It was Saturday, which meant only one thing; soccer. Lacing up the cleats for another day of coaching my proud, eight year old warriors. Shane wasn’t interested in soccer. He wasn’t interested in any sports. He was however, passionate about picking dandelions on the soccer field, a trait he inherited from me. I was coaching for one simple reason . . . I didn’t want some frustrated, under achieving, former jock, screaming at my son because he really didn’t give a shit. Shane and I preferred the flowers, well, more precisely, the pretty yellow weeds.