It started innocently enough on a Saturday morning in the bleachers at Sycamore Park, coffee in one hand, glazed donut in the other. My sister had asked if I could “be supportive” at my nephew’s peewee football game. Supportive, in my mind, meant hollering generic encouragements like “Good hustle, 23!” or “Don’t forget your helmet, champ!” Instead, things got complicated when the assistant coach mistook me for a motivational speaker. He whispered, “We could use a guy like you in the huddle.” And because I’ve never turned down a chance to inflate my own importance, I obliged.
The Pre-Game Pep Talk That Wasn’t
I strutted across the field like Vince Lombardi, except with a jelly stain on my sweatshirt and yesterday’s coffee punch card sticking out of my back pocket. The boys gathered around, tiny helmets gleaming, eyes wide. I cleared my throat and delivered a pep talk that began strong (“Leave it all on the field, gentlemen!”) but quickly wandered into questionable metaphors about overdue car payments and the importance of rotating your tires. One kid asked, “Are we supposed to… tackle the bank?” Another whispered, “Does he even know the plays?” By the time I wrapped it up with a triumphant “Remember: Mondays are half-price wings at O’Malley’s!” the ref was already giving me the side-eye.
The Incident With the Gatorade Jug
Fast forward to halftime. The team was down 14–0, morale sagging, and someone shoved the Gatorade jug into my hands as if I were in charge of hydration strategy. I tried to demonstrate “power sipping” by chugging straight from the spout, forgetting the lid was loose. The orange tidal wave cascaded down my shirt, across the grass, and directly onto the cleats of the smallest linebacker. Parents gasped. The kids cheered. And I, sticky as a carnival corndog, tried to frame it as a teachable moment: “Sometimes in life, fellas, you get splashed! The key is to… uh… keep running!” A mom later asked me, very politely, to return to the bleachers.
The Final Whistle and My Public Penalty
Did I stay in the bleachers? Of course not. With 30 seconds left, the team managed a surprise touchdown. Overcome with emotion, I leapt the rail and sprinted onto the field to chest-bump my nephew. Unfortunately, my timing was off; I collided with the referee instead. Both of us went sprawling. His whistle lodged in the grass. My donut card fluttered skyward like a tragic confetti. The crowd groaned as I scrambled to my feet, trying to explain that it was “an expression of love, not interference.” The ref, brushing off dirt, assessed me an imaginary 15-yard penalty for “unsportsmanlike uncle-ing.”
Editor’s note: The league confirms Mr. Dave has never been, nor will ever be, an official sideline coach. His donut card was later recovered intact.
In the end, the kids didn’t win, but they did laugh—a lot, mostly at me. My nephew declared, “Uncle Dave, you’re not allowed near the Gatorade anymore.” Fair enough. If there’s a moral here, it’s this: support your family’s sports endeavors, but maybe do it from a safe distance, preferably behind a fence and with a towel handy. Because sometimes the best cheer you can give is just clapping politely while staying dry.
