As you may have read, my family eats, sleeps and breaths soccer. My husband had the soccer gene (still does) and passed it down to the boys. My contribution was my one season on the middle school basketball team. My playing was cringe worthy. I managed to embarrass the family on more than 1 occasion by dribbling the ball to the wrong side of the court despite angry parents yelling at me to go the other way.
My oldest tried out and made a soccer team that is EXTREMELY good. This is a club where the coaches are former professional soccer players and know their shit. Currently both sons are participating in a weekly indoor practice with this soccer club. They are lucky enough to have the club director coaching. We will call him Baklava.
Baklava played professionally for England, Poland and Germany. He looks like Mad Mikkelsen (NBC’s Hannibal) and I put him at about 50. He is kind and passionate about the sport yet you can’t understand a Goddamn thing that comes out of his mouth.
Below is an overview of what I saw and heard at yesterday’s hour long practice for my youngest:
Baklava is standing in the middle of the gym and yells, “Where are mey babies? C’mon babies, c’mon!”
Seconds later, 6 little soccer players run out and circle around Baklava. Baklava spread his arms out wide like soccer Jesus and announced, “Here are mey babies!”
I leaned over to our friend who also had his son in training and whispered,”Somehow it sounds adorable and right coming from Bakalava. If you and C said it, you would come off like pedophiles.” He gave me a that isn’t really funny grin.
“Stresh!” Baklava called out.
I didn’t understand until all the boys simultaneously spread their little legs out and began to stresh.
“Now, we pasta bowl to each other. Pasta barillo to Ash,” Baklava said attempting to explain a new drill. The child he was referring to: Ash, is actually named Nash.
The boys began to dribble the balls around several cones while Baklava began to shake his head up and down yelling “Gout, gout, gout! Ball, ball, ball. PUMBA da’ ball!”
I giggled. I didn’t know we would be referencing the Lion King today. Will he be holding my 7 year old up, displaying him to the soccer mom kingdom?
“Puta! Puta! Puta,” he yelled. Language sir! I still can’t figure out what he was trying to convey.
As practiced continued, he asked my oldest son to join in on the fun and be the bald boy. When the little ones kicked their balls into the goal, P was to kick them back.
Next Baklava had the boys line up with their balls. They were to dribble the ball to him, he would then kick the ball 4 feet away and the boys were to recapture the ball, dribble and kick it into the net.
As each boy went on I would hear Baklava yell, “fasa, fasa!”
During one of the drills, he yelled out”Bob Villa” or “Vaudeville”. I don’t know which one it was, maybe both. Off and on since yesterday I’ve been pondering Bob Villa and Vaudeville, trying to figure out what that translates to with regard to soccer.
I’ve asked my sons if they understand what Baklava is saying.
“Not really,” P responded. “I ask J when I don’t understand but he just looks at me as if I’m stupid or he doesn’t understand either.” J is P’s teammate. Baklava and J’s mother are dating and live together so J has a leg up with regards to translating.
So that is my practice story. I found it funny and thought I would share it with you guys. Well, I’m off to fix some pasta and pick up some baklava.