Flanders

Last night my son's little league team had it's second game of the season. We walked away winners, despite the fact that the other team rallied late in the game. I say "we," because somewhere along the way I got dragged into this thing and now I'm an assistant coach.

Here's a hint for all you single ladies out there: When a guy in Oakley sunglasses holding an aluminum bat asks you to grab a glove and go help warm up the kids while we wait for the field to clear up, tell him if he don't put a ring on it to go screw.

Otherwise you might end up standing in a dugout having this conversation:

(Not my) Kid: Is that a lip ring?
Me: Yep.
Kid: Does it hurt?
Me: Nope.
Kid: Did it hurt when you got it put in?
Me: A little bit.
Kid: I have a fake tattoo (shows me his arm).
Me: Cool.
Kid: Do you have any tattoos?
Me: A few.
Kid: You have a fat belly.

You know what kid? Screw you. Santa Claus doesn't exist. Honestly, where the hell did that come from? And of course the brat's dad (another assistant coach) is standing right there -- not saying a goddamn thing while his son continues to rattle off observations about my physical appearance while I have to sort of just stand there and eat it in the name of team spirit.

It's this whole weird thing going on with this team -- the majority of whom apparently have all been together since T-ball, and are all pretty buddy-buddy (most of the kids on the team go to school together). I chose this particular league because they play close to my father house -- meaning my son's grandfather would be able to see the games fairly easily (it's also a good midpoint between the opposing sides of town that my ex and I live at) -- but because it's not a neighborhood league, my son and I are kinda outsiders.

When you're a kid who likes the same cartoons and candy as everyone else that's apparently not a problem.

But when you're the dude with the tatts and the piercings who's not yet accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Lord and Savior, it's another thing entirely.

And it's starting to get old.

For the record, I like the people involved with this team. Aside from the zealotry, they're all pretty nice guys. They've accepted me and my son with open arms, and have taken the extra time to ensure that his lack of experience (this is Curren's first time playing a team sport) isn't a hindrance. It's just that whenever practice is over and we're all heading to the parking lot -- at least one of these dudes has felt the burning need to come up to me and let me know just how "cool" their church is, and maybe I'd like to come by Sunday to see how I like it?

It's like I have the word "Heathen" written on my forehead or something.

Look, I got no problem with the G-man. God created Megan Fox, and anyone who thinks like that can't be all bad. But lay off with the evangelizing already. Seriously, isn't there something in the constitution about the separation of church and baseball?

Of course the worst part of the whole thing is that the kid who called me fat wasn't doing it out of any sort of spite, he was just stating a fact in that adorable way that 8-year olds tend to do. They see something, they say something about it. It took a little while, but I'm kind of used to my son having no filter when he observes the world around him. It reminds me sometimes to look at things for what they are, and not to wonder so much what everything freaking means all the time.

All that being said, I'm seriously considering introducing that
kid to as much devil music as I can before the season is over.

[Listening To:  Return to Forever – "Sorceress" ]