At Large

There’s a wind coming off the Hudson. Frankly, it’s got a real bite to it. After all, it’s autumn in the tri-state area and along with leaves flaming into brilliant color, busloads of appreciative “leaf peepers” and end-of-season sales at local stores, it’s time to stand on the sidelines of a soccer game, a football game, or a field hockey game and cheer for our children and grandchildren.

The sidelines. There are rules about being here – rules that didn’t exist decades ago but became necessary when the emotions of the moment apparently overtook the “guard rails” of societal norms and the hooliganism began. Shouting and obscenities. Pushing and shoving. Charging on the field to confront the referee. Adults locked in combat over the outcome of a junior varsity soccer match.

And, it wasn’t confined to one area of the country. All across America, the stories began to ripple through social media of sideliners behaving badly, games being forfeited and the flashing blue lights of squad cars trailing off into the distance as those with no self-restraint were escorted to the local constabulary.

So, things changed. Governing bodies – those distant organizations that create and control the boundaries of amateur sport, manage the recruiting and certification of referees and umpires, and hold the fate of athletic programs in their grasp created new rules. No longer could groups clustered on the sidelines descend into the antics of European football fans. 

Shouts of encouragement were permitted. Shouts of angry derision were forbidden. Referees, players or opposing fans – it made no difference. Behave as mature adults … or leave.

So, here we were, being polite and cordial and encouraging and … cold.

Some of our compatriots had brought their collapsable camp chairs to make the spectating more comfortable. Someone had brought hot chocolate and styrofoam cups. There was a “snack bag” passed around with various treats of limited nutritional value but high sugar or salt content.

We were set, ready for the game … or match.

Standing close to midfield, we realized that mere steps away, another standing observer was heartily cheering on the opposition. All quite fair, without question. Free speech and all that. The detail that caught our attention was not the cheering, but the clear lack of understanding of the game unfolding in front of us. 

On this particular autumn afternoon, the game was soccer as we call it in the states. High school game. Girl’s varsity. My granddaughter had just made a lovely kick to “change the field” and spark an offensive move at the opposing goal.

“That’s offsides!” my neighbor standing a few feet away on the other side of midfield shouted with gusto. 

“Not really,” we suggested. “There are still two defensive players between the ball and the goal.” 

“Keep your mouth shut!”

It was the internal voice offering, a split second too late, the absolute best advice possible: “Be quiet.” Cheer for the team or the players, but refrain from becoming “that guy” who feels compelled to chime in with needless and often insulting corrective trivia. No one cares if you played or coached or got up at 4am that morning to watch a Premier League match.

After all, the game had proceeded. The referee was well acquainted with the rules of the game and had let things advance without a whistle to stop the action. The opposing keeper had managed to stop a rather weak effort at a shot on goal, and the game was moving forward with the ball safely in midfield.

“Who the hell are you?”

This time the voice was real, not imagined, and the inquirer was visibly on edge.

“Apologies,” we offered and took a few steps back, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Would it be enough? Would the ire created ease up and let the day proceed? Fingers figuratively crossed, we turned and took a few more steps away from the point of conflict.

His parting word was not an honorific. It was shouted above the natural din of the game and clearly meant to be heard by fans on either side of the imaginary dividing line. 

Duly castigated, we attempted to blend into the group of like-minded fans, went aimlessly searching through the snack bag to see if there might be some chocolate covered crow, and ended up far enough away to no longer be the subject of a verbal harangue. 

Lesson learned

It hadn’t come to pushing and shoving or, worse yet, a fist fight. If it had, we’d have been at a great disadvantage. The age gap was significant, and we had proved, once again, that the mouth is bigger than the biceps and “keeping our own company” is not only a quaint way of saying “shut up,” but good advice, in general.

Game ended, the faithful collected lawn chairs, bags, and assorted water bottles and moved, en masse, toward the parking lot. Players from both sides made their way across the pitch to touch base with family and friends before heading home. With commendable restraint, we held back, awaiting the arrival of our granddaughter who was greeted with the standard “Great game!” which automatically opened the floodgates of reciting errors, frustrations, and personal critique.

My verbal combatant was walking, yards ahead, toward a car on the opposite side of the parking area from where we were situated. No further confrontation appeared on the horizon. I don’t recall the final score – I believe we won – but I do recall the bolt of lightning that flashed and the life lesson seared into the subconscious.

Opinions are fine. It might be wise to keep them to oneself … unless invited to share, at which point they remain opinions, not pronouncements to be etched in granite for all to see, admire, and applaud.