Susan got up early on Saturday morning to watch her son play lacrosse. The husband carried and set up a foldable chair so that Susan would have a comfortable place to sit. It was a lovely misty morning, the field was surrounded by pine trees and Susan couldn't imagine anywhere she'd rather be than sitting with a cup of coffee watching her boy (whichever one he was, they all looked alike) in the full flourish of his youth.
Simple pleasures surely are the best.
Then the parents showed up.
They were unassuming in appearance wearing jeans and windbreakers, bearing Snapple bottles. They came in twos and threes, greeted each other and then took their place along the edge of the field.
Susan would like to take this opportunity to mention how ferociously she has argued with the husband over his need to yell from the sidelines.
You're not the coach, why are you yelling?
The son backs her up, We can't hear you anyway, Dad.
A compromise was struck; If he feels he must yell then he is to position himself as far away from Susan as is practical, otherwise he is to completely refrain from yelling while she is in attendance.
The game started and the parents yelled.
They f*cking yelled like they were being overcharged at the butcher. They yelled at their kids, they yelled at the coach, they yelled at the referee, they all yelled at once. The women yelled like men and the men yelled like baboons.
Susan was horrified.
During periods of inactivity the parents chatted quietly, one scratched his private area in full view of anyone unlucky enough to be facing him. Another, aided by his spouse, gave incorrect directions to the field through his cell phone. Shortly thereafter the game was called because of lightning and Susan was returned to her calm universe.