…well, you know the rest. Ain’t nobody happy. As I’ve previously mentioned, I work with a bunch of older people who find it baffling that I choose to keep my uterus free of further occupants. I had a conversation with one of these gentlemen last week. This guy, god bless him, is over 60, has one son, is still very involved with his grandson, and coaches all sorts of youth-league sports. He’s pretty awesome, and I like the guy. Except when he asks me if I’m signing my son up for sports, and I say, “No.” And I have to explain that my sanity overrides baseball.
Let’s get a few things straight. I am broke. Clearly, I’m not living in a Hooverville tent, making bum wine, and training my son to be a pickpocket to make ends meet. But a lot of extras need to be foregone. One of those extras? Pee-wee football, or Little League. The equipment is expensive enough, but did you know that my son grows about six inches every goddamn week? (That may be a slight approximation. I’m not that good at guesstimating.) It adds up. QUICKLY. Second of all, sports parents. They’re the worst. I dated a hockey player in high school, and the most terrifying experience of my life occurred at a roller hockey game when one parent threatened to “rip [your] head off and shit down your throat” when one kid checked another. I don’t believe in getting involved in scuffles between kids because it teaches them to giant weenies (clearly, with some exceptions). In sports? THEY ARE COMPETING AGAINST EACH OTHER. The point of the whole stupid game is for them to have a scuffle, at least on SOME level. Ugh.