Last week brought my sons last home soccer game as a senior. I needed to be at the field by four o'clock, so I hurried through my day and switched hats, taking my place as a mom. I only had a few minutes to make it to the top of the field. Every year I climbed those dirt steps. Every year I tried not to look totally winded.

I hurried toward the top, and had to stop midway. Students from the visiting team ran along side of me. I didn't want them to see how winded I was so I stopped, inspected the tree next to the step and held on to it as though it were unusual. They rushed past and I made my way up.

Parents were already gathering. I laid my jacket on the ground and settled in. The view of the hills from the soccer field was nice, with the late day sun shining over the last of the fall leaves. Other parents were gathering around the old chain link fence. I've been to so many games, watching my children and their friends run and grow; yet this time a very melancholy feeling gripped me. I thought back to that first soccer game, and to my son running wildly after the ball. I treasured that first game. His picture still sits on my desk: spiked, wild hair and a mouth full of missing baby teeth-a grin of pure mischief. Those early soccer games were always an adventure. I was proud to be a part of the same group of parents who had spent years watching our children play, all of us hoping that it wasn't our kid running the wrong way with the ball. I seem to remember closing my eyes a few times when a goal was made for the opposing team. I remember many evening games, hearing the coach mumbling, "if only they would start to think."

Now time has passed. My son kicked the ball to a teammate, who sent it on toward another. Their passes were well planned. Their strides were right on. Another caught a pass with his head. I've never quite gotten used to the sound of the ball hitting them in the head. Their strategy worked and they connected, sending the ball careening to the goal.

"Finally they are thinking like a team." The crowd of parents cheered. We were so pleased as we watched our little boys run like the fine young men they had become.

Since it was the last home game, our senior sons presented roses to their moms. The coach had one for his wife as well. All of the suppers that were late because of practices, all the times she spent in hospital rooms with children that were hers just for a season. She deserved more than one flower. We all applauded.

Another teammate kicked the ball. On the sideline I saw his mom and remembered one game when she spent most of her time running from the top field to the bottom field to watch two of her children at the same time. Her husband helped chase down balls along the sideline.

I remembered a game in Monticello some years ago. Our sons all dyed the tops of their heads blond. Every one of the darlings looked the same. I was sitting with one of the moms up at the top of the field. I'd come straight from work and hadn't stopped home first to see if there had been any schedule changes. I'd pulled up my lawn chair and sat down. I couldn't see the shirt numbers from where I sat, and as the little guys in green T-shirts ran around with blond heads it took me 20 minutes to figure out I was watching the wrong team. My kid was back at Eldred. I drove like a maniac back to Eldred just in time to find my blond headed kid making a goal.

There was a silence again as it was my turn to accept a rose from my son. I always cry at moments like these. My kids have gotten used to it.

Some times I look at my son and wonder where the time went. There he stood, tall and athletic-the blond hair gone, but the mischief still in his dark eyes. I made my way to the field from the top of the hill. Years of soccer camps and running club trips passed by in an instant as I watched him climb to meet me half way. I whispered just how proud I was of him as I held back gathering tears. He smiled and ran back to the game and into the world.

From my spot on the grass I watched the last goal. As the sun slipped down and the October air chilled, we were all starved. We watched together one last time as our teenagers gathered below us. This game was over. As I looked around the field, I was thankful for the time I had spent complaining about one more late night supper. I was truly grateful for all of those wonderful cold hot dogs and candy bars that got me through.

I thought how fortunate we all were for the dedication and love of a coach and his family. Then I smiled, and again held back tears of pride as I looked at that spiky-haired little guy who had become a fine young man at his last senior home game.