Today my daughter’s basketball game did not go well. And I’m not referring at all to the actual game. I am talking about the behavior of the parents. The parents of my kid’s team.
Well, ok, specifically ME.
The good news is that I didn’t get a Technical Foul.
The bad news is it wasn’t from lack of trying.
The other team was fouling our precious little daisies over and over and over again. And the refs were doing nothing about it. And the other team’s coach was yelling “Get aggressive!”
Seriously?!
They had more fouls than points. I am not kidding!
Our girls played a fantastically clean game. We have good sportsmanship down to a science. They are kind out on that floor. Sure, they lose every game, but they are so loveable it almost doesn’t matter.
Today, however, I wanted to teach them something other than good sportsmanship. I wanted to teach them a good uppercut. Or maybe a clothesline. Or maybe a subtle trip.
I was so flipping mad at those refs, at the other coach, and at a couple of the most aggressive ten year old basketball players I have ever seen, I was yelling my throat out. I was screaming like a NY Giant Superbowl Fan. Hollering like a Justin Beiber Groupie. Begging like a drunk at a strip bar….not that I… ***sigh***….just go with it, don’t question me when I’m ranting.
Picture me on the last row of bleachers, standing up, complaining so loud, and so hard it required all the strength my herniated diaphragm could muster, and pushed a fart or two out in the process.
(My Captain said, “Did you just fart?”, and I replied without any compunction, “No, it was mom, next to me.”)
And I’m barking at the refs, and I’m carping at the other coach, and I’m complaining to our assistant coach, and I’m bitching to all the parents around me.
To no avail.
At the end of the game, the refs finally started calling on their fouls. We had a measly minute left. To give you an idea of how bad the other team was….within that one minute of the game left, my daughter got to shoot 4 foul shots. 4! And two of their team members fouled out in the process!
I was so stinkin mad, and SO stinkin loud about it. My blood pressure rose 40 points, and I don’t even care about sports!
Later, when we were leaving the community center, I asked Varmint if she heard me from the bleachers.
“After a while, mom, I tuned you out. Oh, and it’s a basket, not a goal.”
Ungrateful wench.
Mama Boe 