What if your 14-year-old son — the one who love soccer, lives it, breaths it, bleeds it — has a chance to try out for a select soccer team? What if, the coach for that team runs your son, who plays goalie, through a ridiculous, unrealistic drill in which two of his forwards dribble up and take shots on him from less than ten feet away, without any defensive interference? Over and over again. What if after about ten minutes of this, one of the kids takes a shot and it breaks your son’s wrist? What if, a year later, your son’s rec team puts the hammer down and, with your son playing an awesome 40-minutes in goal, beats that coach’s select team 5-4? What if after the game the coach tells you your son did a good job and reaches his hand out?
What if, during the game the coach’s team played aggressive, dirty soccer — leaving one kid with a possible concussion, drawing at least two blue cards, and generally showing a lack of class — and he tried to shake your hand?
What if …?
Well, I told him not to bother. And, damn, did he go off on me. My small protest against this prick of a man prompted a near brawl. He got in my face, told me I was an ass, was clearly looking for a reason to go after me. People got him outside and when he saw the Queen Midget come out the exit, he came back to her and said I was the problem and told her it was a good thing I wasn’t outside. Oddly enough, I was right behind her while he was ranting at her. Sometimes I’m amazed.
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Until a short time ago, I went through the day without one sale of One Night in Bridgeport. Fortunately, somebody came through and two copies have been sold in the last couple of hours. Thank you whoever you are!!!
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And I made something new for dinner tonight … no pictures. Beef enchiladas in a green chile, tomato sauce. Verdict: pretty damn good.
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Almost forgot this: can’t wait for Wednesday when I find out if I made it through the first cut of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest.