Come On, Now—You Too!
Yet another in the pitiful “I Am A Big Goofy Doofus” series:

Last night was soccer practice for both Middle Daughter and Only Son. My wife gets home before I do, so she usually has them dressed and ready to go when I get home. I come straight from work to the house, then turn right around and head back to the fields with the kids. Although it would be nice to be comfortable, I don’t have time to change, so I keep on my wing-tips and my tie and my nice white shirt and my Haggar poly-knit slacks (yes, I am fashion-challenged).

Their practice fields are on opposite sides of the complex, which means I wander back and forth between the two fields trying to keep an eye on both of them. Last night was no different, and as always, I looked like a big goob in my dress clothes. I guess every other parent has a job that allows them the extra time to get home and change into something comfortable. Which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t springtime, and if women would wear burqas like God intended instead of tight little shorts.

One of the teachers from the kid’s elementary school was there last night with her husband and baby and her son who plays on my son’s team. And of course, this pert little wicked infidel had her shamelessly smooth and tan legs hanging all out the bottom of her shorts for everyone to see. And her perfectly bob-cut, shiny strawberry blonde hair had nary a hejab upon it.

So I exchanged general chit-chat with this daughter of perdition and her hubby and played peekaboo with the baby and watched my son run around aimlessly and jump like a bunny for a while, then wandered over to the other set of fields where my daughter was. She was doing fine, but since none of the moms over there looked like Breck Girl models and everyone was chain-smoking, I moseyed back over and watched the boys some more, which provided much more in the way of visual distractions and respiratory safety.

It got close to time to go, so I told my son I was going to go get Rebecca and to wait for me. I made my last walk over to her field and sure enough, it was quitting time. She gathered up her stuff and we both went back to pick up Little Boy, pausing long enough for her to watch the older girls finish up one of their games.

As we finally got back down to my son’s field, I could see that they were still practicing, and for some reason the dads were lined up on the field. I came walking across with daughter in lockstep and figured out that the coach was going to have a little father-son pickup game. ‘Well, I’m kinda glad I’m not dressed right,’ I thought to myself. I was headed for the sideline to stand next to petite Model Mom when she smiled and said “Come on, now—you too!”

I stopped and stared like a pole-axed cow, trying to figure a way out of this one. “Come on, it’s ALL the dads!” She had her baby slung on her upturned hip and she was just grinning with her little freckled nose all wrinkled up and her silky red hair falling just so and those danged legs were going all the way to the ground and she was just daring me to show her what a big goofball I really was.

I think we all know the answer.

I reached up, loosened my tie, undid my collar button, pointed a chubby finger at my son and said, “You’re going DOWN little boy!” He just giggled and giggled.

And so, it was on—a field full of little 7 year olds, their thirty-something, tanned and toned and casually comfortable dads, and then one weird looking old fat guy in a tie, slacks and street shoes too dumb to “just say no.”

At least we won. And I didn’t slide down. Falling would have been embarrassing enough, but it’s worse when done by the corpulent, so I guess I actually managed to do pretty well, considering my prodigious handicaps. My son managed to catch a ball in the knee, which caused him some distress. I asked him if he wanted to stand to the side, but he was game and played on with an incredibly ferocious intensity.

Heaven help him when he discovers redheads.
posted by Terry at 11:26:00 AM