The shirt hits the fan

At lunchtime, I head over to Dick’s Sporting Goods to try to get some paraphernalia for tomorrow’s Women’s World Cup semi-final. What a strange place. For some reason the store is full of signs commemorating Mr. 3000. Personally I thought that movie starring the late Bernie Mac was a fairly forgettable affair. Here, they were all over it with banners and t-shirts and everything. It must be the anniversary of his death or the release of it on Blu-Ray or something.

Anyway, I go to the soccer section to check out the US jerseys. Going in I was a bit worried they might not have the women’s shirts in man sizes. I needn’t have worried. They didn’t have them in women’s sizes either. They had nothing. No shirts. No t-shirts. Nada! I walk around in disbelief for about ten minutes until a wide-eyed employee obviously spotting my dazed and confused look approaches.

‘Can I help you sir?’

‘I don’t know if you can. I’m looking for the US women’s national team jerseys.’

‘Have you tried our soccer section?’ he asks in a way that suggests he’s been pre-programmed with a set list of questions from which he can’t ever deviate.

‘Eh, in fact I did. There’s nothing there except Red Bulls merchandise.’

‘Well if it’s not there, I’m afraid we don’t have it. We just stock what head office sends us.’

I want to grab this guy by the polo shirt and make a citizen’s arrest under the terms of the Patriot Act (there has to be something in there about un-American sporting activities!) but instead I just unleash a volley of abuse.

‘Listen buddy and listen well. Five thousand miles away from here tomorrow morning, a squad of wholesome, milk-fed, corn-bred, elite American women, most of them travel team graduates, will go into battle against the cheese-eating surrender monkeys of France. They will be fighting for the right to reach the World Cup final and my right as an American citizen to wear the same shirt as those ladies is being infringed upon by your store and its refusal to stock the kit they will be wearing. You should be ashamed to even work here. And if you see Dick, tell him he was one appropriately-named dude!!’

I turn and walk out, pushing over a Mr. 3000 cut-out that looks nothing like Bernie Mac as I go.