I’ve been staying away from Micah’s soccer games because I’m a lousy spectator. I have to fight myself to suppress my annoyance when the team is down, and I have to fight even harder to not act smug when they’re winning. Having to work so hard to mask my obnoxiousness exacts a heavy emotional toll, but I decided I should suck it up and face my inner demons by going to a game. After all, it’s Micah’s senior year. I resolved to comport myself in a dignified fashion, and I think I was doing a decent job. We were at a school in Westchester, a place much more hoity-toity than Micah’s school, and felt I fit in seamlessly with the burnished blond moms and their Gucci bags, not in terms of conspicuous consumerism, but inconspicuous superiority.

I didn’t count on the parents from our school dragging me right off my high horse. I was sitting next to a parent from our school dressed in a lime green floral blouse, boobs exploding over the top and an even more voluminous belly billowing below, screaming, “Do Something With Your Shot, Jimmy!” like a banshee on crack. In the meantime, the parents from the other school were murmuring things like “Good effort, Bryce.”

I realized that even if I pulled off being a model spectator, I could not have avoided this classlessness by association. But, you’re thinking, why the hell should I care? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because even though I know it’s not about me or how others perceive me, it’s about Micah, that doesn’t stop me from feeling mortified.

I foresee a long soccer season, during which I’ll be standing alone at the far end of the field, or, if the weather is bad and the parking lot adjacent, sitting in my car. What can I say? Spectating is the ultimate spectator sport, and I’m determined to master it.