Last night my seven-year-old son played the first game of his competitive soccer career. Have you ever watched a John Hughes movie where the white suburban kid is about to learn a major life lesson at great personal embarrassment and expense? So that ‘s pretty much how this game went down. As my son and his teammates pranced around the field like baby lambs about to be led to the slaughter the bad-ass music and slow-mo vision was cued and a team of children who clearly were fathered by the Brazilian national soccer team came strutting onto the field. As the opposing team took the field I knew for certain our boys were toast.

These kids would have given Beckham a run for his money. The other coach told our coach his team had been playing together since they were three – you know as opposed to the one and only scrimmage our team played the week before. They also probably – and I’m going out on a limb here – came from families who treat soccer as an actual sport and not just a cute game their kid plays.

Whatever the reasons, our boys were on the receiving end of a shock and awe onslaught. The opposing team was not just skilled, they were aggressive. They knocked our kids down, dove for balls, pushed them out of the way, and you know, scored goals. After the initial disbelief wore off our kids tried to rally but most of them – in particular my son Jack – tried to stay away from the ball to avoid having his legs cut out from underneath him – which happened anyway.

So as we’re enjoying post-game ice cream and reviewing the mental footage with our son, my husband says to him, “You just have to be more aggressive next time, Jack.” To which Jack replies, “I don’t know what that is but I will do it!” Oh my sweet lambie-pie!

So I explain to Jack, “remember when that kid tripped you to get the ball?” To which my soft as pudding child responds, “That was an accident, mama (he still calls me mama. Sigh). He didn’t mean to do it.” And without a moment of hesitation I looked him dead in the eye and said, “He sure did mean to do it, Jack.” Which you know, does not compute in the safe world of Jack Corning.

Since I grew up in the ghetto my parents never had to have the “toughen up” conversation with me (From Wikipedia: Crime Dorchester, with a population of 91,982 in 2010, accounted for 15% of the population of Boston and 44% of the murders in the city in 2010. In 2009, 24 of the 50 murders in Boston were in Dorchester. The majority of all murders in Boston took place in one of three neighborhoods, Dorchester, Mattapan, and Roxbury, all of which border one another, in 2008.[67] ). Needless to say, I figured out from an early age that most people’s bark is worse than their bite, how to take a punch and give one (thank you Kimberly Barrett for continuously remind me to keep my thumb on the outside), and that fear is your worst – and nearly always your only – enemy.

But should I impart these twisted life lessons to my seven-year-old? And if I do, how do I go about it, short of dropping him off in South Phoenix and wishing him luck?

Being a working mom I know that learning to be aggressive doesn’t just help you out on the soccer field. Office politics is its own kind of sport, where the weak usually don’t survive. Standing up for myself and not letting the other team cut my legs out from underneath me is what I do every day. But how do I pass this onto my sweet doe-eyed son – you know, without scaring the crap out of him?

Maybe if he plays enough mini-team Brazils he’ll work it out for himself.

In the meantime, I’m bringing a flask to the next game. It’s hard work watching your baby learn what the word “aggressive” really means.

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