I find myself at two
different lacrosse fields this evening.
I know, I know; Lacrosse
is over. Sort of. Two of my son’s biggest college rivals are
playing each other in an elimination play-off game, and it is being played less
than two miles from the house. My son’s season may be over, but that won’t
prevent us from cheering from the sidelines.
Besides, it’s one of my alma maters versus the college with the volatile
coach (The Screamer Who Just Might Give Himself a Brain Hemorrhage). It’s a chance for me to love the college I
have had to hate for the last four years during lacrosse season.
My son and I arrive at the
field and decide to stand near the fence by the far goal. We know several of the parents and at least
one referee, and for once in our lacrosse careers, we are trying to lay low. This plan works well, for a while, anyway.
Until the college students
arrive.
Like my experience last
week at the Mattatuck Museum, I have proven over and over again that I am a magnet
for students. Sure, there are stands and
grassy areas and all kinds of other spots where these young adults can stand,
but, of course, they stand elbow-to-elbow with me.
The college kids all hold
red Solo cups, which means they’re probably enjoying a cocktail or two. I am jealous of them until the police
officers come over and do two things: #1
makes them pour out their beverages; and #2 confiscates a backpack full of
various bottles of mixable libations. I’m
not jealous anymore; I’m trying to stay clean here. I’m trying not to become my usual lacrosse
banshee self.
A man can be seen on the
other side of the field. This is not
just any man; this is one of the visiting team’s fathers. He is rather rotund, and he is exercising,
and by “exercising,” what I mean is that he is pretending to walk in small,
measured steps. When his team scores, he
comes to the fence, continues marching in place, and claps.
My son and I both agree
that Marching-in-Place Man reminds us of a wind-up toy monkey. All he lacks are cymbals of his own.
So begins the
heckling. It is not I who starts this
heckling ball rolling, either; it is my new-found fence mates. They begin berating the players with, “Hey,
number 35. Nice shooooooooes.” And “My
grandmother plays better than you, and she’s DEAD … God rest her soul.”
The antics go on for about
four more minutes. Finally, one of them
reasons, “Hey, I’m trying to get
thrown out!”
“Amateur!” I call toward
him.
Oh, sweetie.
You poor, delusional little man.
You are standing with the Master of the Sarcastic Zinger. Bow to your queen.
After this game at the
college ends, which it does with a slim-margin loss for my alma mater, we head
over to a high school game (both of us graduated from here). We are running a little behind schedule
because we are freezing now that the sun has disappeared, so we pop home to
gather coats, hats, and gloves.
Once we arrive and get situated in the high
school stands, I start checking texts and mail notices. I cheer a few times, but generally don’t get
too terribly excited. After all, I have
no dog in either fight today. Quite
frankly, it is an interesting change to watch a live lacrosse game without my
camera attached to my face. I’m not
really sure what to do with myself without my photographic extension.
At the end of this game
(another slim-margin, last-minute loss), we hang around to say hello to the
coach.
“I didn’t even know you
were here,” he says to me. “You were so
quiet.”
“I used it all up at the
college game,” I lie.
It’s tough to get older, I
suspect. It seems I’m not as excitable
as I was a week ago when my son was still playing college ball. I don’t know what’s different about me.
Hahahaha. Yes I do, silly people.
It’s amateur hour on the
sidelines. For once in my life, that
doesn’t mean me.
