By Tracy Kiely
What’s that? There’s been a murder?
That horrible old man who screamed racial epitaphs at the kids who walked by his house?
And you want to know where I was last night? You say that I seem agitated? And that I appear to have murder in my heart?
Wow. You are good, aren’t you?
Okay, I admit it. I do have murder in my heart. But I can assure you that I had nothing to do with your investigation. I was miles away from your scene of the crime. You see, I was at a pee wee lacrosse tournament game last night.
Yes. The reason for my agitated state and dark thoughts stems from what happened at my son’s game. Not his performance; nor his team’s. They were fine. No, it’s a few of the parents I want to off.
Yes, I said a few. Not one. Not two. In the depths of my heart, last night was a blood bath.
My first victim? I don’t know her name. I just call her “Angry Mom.” She storms up and down the sidelines screaming at the boys. SCREAMING. At boys who are seven. She barks out such helpful comments such as, “Sticks UP!” “Look at the ball!” “Pay attention!” and my personal favorite, “WHEELS!” What the hell is that? Wheels? Last night, Angry Mom surpassed herself. She yanked her younger son by the wrist – the wrist – and dragged his little body up and down the sidelines while she shouted angry instructions at boys who were not only wearing helmets but were a good fifty feet away.
Then there is “Frustrated Dad Who Wants To Coach But Never Played the Game.” He’s the guy in the head-to-toe lacrosse apparel from a school he didn’t attend. He wears his baseball cap backwards, and sits his sunglasses on top of that. At no point does he ever wear the sunglasses. He, too, stomps up and down the field shouting furious instructions at his son, who I shall call Timmy because that’s his name. Instructions such as, “Timmy! Timmy! Timmy! Go for the goal!!” (Timmy plays defense.) Sometimes, he orders poor Timmy to do the complete opposite of what the coaches are saying. “Timmy! Timmy! Run! Get up there! Run!!!” (Coach: “Timmy! Stay where you are!”)
Timmy is going to have a facial tic by the time he’s nine.
I admit I was on edge by the time the Man In Black plopped down next to me. As my extremely clever nickname for him suggests, he only wears black. Even in the ninety plus degree heat we suffered through yesterday. He set up his chair and opened up a large umbrella over his head to shield his skin from the sun.
Fine. Whatever. Who am I to judge?
Then he, too, began to counsel the boys.
In a woman’s voice.
Do you remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine had the friend who was married to the guy with the woman’s voice? Well, he’s alive and well and attending my local lacrosse games.
Again. Fine. Whatever. Who am I to judge?
Except this is what he began to croon – croon – at the boys.
“Stop the penetration.”
“Stop the penetraaaaaation.”
It was at this point that my mind snapped. I killed them all. I then took their boys and placed them with good, loving families who didn’t froth and foam over a rec league game.
So. There you have it. Clearly, I had nothing to do with the death of that vicious old man.
But, should a freaky sports parent end up dead, I’ll probably need a good lawyer.