The parent meeting for Youngest's select soccer team was as contentious and dysfunctional as I feared it would be. What the hell did I just condemn myself to?
It all comes down to money. Truly, does everything all come down to money? Oh, some parents might couch their anger and sniping and complaints and dickheadedness to the fact that they're worried about poor Johnny and how much playing time he'll get.
But I see that "poor Johnny" is just double-speak for "my wallet."
True, people are forking over a minimum of $1,350 for "poor Johnny" to play on a select soccer team. And that's a huge chunk of change for a lot of us on the team. But there are at least a half-dozen families who don't gag when they write that check, and they're the ones most ardent in their belief that everyone else is just trying to rip them off. I mean, take advantage of "poor Johnny."
For the record, my darling Pete, I am so very, very, very sorry that I agreed to be the manager. I am so very, very, very sorry that you will have to listen to me bitch nonstop. I am so very, very, very sorry that your Seattle gig will be up soon enough and you will have to listen to me bitch in person.
I am so very, very, very, very, very, very sorry.
Lest you think Youngest is going to pick up on all this adult angst swirling around his team, let me note that, upon returning from the parent meeting, I said, with nary an ounce of sarcasm seeping through, "Wow! This is going to be a great team!"
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