Wife has introduced an irritating new ritual where we go to the diner for brunch after church on Sundays. Thankfully, today’s meal is interrupted by my cell phone going off.
‘Sorry hun, have to take this,’ I lie as I get up to go outside. ‘It’s a work thing.’
It’s not a work thing. It’s the father of one of my players. A player who missed yesterday’s game without explanation.
‘Hey coach, it’s ____, just wanted to call to explain why we missed the game,’ says Daddy No-show, not sounding at all contrite.
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, at the last minute I got two tickets for USA-Spain at Foxborough,’ he says, leaving this announcement hanging in the air as if it’s going to suddenly explain everything.
‘And?’ I ask, obviously unimpressed with his explanation so far.
‘I, I, I, I just felt it was a once in a lifetime opportunity for my boy to see some of the greatest players in the world. When do you get to see Spain play over here?’
I don’t even respond to this. It's so insulting. I let my silence speak for me.
‘I mean, what a learning opportunity, to get to see these guys up close,’ he continues.
I’m so angry I don't know what to say, as if he'd learn more from watching some Spanish team than listening to me.
‘I’m telling you coach, you should have seen it,' says the ignorant Europhile. 'They put on a clinic out there.’
Finally I break my silence.
‘Yeah, pal, well I hope somewhere in that clinic there was a lesson about how to find your kid a new team because he’ll never play for me again!’ I roar, so loudly that people inside the restaurant start staring out the window.
I hang up before he replies and march back inside to my table, suddenly with a much better appetite than before.
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