A pair of soccer eyes were looking at me

Tonight I’m accosted in the car park of the grocery store. At first I think it’s somebody from security about to get on me for parking illegally in one of those offensive spots reserved for “Shoppers with Children”, a sign that proves discrimination is alive and well in this country. It’s not security. It’s worse. An irate father.

‘I’m Mr ____,’ he says in a none too friendly voice. ‘Can you explain to me why my son didn’t make your team at this week’s try-outs?’

‘I could but I won’t,’ I say, deciding the best form of defense is attack. ‘I don’t need to explain my decisions to you.’

‘That’s probably because you can’t explain them,’ he says. ‘I watched how you conducted your try-out pal, and it’s very obvious to me you don’t have soccer eyes!’

‘Soccer eyes?’ I ask, making mental note to Google this term later. ‘That’s a new one on me.’

‘Yeah, soccer eyes. You can’t see the game. You aren’t qualified to judge soccer talent.’

‘Yeah, just look at my team’s record, I must be awful.’

'They are nine and ten year old boys. It’s about more than winning, it’s about developing them as players.' The tired old development of players line. The last refuge of every scoundrel.

‘It is about more than winning if you like losing,’ I say, impressing myself at how these potential bumper stickers are coming so easily to me these days.

'If you had soccer eyes you’d see that my son is a great little player,' he shouts, finally starting to lose it.

'He’s not great but he is definitely little. And if I was casting the Smurfs movie he’d be first on my list but I’m running a travel soccer team pal and I don’t carry fun-size players.'

I don’t hear his response to that line. I jump in the car, lock the door and drive away fast. You can never be too careful with some of these lunatic parents.