Captain Bladder Control and Attack of the Orange Beasties

This is how my Saturday morning went.

I had to wake up early to take my son to his first of four soccer games this weekend because his team is in a tournament. The game started at 8:30. No fear, the boy was up at 5:30. On a Saturday!

Anyway, he and I piled in the car after I had consumed two cups of caffienated courage. I poured myself a third in a commuter mug that I took with me. We arrived at the game, the team did some drills and soon it was time to take to the field for the game. The oppossing team showed up late.

Que the ominous music.

These kids were huge. Draped in flourescent orange jersies and attitudes to match. Their smallest kid was as big as our biggest kid. When they walked across the field, I swear the ground shook. I almost dropped my coffee. One kid on their team yawned right before kickoff and a flock of birds in a nearby tree took flight. Another kid was shaving as the ref read aloud the rules of game play.

As the game progressed, it was obvious my son's team did not stand a chance. But they were playing their hearts out. The Orange Beasties, as I came to call them, were all over the field, blocking the sun from the humungous shadow they cast across the field. They were fouling left and right but apparently the ref was either blind or on the take. I mean this guy was missing calls that Stevie Wonder could see. Twenty minutes into the game panic set in. Those three cups of coffee I mentioned, had finally hit. I needed to pee more than Nick and Jessica needed counseling.

I looked across the field and noticed there was a public restroom conveniently located nearby. I jogged over to it as the Orange Beasties had scored their 37th goal, determined to make it back in time for halftime to console my boy. I get there and find that though my tax dollars have paid for the construction and maintenance of said restroom it is locked up tight and thus not available when I need it most. I hurry back to the field just in time to tell my son what a great job he was doing and to make sure that he hydrates before the game resumes. The entire time, my head is literally pounding from my struggle to not think about the fact that at any moment, I could wet my pants in the brisk 53 degree morning. After some whinning about the oppossing team and their tactics, my son takes the field with his team and the game resumes. I quickly scanned my immediate surroundings and noticed that there was a Walgreens within walking distance. Surely, they must have a restroom. After leaving word with a team mom that I trusted as to my whereabouts I sprinted across the field toward lavatory liberation. By the way, running does not help when you have three large cups of coffee tap dancing on your bladder. As I made my way to the intersection, I could hear the congratulatory yells of parents on the opposing team. My poor son. Oh, well, that will have to wait. At this point I have to pee so bad my vision is literally blurred.

Once inside the Walgreens I made my way to the back of the store and I ask for someone to open the door to the restroom. Three days later, someone finally gets back there and as he unlocks the door mentions that the restroom is only for paying customers. At which time I mentioned that I would buy everything in the store and marry his ugliest daughter if he would just let me go pee. He did. The wedding is next Thursday.

Once business was taken care of and my vision restored, I headed back to the game with fifteen brutal minutes left. Soon after I got back my son had possession of the ball and was moving it down field. I was cheering him on. It looked good. Then, an Orange Beastie came out of nowhere. This kid was so big, he had his own zip code. The Beastie attacked my son, got the ball away from him and knocked him down in the mud. The ref was nowhere to be found. My boy got up, brushed himself off and ran after the Beastie to get the ball back.

We lost. We lost badly. I don't even want to mention the final score. I will say at least my son's team scored so it wasn't a blowout. Next time I'm asking for a urine sample from the oppossing team. After the game, my son and I limped back to my car. I told him how proud I was of the game he played and he vented his frustrations. As we got in the car he said he could not wait for the afternoon game. Then he asked. "Dad, where is your coffee mug?"

I does not matter son. I don't want to see it again. Ever.

And it was only 10 a.m.




Be well all.