"Mom, why don't you sit over there?" The Little Bastard said, pointing his saucy finger at the chair across from him.
"Because then I can't see the TV... and this way we can watch the game together." I said, scooching further into the bench seat without taking my eyes off the screen. "OH NO! ... I hope they don't hurt Crosby's head!" I said, tucking into my chicken.
"Mom, Crosby's in the box already. It's hard to get hurt in the box." said the Little Bastard with a mouthful of fries.
"I know. I am just worried about his head. I think he has a soft head." I continued, taking a bite of coleslaw.
"AAAAH!" I screamed, moments later, as a puck went flying by the Philadelphia goalie. I'd seen him interviewed recently, and the poor schmuck appears to have a severe learning disability, or a permanent head injury. "I hate it when they score on the goalie."
"Mom, who else would they score on?" the Little Bastard said, looking over at the next table to see if they'd been as offended as he was by my outburst. "And, I thought you were cheering for Pittsburgh."
His tone was beginning to get on my nerves. If I wasn't knee deep in pork, I'd have stuck my elbow in his rack of ribs.
"I am cheering for Pittsburgh, I just hate seeing goalies get scored on." I said. "It's a goalie mom thing."
"That was a good goal" he said. "It wasn't the goalie's fault."
"If the puck goes past the goalie... it's the goalie's fault" I said. "Although you probably blame me, if a puck goes past you." I said laughing. "That's why I sit in the parking lot."
"Mom, there's no way the goalie could have had that shot. It was amazing." He said, defending the position he is all too familiar with.
"His poor mother. I wonder if she's watching?" I said, taking a slurp of my lemonade. "What time would in be in Russia? I wonder if she chugged vodka when she was pregnant, and that's why he's so stupid? They likely wouldn't have pre-natal vitamins in a country where you have to line up to buy toilet paper."
"What are you talking about?" My dining companion said, his Q Smokehouse Bad Attitude BBQ sauce rubbing off on his disposition.
"Baryshnikov... the stupid Philadelphia goalie." I said knowingly. "I'm just wondering if his mother..."
"You mean Bryzgalov?" The Little Bastard interrupted, correcting me. And he was using that tone again.
"Ya, whatever... I'm just saying, I wonder if he has fetal alcohol syndrome or something – although, I think your eyes are either side of your head – like a fish – when you have fetal alcohol syndrome. Like that fish... is it a grouper? Remember – we saw one at the Plantetarium in Monterey – and Baryshnikov's eyes are practically on top of each other they're so close together."
"Mom... you mean the AQUARIUM in Monterey? And you saw BRYZGALOV on TSN for like, 30 seconds." He said. "The guy's amazing. Maybe he just doesn't like answering STUPID questions." He said, with a look only a teenager can give.
"What are you talking about?" I said, starting to get pissed off.
"What are YOU talking about?!" He said.
"Did you see where Ovechkin is dating one of the pretty Russian tennis players. What is it with Russia – you're either really beautiful, or butt ugly. There's no middle of the road when it comes to Russians." I said, glancing at the screen. "OH MY GOD! When did Phillie score again? How did it get to be 4-2? Poor Sidney... although, I bet his mother will be happy to have him back home early." I continued. "Phillie have always been a bunch of goons. I remember, growing up, there was this guy named Dave Schultz – only they called him "The Hammer" – Dave the Hammer Schultz. No relation of course. I remember watching those games with my Dad. I used to get called "The Hammer" at school. Between "The Hammer" and Sergeant Schultz from Hogan's Heroes, and the family with the daschund named Schultzie that moved in next door to us in New Jersey – Jesus, my last name was a curse. No one attractive ever has my last name..."
With that, the Little Bastard wandered away to fill up his fountain pop, leaving me alone, wishing I'd ordered the lemonade with two shots of Jack Daniels, instead of fucking Splenda.
When he returned, I did a recap of the game: "The Phillie guy with the bad hair just accused the other guy of pulling his hair – but who could really blame him? I'd pull it too. He looks ridiculous with that hair. Is that a playoff thing like those cheesey moustaches poor Sidney tries to grow? He must get hot under his helmet. I think boys look so much better all clean cut looking – like Sidney. I hope you never have to try and grow a moustache, although I don't seem to have much trouble. Anyway he was complaining to the ref – but I think he's going to the box anyway."
"Mom, are you done?" The Little Bastard said. "Let's go, so we're home for the 2nd period."
"But you have a whole shitload of fries. Have some pecan pie, so I can have a bite." I said, pointing at the basket of handcut fries lying close enough for me to smell the greasy goodness.
"I ordered those as backup." He said. "Because you always eat my fries."
"I do not." I said.
"You do so!" he corrected me, "Which is why I ordered those."
"Well that's just a waste... you know I'm not eating carbs." I said.
"He looked at me like I was a moron, then he laughed, and said, "You ate an entire thing of microwave popcorn this weekend... those are carbs! Drink up, let's go."
"I think it's a flounder." I said, tossing my napkins on the table.
"What?" he said, getting up from the table – exasperation and Bad Attitude BBQ sauce, all over his face.
"The fish with the eyes on both sides of its head." I said matter of factly. "I think its a flounder, not a grouper."
We stepped out onto the street, and I put my arm through his. "That was delicious, wasn't it?" I said. "And fun. I'm waaaay too full. I really have to take up that challenge from those Evolve Fitness guys. They won't know what hit them when I roll in. It's fun to watch a game with you. Way more fun than watching it alone."
"I love you." I said, moments later, looking up at my beautiful boy.
"I know." The Little Bastard said, with a resounding sigh.
We approached the car, and I thought how lucky I was to have a boy. I can't imagine what we'd ever talk about if I had a girl.