I don’t consider myself to be a confrontational person. I’m no shrinking violet, but I need everyone
to like me and part of having people like me is . . . well . . . not making them mad at me.
Sometimes I just can’t keep my yapper shut though.
Our son, Large, plays on a travel baseball team that has
many different age levels. Last weekend,
Large’s team (11U) and the 9U team played in the same tournament. Once our game was over, Large’s entire team
decided to root, root, root for the 9U team at their game.
While there are no written rules regarding where one should
sit when watching 9-year-olds play baseball, generally spectators sit on the
“side” that their team is on. As we were
waiting for the game to start, a woman, whose TONE I did not appreciate, asked
me huffily, “are you watching this
game?”
The game hadn’t started yet as the field crew was watering
the infield, and my interaction with this woman was new, so I was not yet
irritated with her. I was confused about
what she was asking me, however, because there was no game being played. Was she seeing Angels in the Outfield? Was Kevin Costner talking to Shoeless Joe in
a cornfield and I just couldn’t see it?
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| Artist (that's me!) rendering of field. |
I looked at the field and said kindly, (because at this
point I was still feeling kind,)
“there’s no game
going on right now.”
Clearly irritated, she asked, “do you have kids on this
team?”
I thought she was making idle chit chat, so I said, “no,
we’re the 11U team and we just came to cheer on our 9U team.” I might have even thrown in a smile.
“Well, we came a LONG way to not be able to sit and watch
our kids play,” she snapped. “It would
be nice if there was someplace for us to sit.
Why don't you go down there,” and she pointed to some spots down the
way.
Oh, it’s on now. Don’t you get snippy with me.
I asked our boys to move down so that they weren’t taking up
as much space on the bleachers. I
noticed, however, that she and her daughter-in-law (who remained silent
throughout the entirety of our interaction) were the only two people in the
stands. (Probably because she was
sitting on OUR side, but alas . . . ) The
rest of their team’s spectators had brought their own stadium chairs and were
sitting in prime real estate behind the batter’s box. Some of them had gone to a little patio area
on the first base line on the opposite side of their team’s dugout, and none of
them seemed put out that we were
taking up space on our own bleachers.
She got up to get an over-priced drink at the concession
stand and was clearly disappointed to find me still sitting in the stands when
she returned. She slammed her foot down
as she stepped on to the metal bleachers; I’m assuming it was to announce her
arrival.
Whatevs, I thought.
The game started. So did her
passive-aggressive comments to her daughter-in-law, obviously for my benefit.
1. Alex S. had a good
hit. Ryan S, his brother, is on our
team. I mistakenly yelled, “nice hit,
Ryan,” and the kids playfully reminded me that ALEX was the one who got the
hit. “She doesn’t even know their
names,” she WHISPERED to her companion.
2. A player on her
team hit a ball way out into center field and our player was unable to catch
it. “Awwww,” she chirped sarcastically,
“he didn’t catch it.”
3. A mom from our
team yelled, “nice try” to one of our players, to which she commented, “not
good enough!”
Finally she said to her daughter-in-law, “at least they
found a place to sit to watch the game,” referring to the spectators from her
team.
I had had enough.
“Is there someone who needs to sit here?” I asked.
“Don’t talk to me. . . . it’s just that we came a LONG way
to see the kids play. You didn’t.”
I didn’t take a road trip over the Bay Bridge on the Friday
afternoon of Memorial Day weekend with a little detour through Annapolis on
Naval Academy graduation day just to have some busybody question my motives.
“Excuse me?” Oh, I’m
irritated now. “You have no idea where
we traveled from.” You see that? I was so angry I ended a sentence with a
preposition.
“Stop talking to me.”
That was the end of our conversation.
Karma works mysteriously, however.
One of our moms, who had no idea that any of this had
transpired, asked my nemesis if she could move one of her bags (which were
sprawled all over her “area” of the stands) so that she could sit down. The old lady obliged . .. by grabbing her bag
dramatically and slamming it on the seat in front of her.
Then another mom, also unaware of the conversation,
commented sweetly that she was unfamiliar with this rival team and she wondered
where they were from. Somewhere far, far
away, no doubt.
And then our 9U team won the game. So there’s that.
