Our Scouts were killing.
It was the Homecoming Game for our local high school. A buddy of mine came to see his son perform his courtly duties alongside the King and Queen of the day. The class of 1993 was celebrating it's twentieth reunion that weekend, so the stands were full of people recently flown to town wearing flannel with fanny packs while listening to Nirvana on their blue Walkmans.
The good ol' home team defense had just intercepted a beautiful pick when my almost potty-trained daughter tugged on my pant leg. With a familiar step dance her slightly raised eyebrows betrayed a distress that snapped me to action. As I was weaving through bleachers and band nerds with daughter in tow, I noticed that the line for the bathroom was certainly too long for her tiny bladder. I snatched the kid up under my right arm, brought my left across my chest to prevent a fumble, pivot and sprint with the all grace of number 10 (the Scouts' wide receiver) towards the school gym. Finally, we reach the sanctum of a clean restroom; and none too soon.
While she sat and playfully sang her version of "Summertime Sadness," I wandered around the immaculate high school gym, admiring their top-tier equipment and amenities... but then, I saw this:
While she sat and playfully sang her version of "Summertime Sadness," I wandered around the immaculate high school gym, admiring their top-tier equipment and amenities... but then, I saw this:
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for your insightful responses and/or feedback! Your comments will be sent to a moderator for review, and usually post within an hour.