I hate sports, so when my son turned out to be a budding soccer star, I had no idea what I was in for.I'm driven to succeed—always have been. I co-created The Daily Show and was its executive producer for seven years. I'm "award-winning" and have the Emmys on my mantel to prove it. My latest gig is to bring a comedic voice to Current TV, a new network created by Al Gore, to target 25-year-olds with news and pop culture content produced by said demographic. What's my point? I like challenges, and I love beating them even more. But recently, I've come upon one that honestly took me down for the count: playing soccer mom to my 10-year-old son, Harrison.

Let me begin by saying that I hate sports. Watching games or listening to people drone on and on about plays and statistics bores me to death. But through some cruel twist of fate, I'm the mother of a budding soccer star. Harrison is a gifted athlete, so much so that coaches from other teams drop by his games to see him play. I'm extremely proud of him, which is why I've let soccer take over my life (but not without shedding a few tears in the process). Attending my first game was a total shock. Not only was I up before 7:30 a.m. on a cold Saturday and standing on a mud pit that served as a field, but, without a chair, umbrella, sunscreens with varying levels of SPF, a cooler packed with drinks, extra layers of clothing and board games for inclement weather, I was woefully unprepared. After receiving a few What is she thinking? looks and overhearing comments such as "Did you see she doesn't even have a chair or umbrella?" I quickly learned that being a soccer mom had its own set of rules—and I'd have to learn and follow them whether I liked it or not. The first rule is that you have to learn the names of your child's teammates. To get up to speed, I spend hours memorizing flash cards of the kids and their parents. Somehow, though, this knowledge fails me as soon as I set foot on the field. Next, I'm supposed to know the game well enough so I can cheer at the right time. The standard cheer goes something like this: "Whooo hooo! Go (insert kid's name)!" Truth be told, I cheer loudly when I'm not supposed to and call out the wrong name, often drawing glares from the other parents. Then there's the task of keeping the kids nourished. At least once during the regular season and then again if you are "fortunate" enough to have your child's team progress to the play-offs, you're responsible for something with a deceptively innocuous title: "snack." Snacks should be nutritious, but you don't have to go overboard. For example, granola bars with chocolate chips are fine, but chocolate-covered is verboten. And don't think you can bring just any type of juice box—it's Capri Sun or else. So I spend the entire soccer season  in a state of fear. The ability to conform to each of these rules and perform the required tasks at the right moments, to accumulate the required gear, to provide hydration, nourishment and protection from the elements, to push your child—yet never to the point of unsportsmanlike behavior—has become emblematic of my success as a parent. After all the stress of the past few months, I look forward to a long and relaxing summer. But then disaster strikes: Harrison's team makes the play-offs. His team plays in four separate games at four separate locations at four separate times. The first game begins Saturday at 7:50 a.m.—a number I could only hope was either a typo or a mistaken time zone. The last game is scheduled on Sunday afternoon at 4:50 p.m. We arrive at 7:20 a.m. The opposing teams appear to be comprised of children who look like they're bound for the NFL. Our team, the ironically named Vikings, is being destroyed. We lose the first game and must wait more than two hours before the next match. I still don't have a chair, so I spend the dreary weekend squatting in other people's tents or sitting uncomfortably on my jacket.

The Vikings lose the last of the four games. We all join in the rousing cheer for the victors and console our kids with the lie that winning isn't everything. Suddenly, the sky opens up, and we're   hit with a monsoon. As we huddle under oversized camp umbrellas, a wave of panic sweeps over the group: Nobody was told to bring snacks. The moment turns bleak and silent. Then a ray of emotional sunshine washes over me. Thanks to a moment of compulsive bulk shopping the previous Thursday, I have several varieties of kid-appropriate snacks and beverages in the back of my car. After a few minutes of collective shock that I did something right, the parents actually reward me with grateful smiles and thank-yous. As the kids offset their sense of defeat with fruit gushers, granola bars and Capri Suns, I bask in the glow of my own personal triumph. Though there will be no gold statue at the end of the season, I'm finally a successful soccer mom.

Madeleine Smithberg was a co-creator of The Daily Show, later involved with Current TV, and as of 2011, is president of Mad Cow Productions. (This article was originally published in 2007.)