Warning: Creating default object from empty value in /nfs/c03/h06/mnt/50160/domains/aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com/html/wp-content/themes/canvas/functions/admin-hooks.php on line 160

Word To The Wise: Do Not Mess With A Redhead

Brian and I arrive at his basketball practice a half hour early, because my son can nag the hide off a grizzly bear.

“Mom, can we go now? Can we go NOW? Can we go now…? MOM, can WE go now?…”

As we walk from the parking lot towards the courtyard outside the gym, we pass one of Brian’s team mates and his dad. They are walking to the parking lot. There has been this ongoing time issue with the last few practices. The Christian high school basketball team has been practicing a half hour into the practice of the grade school league.

To add further fire to the flame, the high school coach doesn’t want anyone in the gym while his players are on the court. (Because the high school team might go all the way to the to being the most unknown team in history). This has caused an argument between the coaches about when the high school team is actually finished with practise.

As with all things volunteer, no one seems to take charge or solve this dilemma. You’d think they were voting to raise the minimum wage. For three weeks we are told practice will definitely start at 7:00pm, only to have the high school coach continue with his team until 7:30. It was supposedly solved.

We parents have nothing better to do than wait in the cold school gym at a school that has a senior class the size of a quilting circle.

As we pass the dad leaving with his son, he stops to tell us the coach to the high school team won’t let him in the gym and practice can’t start until 7:30. He is angry enough to leave. His son looks like someone shot his dog.

I look at Brian and tell him we can go play basketball together on the outside courtyard. His yearning to play overcomes his certainty that his mother lacks a skill which doesn’t involve cooking or cleaning. He runs to the courtyard where there are several basketball courts.

Since this is a small school, the outdoor lights work about as well as a candle in a cave. I miss my first couple of shots and Brian grins the kind of grin where he is thinking girls. On my third try, I make a shot and he congratulates me. How did I ever know how to do anything before he was around to tell me?

We enjoy playing in the dark until one of the other boys arrives with his dad. I throw the ball to the kid and walk away to sit on the picnic table. I am smart enough to know when a parent is no longer needed. His dad wanders the courtyard. Several more kids and their parents arrive. I am still sitting off in the dark, and the parents find odd places to sit while we wait for the gym to open.

Brian’s coach arrives next. He spots me first, even though I am sitting in the dark. He walks up and asks why we aren’t in the gym. I tell him about the first boy who left and we can’t be in the gym until 7:30pm. The coach sighs, mumbling this was suppose to be solved. He walks to the gym to find out what is going on.

Brian’s best friend on the team’s dad follows the coach to the gym. He stands outside the doors, pacing back and forth waiting for the coach. Suddenly, I hear this loud voice yell, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Being that I am at a Christian school, and having never actually heard the voice of God. I look up, to my right, then to my left and all around the courtyard and I don’t see anyone.

Maybe this is my sign? Then, the same voice yells,

“HEY! I AM TALKING TO YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!”

The boys stop playing to look around. I look around. We can’t figure out where the voice is coming from. I assume it is someone in the gym and we are hearing it outside. I look around for the burning bush, a flashing star or some sort of sign I might be over-looking. I haven’t committed a mortal sin in ages, so what would God want with me in the middle of a dark basketball court in rural Northern California?

Again, the voice yells,

“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? DON’T YOU RESPOND WHEN SOMEONE IS TALKING TO YOU?”

God, is that you?

This time the yelling continues falling together into the echos from the buildings and I can’t tell what is being said. I  finally spot this man at the far end of the courtyard, standing at a door, yelling towards the gym. I realize this is our yeller. My heart sings with relief – it’s not God after all.  The boys look to me, to which I respond, “He’s not yelling at you –  go ahead and play boys.”

The man walks off his platform. He is still yelling. It dawns on me that this man is yelling at the back of Brian’s best friend’s dad. The dad has been slowly walking back toward the boys. I watch as this short, fat, scruffy-looking yelling man tries to catch up with the dad. By the time he reaches him, they are next to the boys on the court.

He gets beside the dad and yells,

“WHAT IN THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM? WHAT, YOU DON”T UNDERSTAND ENGLISH YOU?”

I should stop here to say that the dad is Hispanic.

Before the nasty man can yell another word in front of the boys (here I go) I yell (calmly),

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY IT MISTER. DON’T YOU DARE. STOP IT RIGHT NOW! YOU WILL NOT SAY WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO SAY WHILE I AM SITTING HERE AS A WITNESS! NOT IN FRONT OF THESE BOYS. DON’T YOU DARE SAY IT – I AM WARNING YOU!”

Shocked, the yelling man stops in mid-breath and squints his eyes to see who is sitting in the dark. The boy’s dad (who the yelling guy was about to say something bigoted) has stepped back and is looking down, as if willing to take what this jerk is about to say. The yelling man begins to yell over at me,

“I WATCH FOR SECURITY HERE AND WHEN I SEE SOMETHING SUSPICIOUS IT IS MY JOB TO FIND OUT WHAT IS GOING ON!”

Now I should say that this so-called security guy is in a dirty white t-shirt, with a belly that hangs 50 inches over his jeans, which sit on his hips so low it is really the upper thigh, exposing his belly button. His belly button is the size of a football, and covered in gray hair. He needs a shave and looks like someone who just woke up from sleeping in the park. A gum wrapper left in a parking lot is cleaner than this guy.

Security my ass. He is the scariest person here.

I respond, calmly yelling back,

“THIS IS WHY YOU ARE BOTHERING HIM? WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF US?? I AM TELLING YOU TO STOP IT NOW! I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE TRYING TO DO AND I AM THE WRONG WOMAN TO PISS OFF, TRUST ME ON THIS. I WOULD STOP NOW IF I WERE YOU.”

Little did I know, at this moment Brian is huddling with the boys and saying, “Don’t worry. NO ONE messes with my mother – just watch.”

I can tell the man is sizing me up, but he  is confused, as I am sitting there in a business suit and a long black trench coat. I can tell he is weighing the situation but has too much of an ego to listen to a woman. It is obvious he has not caught the fact that my hair is red.

He begins to turn back to yell at the man, when I stand up and say,

“Look you poor excuse for a representation of the male species. It is obvious to me by the dirt on your body that you never wash your ears, so I am going to assume they are filled with so much wax that you can’t hear me when I say you will stop this right now. I am the wrong woman for you to continue this argument, since you don’t know whether or not I am a complete nut-case, for which I just might be. And since I don’t give a crap what you think, and unlike you I have showered this week, I can say with conviction that you will wish to your dying day that you never met me and that you would have stopped when I asked you. Am I making myself clear or do I have to move closer to draw you a more unpleasant picture?”

The man has stopped talking with his mouth open as the boys stare from me to him, me to him, me to him. By this time the coach has come out of the gym to witness the last part of the scene. The other parents are beginning to stand around us.

The coach walks straight up to the dirty so-called security man and asks,

“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?”

This guy as it turns out is really the janitor and he turns to the coach to try one last yell,  to which the coach tells the man to go back to his room. They exchange a few words. The man mumbles as he walks off back to his hole in the dark.

The coach grins at me and says,

“I’d ask if you are alright, but I can tell you don’t need my help.”

Brian runs over and sits next to me.  He is happy that I didn’t let the yelling janitor say something awful to his friend’s dad and humiliate his friend. There was just no way in hell I was going to allow that to happen.

It has been said, Napoleon was a redhead.

Until next time –

C

http://www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com

This content is published under the Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Share and Enjoy

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Delicious
  • Digg
  • StumbleUpon
  • Tumblr
  • FriendFeed
  • Add to favorites
  • Email
  • RSS
  • PDF

Comments

About Catherine, the redhead mom blogger

Catherine’s hopes to make this blog a safe place for thyroid sufferers to come laugh and share the funnier side of thyroid disease while raising awareness around the world. She is a published author, known for her humorous speeches on finding your dream life and blogging for fun and profit. Catherine writes about her dream life at, 8 Women Dream and several online marketing publications. She would also like to be invited to speak at TED about her observations. Catherine posts on M/W/F. Join me on Google+ rapieress@aol.com

, ,

Comments are closed.
Facebook Like Button for Dummies