Once we got to the field, which was a fairly long walk, I discovered an inner sanctum that I never knew existed. Football coaches were screaming and yelling at children that didn't even reach their waists. Kids were all over the place pushing, pulling, tackling and probably pinching, but I didn't see that particular activity.
Dads on the sidelines, that weren't coaching, were hawking up loogies, spitting on the pavement, burping, coughing and sneezing without covering . . . ewwww. I'm telling you, gross. God blessed me with girls for a reason. I just stood there, stunned.
And the story doesn't end there . . . no, no, no. It was after practice when the scene took on a whole new dimension. I have never seen so many little boys doing the things that I've heard little boys do. They are running around, while parents are chatting and paying no attention to their spawn, when I observed the following. Mind you, this was all happening simultaneously.
Two young ones were using their private parts as punching bags and taunting each other with "you hit me in the wiener" and "I'm gonna hit you in the nuts". One little fellow never stopped scratching his crouch. Boys running into each other and crying, boys sliding across the field into other boys, boys chasing each other using words they shouldn't use . . . it was frightening.
And then the most shocking of all . . . a particular piece of football equipment, called a blocking sled, was being used in a most unflattering manner. They jumped up on it as if sitting on someone's shoulders and began the humping mambo . . . you know, masturbating on the dummy. I was horrified. Shae was splitting a gut laughing at her poor mother. She said "Mom, boys will be boys".
I think I need to get out more.
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