So, Squish's coach is a fit guy, as energetic as a psychotic squirrel, with a tendency to chatter at the kids without actually thinking about what he's saying.
He's sort of adorable-- the soccer moms have enjoyed giving him a ration of shit.
Tonight, they were practicing on the tennis court, under the lights, while we huddled under blankets on the sidelines.
Coach: I seem to have lost my ball… darn it, where's my one white ball?
Soccer Mom 1: Only one ball, coach? You only have one white ball?
Coach (looking suspicious): Yes, only one white ball--
Me: Is the other one blue, sir?
Coach (getting it now): You know, there is a teenaged boy behind you guys--
Me: He can write his own material-- we're doing fine on our own!
The coach walked away, muttering, but as practice progressed and he started calling out to the girls, "Where's my support over here! My ball needs support!", well, you can just imagine.
Soccer Mom 2: So, which ball do you think he needs supported?
Soccer Mom 1: Definitely the white one.
Me: The other one is just left, swinging in the breeze?
We laughed-- a lot-- but when he came back to the fence, we had quieted down. He glared at us suspiciously. "You guys are quiet-- nothing else to say on the subject?"
Soccer Mom 2: You said everything-- you said your ball was unsupported. Did you get support for your ball, coach?
Coach: You girls sound ball deprived, that's the problem!
Soccer Moms 1 and 2 shut down with that, but, well… who could resist.
Me: Actually, sir, I'm a ball specialist. It's part of my job.
He was left speechless (for about ten seconds) and the Soccer Moms high-fived me.
Me (quietly to soccer moms): I really am sort of an expert.
Soccer Moms: Well, you'd have to be in your line of work.