Thank you ladies so much for coming out today. It’s been some time since we quit our childhood soccer teams after taking two seasons to realize we absolutely suck and don’t even like soccer, but I wanted to set aside some time to unpack our troubles from those years. I think it will be a valuable and cleansing experience for us all. Feel free to help yourself to some Gatorade and orange slices!
Actually, you know what, it’s due time we talked about these orange slices. Let us all be strong and admit the truth: you faked an injury so you could sit on the sidelines and eat every last orange before everyone else. Ladies, there is nothing to be ashamed of about this! Lizzy’s fake ankle sprain of April 2002 was the greatest scandal to hit the youth league since my hotly disputed handball. And remember how perfectly Jessica’s mom cut those oranges? Because I sure as hell do. This one’s for you, Jessica’s mom.
Amy, I believe you wanted to discuss uniform colors next. I think I speak for all of us when I say that receiving team shirts was one of the most harrowing experiences of our already harrowing soccer careers. Why did we get stuck with mustard yellow every season when the other teams had purple? Green? Baby blue, even! It was a complete injustice that none of us deserved. That being said, I hope you all brought your atrocious t-shirts for the ceremonial burning after this session.
Next on the agenda is flower-picking. Everyone remember when we lost with ten seconds to go because Sarah picked a dandelion instead of playing goalie? Not our finest moment, but boy, if that wasn’t the finest dandelion I ever did see. No, Sarah, please don’t cry! I never had it in me to pick flowers — I just grabbed handfuls of grass and threw them at the other team. None of us could pick flowers like you, Sarah. You should be proud of that.
That brings me to grass stains. Can I get a show of hands for everyone that had grass stains that never came out of your socks? Ah, just as I suspected — every last one of us. We wore those grass stains with pride. They were signs — nay, battle wounds — of our mediocre efforts on the field. Now, I want everyone to call their mothers and thank them for mercilessly scrubbing your socks before the game you didn’t really want to go to.
Anyway, it’s time for a five minute break. Emma will be here shortly to lead our discussion on the psychological implications of minivans. Now, who wants another orange slice?
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