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“So you’re not divorced, and you don’t work out of town. How come we’ve never seen you at any practices or games?” He’s smiling like he’s trying to make me out to be a bad father for never being around. Little does he know he’s too late because today I already feel like a piece of shit. But there’s still no chance in hell I’m going to let them see any chinks in my armor.
While all this is going on in my head, he’s still talking. What the fuck is he saying?
Right. He’s pointing out to me what a bad father I am.
“I run my own construction business. I can’t usually make it to things like this because I work for a living.” Do you see that look on my face? The one that screams sarcasm?
I’m glad you see it because by the blank look on their faces they don’t.
Look at them. It’s obvious they don’t know what hard work is. Without one callus to show for a hard day’s labor, they’re probably pencil pushing accountants. Both of them. I bet they’ve never had dirt under their fingernails.
“Well, that explains a lot. Callan’s a bit of a mama’s boy.”
What the shit? A mama’s boy? My kid?
Well yeah, okay, I guess he is a little bit closer to Madison than me. But that’s beside the point. What the fuck does that have to do with these guys questioning me like a round of speed dating?
The guy Kent, the one asking all the questions, gives a dismissive nod toward who I assume is the coach of this team. “It also explains why Bennett is always giving the kid extra attention.” And then these two bag of dicks look at one another and exchange a knowing glance. There’s an inside joke between the two of them and they start laughing.
Ask me if I care?
Nope. Not even a little bit.
Okay, that’s not completely true. I mean nobody likes to be laughed at or about but when I really think about it, if this is what these two find entertaining, I feel bad for them. Sadly, this is probably the highlight of their day.
I mean look at them. Their lives are a shit show. Just look at their kids. One’s picking his nose and eating it, and the other has his hand down the back of his pants digging for God knows what.
Just as I’m contemplating dragging Callan off the field to try and explain to him the finer points of any other sport, another whistle blows and the coach yells, “We’re done, boys!”
I walk forward and bump Kent’s shoulder with mine, purposely. “And you’re right, mywifedoes have great tits and ass.”
I don’t look back at him. There’s really no point to. I walk toward my son with the purpose of getting the hell out of here. When I spot him, I stop.
See that kid walking toward me with his ripped magazine in hand and a troubled look on his face?
That’s a kid who’s beginning to realize he’s not like the other kids. It makes me want to punch these two guys in the face on pure principal for saying he shouldn’t be on the team. Just because my kid doesn’t think his boogers are an afternoon snack shouldn’t mean he can’t play. It’s fucking soccer. It’s not like it’s an actual sport. Might as well be playing kickball.
I kneel to his level as he drops his bag at my feet. “You okay, bud?”
“I’m fine.” His answer’s short, his cheeks flushed. “Can we go now, Ridley?”
“It’s Dad,” I tell him, grabbing his bag and following after him. I do give Dumb and Dumber one last look to see them high-fiving their Olympic nose-picking athletes. “Hey, listen, bud, do you even like soccer?”
Don’t get me wrong. I wish the answer was that my son loves playing all sports, but the reality is it’s more likely he hates it, and as a parent, why in the world would we make him play something he doesn’t enjoy? I mean, if it’s reading he wants to do, let him. I get he needs physical activity, but this kid, the one staring at his magazine like someone just ripped his heart out, he doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying this. I could be wrong here, but I doubt it.
Callan stops and looks at me curiously, the setting sun shining on his face. “I guess so. I mean, it seems like the thing to do.” And then he shrugs. “I’m hungry. Can we have pizza?”
The thing to do? I’m not liking that answer, but I let it go for now.
“Yeah, sure.”
It’s when we’re in the car, I can’t let it go. He’s sitting in the backseat staring at his ripped magazine. He’s nervous. He might even be scared. Of what I’m not sure.
“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”
“I know, but all the other kids play sports. I feel like I should play. Dylan plays football.”
Ah, yes, I remember now. His best friend’s name is Dylan Conner.By the way, Dylan’s dad is a tool. Are you surprised I think this?