Every weekend in a park near you, a strange phenomenon takes place. Ordinarily well-mannered and properly socialized women undergo a Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation into accusatory and confrontational soccer moms. Of course I only know this by observation...
Women who politely mutter "excuse me" as they reach six inches in front of another shopper in the ketchup aisle are suddenly on their feet screaming, "Get in his face. Don't let him past you!"
Mothers who are normally deferential and choose to remain quiet so as to not upset the apple cart emerge on the sidelines of a soccer field as the nemesis of the referee, who is often only a few years older than the players. "What?! Red ball? How can you say that? That was totally off red."
And woe to the official who should miss a call when Cybill Soccer's kid is on the receiving end of a dropped shoulder or a trip from behind. "Hey! Where's the call on that one? What game are you watching? Who is paying you?"
Yet, when the last whistle blows, the she-devil of the soccer field returns to her perfect mom persona. "Great game honey...how 'bout some ice cream?"
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