When I was a little kid in the ’70’s Title IX was pretty new.  It is a federal civil rights law in the United States which prohibits sex-based discrimination in any school or other educational program that receives federal money.  In other words, it means girls can play sports with boys, or at least they are deemed worthy of having their own teams.  Growing up I was very defensive about my folks, as they were sometimes called my grandparents.  Mama had me at 38, which was a pretty big deal in 1970.  My family life was so close and so happy; I always knew I wanted one of my own.  I never played with dolls or dreamed of a big wedding, but I ALWAYS prayed I’d find my soulmate (yes, I believe in them) and that I would be a mother.  When I was in college at SMU on academic scholarship my father made it clear I was there for an education.  No one ever handed me the memo which said you’re supposed to line up a guy before or during your freshman year in college and marry right after you are graduated.  I have since learned that “our” time is not always God’s time, I would not wind up getting married until I was a late 36, and I had absolutely no clue about the imperativeness of a “biological clock.”  Although there was nothing “wrong” with either of us, I would not wind up getting pregnant until I was 40.  We went through two rounds of in-vitro and God was gracious.  Both of my folks have passed and yet every single day I am gifted with a glimpses of them through our child.  So!  That is a long way to say I grew up on the edge of East Dallas across from a community college surrounded by a field of flowers.  My fair-skinned, redheaded mother burnt her skin to a crisp walking me to swim practice and gymnastics.  I wanted to play soccer but for some reason it never worked out.  Since I already skated competitively and sang in an elite choir, I did not wish to pressure them further.  To this day I view soccer as upper middle class, with parents able to take time off from work to make practices and to watch their childrens’ games.  My second cousins grew up playing soccer in Arizona.  The beautiful little flower girl at our wedding, who was missing her two front teeth, (my third cousin) is now on a soccer scholarship to a college in the South.  I feel incredibly guilty that since kindergarten I have not given our child the opportunity to play soccer.  She is now in the third grade and asked us if she could play.  I think I speak for the loner in both my husband and me when I say we were shocked but supportive.  And so, within the last week, we found ourselves attending her first soccer practice, trying to learn the basics of the game, and making sure our girl had the right gear to play.  Yesterday was her first game and she chose number 11 for her jersey.  The journalist in me could not help but to research what other females have worn that number.  I realize everyone else must know this, but I discovered Julie Foudy (just a year younger than me) is an American retired soccer midfielder and Olympic gold medalist.  For the first time in my life I think I am starting to understand the fun in sports’ statistics and trivia!  I have learned Foudy became a mother and has since appeared in the HBO documentary “Dare to Dream:  The Story of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team.”  I remember loving the movie, “Bend It Like Beckham” and I hope to watch it with my daughter soon.  I like the quote from the U.S. Olympic player Alex Morgan who said, “Whenever people say “women’s soccer,’ I want to correct them to say “soccer.”  Every girl has had their sport diminished because they’re girls.  All I can tell you, with great pride, was that Coach put my girl in the game some.  It was her second time on the field (one practice) and she managed to get a “steal” and a “pass.”  Their third grade team won against fourth grade girls!  I am so proud — and for whatever reason I never envisioned myself in the joyful position of soccer mom.