Monday, June 19, 2006

Psychotic Soccer

I should scare myself.

I don’t – more than anything, I amuse myself – but I really should. If things keep deteriorating at this rate, I am going to be one of those parents who runs an umpire over with her SUV for making a bad call at her son’s game.

In my soccer game last night, I was at the center of a significant amount of shenanigans and a great deal of hullabaloo.

I got my first yellow card, in fact. For smarting off to the referee.

I was playing defense again. The ball was right at the goal. It bounced off of my shins and my sister, the goalie, pounced on it.

Goalies, you see, are not allowed to pick up a ball passed back by one of their teammates. If the ball is unintentionally played to the goalie by a teammate, however, it’s allowed. And that, my friends, is what happened.

But the referee, who was totally out of position (he was in the middle of the field and, as my back was to him, definitely couldn’t see what exactly happened), whistled this as a foul. He said that I passed the ball to Meg.

I didn’t. I swear it.

So Meg is all up in arms about it. She starts screaming. “That is a bullshit call! You know that it a bullshit call! There is a difference between an intentional pass and it bouncing off of someone’s shin guard and you know that, referee!” He’s now close enough to the goal that Meg is right in his face, pointing her finger at him. “That is fucking bullshit and we both know it.”

The ref gave them the kick anyway. At the six yard box. Incredibly close to the goal.

Somehow, they didn’t score.

The ball was knocked out of bounds, and, while a player was retrieving it, the referee is talking to one of the opposing players. Loud and animate, he is making it obvious that he is discussing how ridiculous it is that Meg even thought that shouldn’t be a foul.

Meg, of course, sees this. And she is immediately all over him. “That is unprofessional, sir! You should not be discussing that play with anyone but me!”

And then I start going. “You’re a joke, ref! Why don’t you just put on your orange jersey, sweetheart? Which one of their players are you making out with after the game? You’re ridiculous.” And so on. And on. And on.

I very, very rarely talk back to referees. But he had been consistently bad all game, and now he was fucking with my little sister. Back off, buddy.

A few minutes later, I get drilled by some random girl. It was totally a foul and, amazingly, he called it in my favor. I take the kick. I pass the ball to my sister.

Meg is getting ready to kick the ball when I yell, way too loudly, “hey! Ref! That was an accident! She can pick it up.”

And the bastard gives me a yellow card.

My very first yellow card. I am so proud of myself.

So is my dad, King Hater of all Referees.

I think it was the best Father’s Day present he’s ever gotten.

1 comments:

Plantation said...

Am glad *someone* had a nice Father's Day.

 
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