Well, hello there.
I see you standing on the sidelines, your perfectly rounded potbelly accentuated by the sun glinting off of your gigantic gold chain. Immediately, I notice the bulge of the vein popping from your forehead, as you scream for the team to get its shit together. Why must you use such foul language? I think to myself, blushing at the sound of your voice.
I experience sensory overload as you yell something about ball control. All of the other parents are sending admiring (or could it be dirty?) looks your way now, undoubtedly because they, too, are taken by your powerful presence. I melt when your sunglasses drop to the ground adorably, having slid off your gloriously balding head as you vigorously shook it. I completely agree: that call by the fourteen-year-old referee was absolute bullshit, and good on you for standing up to him! Who cares if you made the boy cry? If he can’t take a bit of belligerent screaming, then he has no place on the field. Next time, maybe he will pay more attention and not miss such an obvious handball.
Your sideline coaching skills are amazing, by the way. You’re right—the actual coaches clearly do NOT know what they are doing. Don’t they want the team to win? Who could fault you for mansplaining the strategies and tactics of the sport to the poor mom who clearly got roped into coaching this season because no one else wanted to deal with your shit from the sidelines? So what if you stepped onto the field to talk to the midfielders? Anyone with eyes can see that they were, indeed, out of position. If only you had also stepped up and volunteered to coach—imagine the heights to which you could have taken our team!
I hear whispers behind me, the other parents talking about you. My ears perk up. They are discussing that one time when you loudly compared the athletic abilities of various kids on the team. Do I hear disapproval in their voice? Don’t you mind them, darling; they simply don’t understand you. I know you were just trying to help the kids realize that some simply deserve more playing time than others. Sure, they are only in the third grade, but this will be a valuable lesson when they play high school sports.
A group of middle school kids walks by, and I watch with tenderness as you whack each of them on the back. “You’re gonna bring your A-game on Saturday, right, fellas? Big, important game coming up! BIG! Important! Shred them to pieces!” you banter, pointing meaty finger guns at the kids. They mumble something unintelligible, no doubt mesmerized by your not-so-quiet confidence. Oh, to be a fly on the wall when you’re parenting your own kids at home! I cannot imagine the nuggets of wisdom that fly out of your mouth when you’re not in public.
Speaking of your kids: you couldn’t be more correct in thinking that they are obviously more gifted athletes than the rest of the team. It’s one of life’s greatest ironies that such gifted kids won’t play for a Division 1 school, honestly, particularly when they come from such a superb genetic line as yours. I mean, you must have played in college, right?
High school, then?
Oh, the horror! You are now being asked to vacate the premises for violating the league’s Sideline Behavioral Guidelines. (They say you were the inspiration for the league to enact those Guidelines last year, but I’m sure those are just rumors.) You walk to your car, head held high, mouthing off one more comment about the other team clearly being offside. I watch with longing. Until next time, my sweet, when we meet again at next weekend’s game.
If you’re lucky, I might even let you borrow my vuvuzela.
About the Author
Sulla Rose is the author of three novels about suburban shenanigans. Follow her @SullaRose, and read her blog at GettingVillaged.WordPress.com.