Both of my daughters are sincerely into volleyball. I’m proud of them. They are very good at it.
My wife lives for the whole culture of volleyball. The tournaments, travel, score keeping, all of it. She’s the biggest volleyball mom cheerleader.
Me? I’d rather stick my crotch in a waffle iron all day than go to any weekend sports event. Period.
So most every weekend, my wife gladly travels with one of our daughters to some obscure point in the Province of Saskatchewan (or beyond) for a volleyball tournament. God bless her. She works crazy hard teaching grade 8 kids all week, then hangs out in some industrial sport complex with a bunch of jock parents on the weekends.
Better her than me.
Recently the sun, stars, and moon lined up. Both daughters had tournaments on the same weekend, different places.
I had to go to one of them. Wonderful.
I mean really, I love my kids and all. We’re paying a stupid amount of money for them to be part of all this. We could use that money to fix up our house or something. But their life experiences are far more important than our temporal dwelling place on earth, right? Thus me not standing in the way proves my love, correct?
Where’s the waffle iron?
So in preparation of volleyball dad duties, my wife tells me that parents need to volunteer for at least one job during the tournament. She signs me up for one of the two score keeping jobs at the 2nd match. This was totally bogus as none of the other parents on our team were doing any jobs.
Dead beats.
Usually if and when I ever have to attend one of these things, I bring a few books and find some obscure corner of the building to hibernate in. Then I’ll leave the hibernation den when my daughter’s game starts. But that’s about as far as it goes.
Now I have to be part of the game. My wife signed me up.
Thanks honey.
So prior to the game I’m supposed to work, I’m waiting at the score table around this small group of dads. All of whom are the stereotype Saskatchewan males. I’ve got them pegged: ball cap, stubbly beard, hoodie (affectionately called a “bunny hug” in this corner of the earth), some degree of spare tire around the gut, and usually (but not always) an assortment of camouflaged themed attire.
Then in comes me, the older, 50-something hippie dad. I’m having flashbacks of my Saskatchewan construction job site days. These guys will plunge in to full throttle mockery when given the opportunity.
As soon as the scorekeepers of the previous game leave the table, one of the dads jumps in the chair I was signed up for: number flipping. Which is the easy common sense job. The other chair is for the paperwork person. That job requires a rocket science degree. And probably a general confidence in sporty things.
I forget our exact exchange of pleasantries. But it involved my humble confession of complete ignorance of this gig. Somehow the glares from the other dada informed me that they already knew this.
I asked him, “Do you know how to do the paperwork job?”
“No, not really”
“Yeah. Me either”. I started to walk off.
“Oh hey, I think I can figure it out”
Saved by a compassionate sports dad. Thank you God.
In between plays, I started small talk with the other dad. He lived in Regina. Worked installation for a local telecommunications company (pegged…Sask males usually work outdoor manual labor jobs), and enjoyed hunting and fishing (doubly pegged).
Then came my turn as he asked me what I did. Oh damn. I totally opened that door.
“I’m a full-time artist. I do music and wood working art”. I then explained how I had a few works at a local gallery in the city where this tournament was, and how I spent the time prior to this game going there to get my hand-made display rack that was no longer being used. I had hoped that this made it sound as if there was actual “work” involved in my life.
“Oh wow. And what music do you do?”
Oh crap. Here it comes again.
“I play a solo instrumental act on Chapman Stick”
“Really?!?”
He knew of the Chapman Stick. He was a drummer that used to play in several bands back in his younger days. Now that he’s a family man with a real job, his drumming is just weekend basement jams with old friends. His excitement over his recently acquired special ordered Maple drum kit was hard to hide.
And I knew to ask what size of bass drum he chose. Every drummer is excited in their preference of bass drum size.
“24 inch!”
By the end of the last match we were practically buddies. We said goodbyes and wished each other well.
I should probably stop stereotyping every local. And maybe crawl out of my shell now and then.
Great piece! I can totally visualize this!❤️
Cool post. Thanks.
I'll be waiting for the iPhone ditty of a Primus-inspired piece, "Where's the Waffle Iron?"