Nov 2, 2015 3 min read

As part of the process of deciding where to go to college, my oldest daughter has been visiting campuses of prospective schools and talking with coaches of the soccer teams there. She has had the privilege of also being invited to either come watch the team in action, or in other cases, to come train with the team. She has accepted some of both.

On Wednesday, she asked if I’d like to ride along to watch a team play. I love to be invited to hang out with either of my girls, and I love to watch soccer, so it was a total win for me. Besides, she played cup with one of the college girls a year or so ago, so I figured it would be neat to see her again, as well. And it was.

However, about five minutes into the game, it began raining. Not the light-yet-steady drizzle that we had experienced nearly all day that day, but a downpour of biblical proportions. August in India proportions. Couldn’t see five feet in front of you proportions. Why didn’t I bring an umbrella proportions.

It was like standing under one of those giant buckets of water at a water park while it dumped its entire contents on you for a solid five minutes. And, indeed, it only lasted five minutes. A seemingly eternal five minutes, but after that, the sky dried up completely and a light breeze began to blow.

So there we were, soaked literally to the bone, five minutes into a 100-minute soccer match. The temperature felt as though it had dropped, probably due to the breeze, though I believe it remained just above 60 degrees. We huddled together on our wet blanket, water dripping from our hair, noses, elbows, while the girls on the field continued to run and kick. The whistle never blew, so they never stopped.

Then guess what happened? The game was tied after 100 minutes, so overtime was called. Twice. By that time, our clothes had started to dry a little, although I’m fairly certain I saw steam rising off my daughter’s.

When the game finally ended, we stood up to leave and discovered that we had apparently been clenched up tight to try to stay warm. Every muscle in my body was sore, and my knees felt like they had been rusted into a bent position. I was the Tin Man, pre-oil can.

We walked back to the car and peeled out of as many wet clothes as still kept us legallyand morally covered. We cranked the heater onto full blast as quickly as it was warm (though that meant keeping the windows cracked a little since they kept fogging up.)

The best part of the evening was crawling into bed with my husband after arriving home. He loves it when I put cold feet on his warm legs, so we were both happy. I think the glare I got from him was just him telling me that cuddling is the best.

The Best. Just like I’d expect an evening that starts with my daughter and ends with my husband would be.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.