Rah Rah Sis Boom Cray Cray

The now famous barometer for being a genius at something is that you've logged 10,000 hours doing it. So, if you did nothing but whittled wood every day, with no sleep, for about 15 months, you'd be a world class wood whittler! Fortunately, I don't think I've spent 10k hours doing anything in life, although if I was Hugh Hefner I probably wouldn't say, "fortunately." But, in working the abacus this morning, I have found one thing that has superseded all other time demands for the past 8 years: watching soccer. Based on those hours of being a loving, supportive parent, I have decided that soccer parents are the craziest, kookiest, most annoying fans of any type. On the planet. Ever.

Here's my street-cred for making such a damning statement. My wife and I have been sitting in our little $7 camp chairs (always go for the high dollah chairs - the cheap ones have the life expectancy of a spider in a girl's dormitory) for about 15 years between our two little cherubs. We greatly enjoy it. We love Soccer Saturdays, and now, Soccer Sundays. When these days come to an end, we will likely take up something horrid like curling or canasta.

But sometimes with our most cherished endeavors, there can be a dark, unpleasant underbelly.
Like eating fish. It can make for a healthy, tasty dinner, but it sure does stink up the joint while making it. Which leads us to the aforementioned condemnation of the grown ups on the sidelines of the world's most popular game, even though it's relegated to a triple digit number on cable in the U.S.

May I present kooky parents evidence item 1: most parents have never played soccer, yet feel compelled to scream, yell and hoot-n-holler advice, directions, praise, criticism and pearls of wisdom at their darlings and the refs. Now, this would be like if you had never worked on an internal combustion engine and stood next to the mechanic screaming where the flux capacitor should go. All of this "enthusiasm" takes place despite the fact that the kids already have someone named Coach, who has assuredly played the game they're coaching, and is desperately trying to do his or her job amongst the din of crazed voices from the opposite side.

Evidence item #2: Mommy and Daddy don't seem to understand that a kid 50 yards away cannot hear anything M and D are yelling, except maybe their name. The end result is the child hearing, "Susie blah blah farvegnugen blah blah onomatopoeia blah blah Susie!" That reflexively pulls Susie's head towards M and D as a round sphere is hurtling towards Susie's torso.

Evidence item #3: soccer parents have no sense of personal space. As committed as they are to hurl the human voice into the abyss of the field, they are even more dependable to do so 7 centimeters from your cranium. Unlike at most sporting events, the local soccer fields offer M and D the freedom to move around. In doing so, they tend to set up shop right behind yours, because it is your nugget of turf that invariably offers them the best grandstand. I would think my now nearly bald crown would alert them to another's presence, but evidently their frothing not only slurs speech, but blurs vision. This is why I will be pairing ear plugs with those $7 chairs as my next financial venture.

Disclaimer: none of the above applies to any of the parents on any of the teams to which my daughters have belonged. You have logged 10,000 hours of perfect behavior and are testaments to good sportsmanship and wonderful parenting.