point to him, then back towards my chest. "You guys don't have a say in this matter."

"Let's put it to a vote," one of the girls says.

"Yeah, VOTE!"

"No."

"Majority rules," another says in a tone of voice I'm almost positive you have nailed without me even trying to describe it to you.

"Yeah, in some settings, you're right. But not here. We are the coaches. We decide. We are the Mighty Ducks."

"But this is a democracy," brainiac to my left blurts out.

"Actually," I say, relishing the opportunity to play brainiac myself, "it's a republic." The temptation to make a joke about Florida 2000 was strong, but I knew they would just stare, not understand, and yell back something about enchiladas.

We got to practice forming a wall, though. That was entertaining. The four guys in the mix, for some reason, actually argued with me when I told them all to cover their balls. As in, I had to almost yell at them to convince them to cover their balls when someone was kicking a ball at them from ten yards away.

"Why is this difficult?" I asked out loud, to no one in particular. "Why am I having to argue on this point?"

To the girls, I said, "Y'all can put your arms wherever you want." I have no idea what they would normally coach girls to do in this situation. But I know they don't have any balls that need protecting. That's the kind of personal experience I bring to the team.

My favorite part of our first practice, however, has to be the introductions during stretches. They already all know one another -- everyone goes to the same school -- but Twerner and I know just Diana, our common cousin. So we had them all go around the circle saying their names, what grade they were in, and who their favorite soccer team was.

No one knows any soccer teams, though.

Okay, fine, tell us your favorite player. (What kind of person hasn't ever heard of David Beckham? The when-in-doubt option.)

No one really knew any of those, either. In fact, I'd say easily half the team couldn't even name a single soccer player that doesn't play on the Blue Tacos. Those that did? David Beckham, Mia Hamm, Mia Hamm, Beckham, Hamm, Hamm, Hamm ...





To find a kid in Africa or Europe that couldn't name a single player other than these two would be like finding a kid in America who had never heard of video games. As in, such children don't exist in those distant lands.

There was one kid who did impress, though. He went last, so you know he was feeling good about himself as he saw player after player crumble in the face of such a difficult question -- We've got to know a soccer player's NAME to answer this question properly? He told us his name, his grade, and then, something other than Beckham:

"Ronaldhino."




I just reached over and gave him a high five.

"Nice!"

Our five awkwardly connected. We kind of missed, but not really. It was a moment I wish I could do over, because going in for the repeat five is just awkward.

At the end of practice, we tried a "MIGHTY DUCKS!" on three. Instead, it was Twerner and I yelling "Mighty Ducks" at the top of our lungs, so that we could drown out the voices of opposition, who were yelling about some Mexican food, I'm not sure which.

Our first game is Tuesday. My uncle recommended I look online for some duck patches of some sort. Preferably iron on.