Evan was in a pretty sour mood.
He pulled grass. He crossed his eyebrows and pouted. He yelled, “I don’t get it,” and stomped his feet.
The other players seemed to get it. They smiled and laughed and fell over for four rounds of caterpillar tag.
But he wasn’t going to play Red Light, Green Light because he wanted to play Sharks and Minnows, and he wasn’t going to kick the ball, because, he said, “My toe hurts.”
He’d injured his toe over Spring Break up north, smashing it into the leg of a hotel bed. We figured it was just stubbed, but it had remained swollen for several days.
“Fine,” his coach told him. “I have nine other players to coach, and they all want to play. You can join us and stop whining, or you can go sit on the sidelines until we’re done.” He didn’t say it very nicely.
Evan stomped off the field and went to sit by the goal with his angry red face in his hands.
This morning, his mother called me at the office. “It’s definitely fractured,” she said. “No game for him Saturday. No practice next week.”
“Are we supposed to buddy tape it?” I asked.
“No just ice and Tylenol.”
Poor kid. That coach was pretty mean. I’d sue his ass if he weren’t me.