Child number dos has some amazing athletic ability. As overused as this may sound, he is a natural-born athlete. He truly was ‘born this way’ considering he entered our world trying to bungee jump with his umbilical cord. At 6 months old he almost decapitated me with his Nerf ball. During his little league years he managed to leave a third-eye-goose-egg on Mr. Pavlov’s forehead practically rendering him unconscious and nearly neutered several nice young males who offered to play catch with the “cute little boy.” He was and is an animal.This year he decided to play basketball for the first time. It came as no surprise to us when he owned the ball after one touch. My head was spinning as the coach explained several moves he wanted the players to execute. But dos was not phased at all. He nodded his head and ran the dribble, spin, dribble, switch maneuver effortlessly.
Mr. Pavlov and I watch the games proudly with our heads held high. Mr. Pavlov seems to hold his head a little higher because he claims the genes obviously “come from him.” But Mr. Pavlov and I are quiet spectators. Other than a “Good Job Dos!” or “Nice!” we sit and admire the talent. However, as we have experienced from our years on the side lines, not all parents embrace this reserved approach.
We have met our share of obnoxious but recently we met a parent who makes obnoxious seem enjoyable. From the beginning of the game she screeched and screamed with such force that the tiny structures in my inner ear began to reverberate. By the end of the game Mr. Pavlov and I had full-blown tinnitus. We were feeling as if the Jr. High Marching band had slammed our heads between their symbols. Our legs were wobbly, our vision blurred, our stomachs were entertaining nausea and we each had our own terrible version of a migraine going on.
However, the abuse didn’t cease there. Not only was she a screech but also WHAT she was screeching made her our sport spectator winner for the most ghetto parent E V E R!
For example, she yelled “Get yo man” repeatedly when it was zone defense, not man-to-man! A noble soul, who was hoping to get her to shut her trap (I’m sure of it) informed her the team was playing zone defense. This information would’ve sent me under the bleachers gagged and muzzled daring never to show my face again but not screech.
She went off like a siren with woot-woot, dat’s what I’m talkin’ bouts and whoops each time her children received a foul. We even got to feel the bleachers shake and threaten collapse with each of her celebratory pelvic dance grinds. She yelled “GOOD BLOCK” when her child mowed down another player football tackle style and encouraged her child to “get da rebounds” even if it meant crossing into another zone and knocking out a team-mate in the process. Her children were most concerned with pleasing her and were willing to draw whatever amount of blood was necessary to accomplish each task required for the approval of screech.
As painful as this behavior was to endure I prepared myself to let it go and never speak of it again….UNTIL….I heard….screech…sound off during this 11yr old, co-ed basketball game with….
“G U A R D D A T H O!!”
and just incase the entire suburb failed to hear her….
“G U A R D D A T H O!!”
Again, maybe, just maybe someone was not paying attention so she felt compelled….
“G U A R D D A T H O!”
We, the human parents in the gym, were in a state of shock. I kept my head straight but strained my eyes horizontally in an attempt to connect with Mr. Pavlov and child number uno. I’m sure it was this continued ocular strain that sent me off the migraine cliff. I also attempted to locate child tres because he is known to repeat such reactionary adjectives just for giggles. I could just imagine tres joining screech in perfectly blended vocal harmonics of “Guard dat ho!”
Thankfully, tres appeared not to comprehend the revolting screams but seemed sufficiently entertained by her pelvic bumps and gyrations. Tres performing a spectacle of himself with his crotch as the star entertainer was far more favorable to me than the alternative.
Slowly and ever so slowly, I turned my head to see if I could find “dat ho’s” parents. I wanted to prepare myself for the direction of the attack! Since I don’t actually know “dat ho’s” parents, I tried to locate the individuals wearing the most offended facial expressions or exhibiting the strongest physical reaction. I was unsuccessful in locating the parents because EVERYONE was wearing looks of silent horror. No one moved. No one spoke. We sat.
And that is when the realization imploded from within that Mr. and Mrs. Pavlov were not the only chickens attending the game.