The Dark World Of Suburban T-Ball
DALLAS (CBSDFW.COM) - I’m the proud father of two beautiful children (Side Note: To the kids that bullied me in high school . . I told you I would have sex someday!) Anyways, my oldest son is 5 years-old and has recently joined an American institute that is lovingly enjoyed by some, but wildly obsessed by others . . . t-ball in the suburbs.
After only a few weeks of watching what I describe as Thunderdome without Tina Turner, but with plenty of other big-haired b*tches, the t-ball league my son plays in has always stayed true in promoting what’s important, teaching your child the fundamentals of baseball…WHATEVER!
For me, t-ball in the suburbs allows me to observe something more entertaining than anything my child will do. It’s what I don’t see on the field, but what I witness in the stands that’s intriguing, the various categories of t-ball parents.
Allow me to elaborate on some:
The Rhinestone Mom – Her bedazzled shirts, shoes, jeans, purse, hat and occasional iPhone exposes a 40-something woman that still thinks she has it thanks to the great fashion deals she gets at First Monday in Canton
The Business Dad – Wearing a crisp pair of slacks, lightly starched dress shirt, polished wing tips and hair as perfect as his portfolio, Business Dad shows up to the game just in time for his son to see the top of his head . . since his face is buried in his phone, getting updates on the NASDAQ
The I Love My Child More Then You Mom – A simple “Go Team!” cardboard sign is not enough for this Mom. The gaudiness of love begins with pictures of her star player on buttons, t-shirts and posters. The love fest continues with specially written chants for her child while using choreographed dance moves that would make Paula Abdul sober
The Still Thinks He’s Playing Dad – The athletic shorts and athletic shirt he wears are the only things “athletic” on the man who can’t let go of the past. Although he might have been a decent player back in his days, his oversized gut, monkey-butt bald spot and reference to All-District 1994 is a sad display of unreleased memories
The Thermos Mom – She’s loud, abrasive and chugs from her Thermos every 20 seconds. It doesn’t take long before the faint scent of Moscoto leaves her breath and the Thermos runs dry . . but no worries . . thanks to the can of Altoids filled with unusual mints that are stamped with milligram numbers
Now, the question is raised to me…who am I?
Am I a parent that silently keeps his opinions to himself while watching his child grow up enjoying the wonders and comradery of sports or am I a prick hiding his unspoken observations behind an article posted on a website thanks to a company mandate?
Either way, I’m in FOUL territory . . see what I did there?
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