Huddled under what little shade was available, several parents and I laugh together as our Mighty Mites try to quickly recall their left from right. We had our idea of which boy belonged to each of us, but there was no certainty backing our assumptions.
My son left the house wearing red socks. Half the other boys were wearing the same red socks. I find myself admiring the hustle of one of the players. I thought he was my YaYa until he ran to another parent for water.
Moment later, YaYa runs over to me. He hands me his helmet to hold, and takes a quick sip of Gatorade. His head is sweat-soaked, and he is as happy as a boy could be. “Coach said to take a ‘quick sip'” he says. Aiming for success, YaYa does exactly as told; he promptly secures his helmet strap and returns to the field.
I eye him closely, not wanting to lose track of my son as he returns to a mass of similarly dressed boys, who are all the dressed alike. I watch him practice until they bunch up for a squeeze. Afterwards, my boy is just another one of the unidentified players.