Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Ode to a Heckler

NFL season is upon us. Mere days away. The excitement is building at the Monaco house. Sundays will look like this: soccer in the morning, football in the afternoon. From grass to sofa.

We have always been a football family from as far back as I can remember. It all started with me pops. An absolutely rabid fan. My dad has this uncanny ability to sink right into a game and experience it as if he’s on the sideline. He motivates at the players. Predicts the play calls. And, of course, curses the referees.

Referees and my father go way back. My dad didn’t miss a single game when my brother and I played youth soccer. He spent most of my childhood on the sideline yelling at refs. He turned it into a sport, folks.

Obnoxious? Yes. Vulgar? Sometimes. Funny? Always.

At one of my college games, just before kickoff, my father notices the referee looks a little young to be officiating a high-level game. Just after the national anthem there’s a lull, with perfect timing he yells, “Hey Ref, whaddya wanna be when you grow up?”

Game on.

Mom is equally dedicated to sports, but in a more evolved way. She too, wouldn’t miss one of our games. But, by default, she had to assume the role of the straight-man. Dad would spend the game thinking up one-liners to annoy the referee, and she, rolling her eyes in disgust, would to tell him to calm down. A classic comedy duo.

Now that I’m playing up North and they’re still down South, I often imagine them on the sidelines, sitting in their folding chairs. My dad, waiting to pounce on his striped prey, my mom attempting tame the beast.

GM

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