Just out of college, I took a job teaching high school and served as assistant wrestling coach for a couple of years. For some reason, we got more than our share of students with “questionable” decision-making skills.

We were hosting a tri-match. For those unfamiliar, three teams compete in three sessions to produce three separate team results. In the first match, the wrestler from Team 1 competes against his counterpart from Team 2, in the next, it’s 1 versus 3, then 2 versus 3, and then it repeats. The second round starts off with 1 versus 3, then 2 versus 3, then 1 versus 2, etc., until everyone has wrestled twice. Obviously, some wrestlers compete in consecutive rounds while some get the middle round off.

We were about to start the second round when we noticed that the boy scheduled for the third match, who had already had a tough bout in round one, wasn’t present. I found him in the locker room, just finishing wolfing down a sub sandwich. This was not one of the ones you get from a well-known national sandwich chain; rather this was from a local shop that made large, heavy, greasy products. When I yelled at him, he responded:

Boy: “But Coach, I was hungry!”

I dragged him back to the gym and let the coach know what was up. He just shook his head and told the gourmand to get ready. I didn’t think anything of it when he went over to the other coach and spoke briefly.

Two matches later, it was time for our hero to take the mat. Having already competed for six hard minutes, with insufficient warmup, a stomach full of heavy food, and a REALLY strong opponent, the inevitable happened. Forty-eight seconds into the second period, the sandwich made its technicolor reappearance. It was obvious he had barely masticated it as we could identify individual components.

During the break for cleaning the mat (and forfeiting the match), the coach turned to the squad and pointed out that one should not eat right before wrestling. Fifteen minutes later, the meet continued.

After everything was wrapped up and the coach and I were walking out, I asked him if he’d told the other team’s coach about our wrestler’s condition.

Coach: *Smiling* “That would be unethical.”

My husband is in a recreation soccer league with other adults, ranging in ages from twenty to forty. Obviously, it’s a competitive league, but not even close to pro, as the term “recreation” would suggest. One day, I decide to go watch his game.

About fifteen minutes into the game, I watch [Teammate] get tackled pretty brutally by a member of the opposing team. However, it quickly becomes evident that this is not JUST a brutal tackle. [Teammate #1] goes down HARD and yells in agony. A crowd immediately gathers, and the next few moments are a blur of his teammates trying to clear out the crowd and running back and forth between [Teammate] and the sideline, carrying various things over to him.

After a while, my husband comes over.

Husband: “That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. He was tackled so hard in the calf that his tibia was sticking out of his leg!”

Thankfully, [Teammate] had incredible help, as there was a nurse and a paramedic on the team, and I saw the two of them bent over [Teammate] until the ambulance arrived, and it drove right onto the field.

Here’s the worst part, though. The referee was struggling to keep up with the play, so he did not call a foul, because he did not see it. Yes, even though there was a guy on the field with his leg split open and a bone sticking out. I heard the guy may have had a hearing with the league, but no one is sure anything came out of it, because, again, the ref technically did not see the incident.

If this wasn’t all bad enough… the guy did not apologize! He stood around the group of players surrounding [Teammate] and kept making awkward comments, like, “Yeah, we were just kind of going for the ball at the same time, and his leg kind of hit mine here.” He was not apologetic whatsoever.

[Teammate] was in the hospital for almost a week, after obviously having surgery and being closely monitored for signs of infection. I hope he’ll be well enough to play next season!

In soccer, the officials have the discretion to “card” players for unsportsmanlike conduct or other flagrant rule violations. A yellow card gets a player a temporary suspension from the game; red cards get the player removed from the game altogether.

When I was a kid, my dad played in a recreational soccer league for fun and for exercise. He’s level-headed, calm, and rational… and this is the story of how he got his one and only card in soccer.

Dad played striker, one of the main scoring positions. One game, a teammate passed him the ball and Dad dribbled it down the field to take a shot on goal. One of the other team’s defenders slide-tackled Dad from behind, in blatant violation of both the league’s rules and “just playing for fun” spirit. 

Dad picked himself up off the ground and turned to the official, who had yet to blow his whistle to stop play as he should have.

Dad: “Are you gonna call that?”

The official shook his head.

Official: “I didn’t see anything.”

Dad: *Frustrated* “I had the ball; where were you looking?”

The official silently held up a yellow card and sent Dad to the sidelines.

One fall Friday, I took my two-year-old Dalmatian — named Coach, for obvious reasons — to watch my seventeen-year-old son’s football team play another local team. The game was played in the afternoon, so Coach and I easily found first-row bleacher seats near midfield. My son was a defensive back, and with constant player substitutions, I sometimes had trouble figuring out where he was on the field, but not Coach.

In the game’s third quarter, [Son] fielded a punt and started to run upfield before being gang-tackled by opposing team members. Suddenly, Coach pulled the leash from my hand and ran onto the field, literally jumping on top of the pile of players and growling and ferociously protecting [Son]. For a few short moments, it was pure bedlam, with players disentangling from the pile and retreating more quickly than most had probably ever run before on a football field.

I ran, too, straight onto the field, yelling Coach’s name as loudly as I could — confusing all the real team coaches, I am sure. I grabbed the leash and walked the dog back to our bleacher row seat. No one was hurt, thankfully, but a few minutes later, the referee blew his whistle to stop the game and came over to our sideline seats.

Referee: “Mister, you are going to have to move the dog. The other team is afraid to run to your side of the field.”

We watched the rest of the game from the other side of the field, and while it didn’t happen, I truly believe if my son had tried to return another punt, he could have walked the whole way untouched.

I am selling tickets to a baseball game. Masks are only required outdoors in my state for the unvaccinated. We are not checking everyone’s vaccination status, but as discounted youth tickets are only available for those under twelve, and kids under twelve can’t get vaccinated yet here, the assumption is that everyone buying a youth ticket will need a mask. Two adults and one child come up to the ticket window.

Customer: “Two adult tickets and one youth ticket, please.”

Me: “How old is he?”

Customer: “He’s eleven.”

Me: “Then that will be [price] and he will need to wear a mask.”

Customer: “Oh. He’s actually twelve years old and vaccinated. I just said he was eleven to get the discount.”

Me: “Okay, then that will be [higher price].”