How Are You Not Dead?

As some of you may have heard me rant about in the past, I used to be a sportswriter. And before I earned a spot covering all the major pro leagues and colleges in Southern California, I did my time covering high school sports. Everyone does it. A rite of passage, if you will.

So, I’m on the sidelines at a girls soccer playoff match in the mid 90s. One of the fathers is just going off on everyone. He’s yelling at his daughter’s team. He’s yelling at the opponents. He’s yelling at the ref. No profanity, so he thinks whatever he’s yelling is just A-OK, character-building shit.

And. He. Just. Won’t. Stop.

About 30 minutes in, the action of the game shifts to toward a goal, and he turns and he’s still yelling. From behind him, away from the action, one of the girls from his team takes the opportunity to sprint off the field. She runs right past me and BELTS this guy square in the chest. A picture-perfect right cross. In the dictionary next to “punch,” there’s a picture of this girl decking this guy. I mean, she just fucking lays him out, because she’s running full speed. Knocks him down, sends his sliding across the wet grass. He’s in a business suit; all I see is worsted wool Brooks Brothers and tasseled loafers, ass over tea-kettle.

Then she stands over him, like Muhammad Ali yelling at the unconscious Sonny Liston.

“DAD! KNOCK IT OFF! YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME!”