I was skeptical of soccer moms. Then my son fell in love with the game.

Looking back, I wish I had gotten on board with the homemade snacks, cheering, and parental group texts sooner.

The writer's son, Oscar, top, with his friend Abe Reiter at a Premier League friendly in Philadelphia in July.Sabrina Shankman

When I was growing up, my small town in Maine was a lot of things — quaint, progressive — but, mostly, it was a soccer town. Soccer is what the cool kids did, starting from an early age. The parents knew each other; younger players worshiped older ones; and many summers, a state champion float would roll through downtown in the annual Clam Festival parade.

Me? I played field hockey.

I wasn’t trying to make a statement — or at least, I don’t think I was. I just liked field hockey, and it’s what my friends played. But it’s fair to say I had a chip on my shoulder: I still remember driving past the cheering crowds at the soccer field to our games, played on a bumpy field in front of a mere handful of parents.

Part of that chip had to do with my negative perception of what it meant to be a soccer mom. These women, at least in my mind, made themselves an extension of the team: one part booster, one part permanent bench player, always ready to jump in. At the same time, they were a vision of seeming perfection: their clothes and hair just-so, always armed with homemade snacks, and loud. I couldn’t relate.

Years later, I married into a soccer family — and everything changed.

After our son was born in 2015, we passed him around as the family shouted at whatever Premier League game was playing on TV. I guess it shouldn’t have been a surprise when Oscar discovered his love of the beautiful game. I remember one time, when he was only 2, I looked up from a playground chat to see him dribbling along a fence. I wasn’t quite sure where the ball had come from or how long he’d been doing it, but it just looked right.

The love of soccer was something I appreciated for him, and came to tolerate in my husband, a die-hard Everton FC fan who, before games, jokingly warns that his mood will be determined by the outcome. (And, if you don’t know, Everton has a lot in common with the Red Sox, pre-2004. To love them is to struggle.)

But even as I schlepped to toddler soccer classes on weekends, I still identified as . . . well, myself. Supportive, a bit of a mess, here for a good time. But definitely not a joiner. I worried, too — would adopting this soccer life mean giving up a life of my own?

Looking back, I wish I had gotten on board sooner.

Oscar is 9 now. He’s in his third year of travel soccer — go Strikers! — and just joined a club team so he can play year-round. Meanwhile, I’m in a group text jokingly named Soccer Momz and, when I recently had to miss a game because my daughter was vomiting — let’s just say that I’m a bit ashamed at how much I wanted her to ignore her initial stomach pain so we could go cheer them on.

When I see my son’s hours of relentless extra practicing translate into a goal or a perfectly timed pass on the field, I am sometimes shocked by the volume of my own voice. I love celebrating his wins and processing a tough game with him. I love the other kids, too — the ones I’ve watched gain confidence on the field, going from tentative strangers to teammates to inseparable friends. And I love the feeling of walking up to the field on a Sunday morning — carrying a container of homemade muffins for the team — and greeting a horde of parents I now count as my own friends.

This summer, while at a Premier League friendly in Philadelphia with Oscar, I got another perspective on my soccer mom journey. We were there with Oscar’s friend and fellow Striker Abe, and his parents, Matt and Marissa (one of the Momz). The boys — floppy-haired and vibrating with excitement — looked down from our seats near the top of the stadium, trying to make out which ant-sized players were warming up below.

Behind us, a family of five settled in — Mom and Dad bookends, with three sons, spanning high school to college, between them. Dad was quiet, but Mom? She was living for this. All her boys, her favorite team (Liverpool, thankfully, not their opponent, Arsenal), and a beautiful night. It wasn’t long before she noticed Oscar, Abe, and their infectious giddiness about the game.

Introductions followed and she wanted to know: Did they play on the same team? Were they planning to be high school co-captains someday? Her sons chimed in, swapping stories about youth soccer, ribbing each other, cheering for Liverpool. And then the middle son leaned in: The thing about his mom, he explained, is that she never missed a game. No matter where they played, no matter when or how inconvenient. She was there and she had their backs.

Mom leaned in, conspiratorially: “It’s the best, isn’t it?” she said to Marissa and me, and we knew exactly what she meant: the game, the boys’ love of it, this precious moment in time. What a gift.

So, now I’m a soccer mom. I make snacks. I yell. I show up.

Not everything has changed. I’ll never be perfectly put together; I’ll forever be juggling too many bags and always on the verge of lateness. But I’ve learned some of my fellow moms are a bit of a mess, too.

I think it adds to our charm.