This story reminded me of my short-lived baseball career as a kid.

In the vein of youngest kids, anything my older siblings did was cool, so when one of my brothers started playing baseball, I wanted to play too. This went well for a few years, until my dad noticed that a lot of the coaches were more concerned with winning than with helping kids play baseball. Poor players, like me, would get put in the least likely positions to have to do anything (my position was right field, and at the tender age range of eleven to thirteen, not a lot of stuff got hit to right field, so I was mostly bored).

My dad, despite a busy working schedule of over ten hours a day (including commute), decided that he didn’t like that. So, for the baseball season, when I turned fourteen, I got a new coach: my dad (and my friend’s dad; we were on the same team).

New policies were implemented. The batting order changed every game, so that everyone got a chance to be the first batter in the order. If someone wanted to play a position, like first base or shortstop, then they would practice that position for the week and get to play that position for a game. If they liked it, they got to stay there. If they didn’t, they could try something else.

The only exception was pitchers: if someone wanted to be a pitcher, they had to be able to get the ball over the plate consistently, so that the other team had a chance to actually hit (and also so that there was less danger of getting hit by a pitch).

I always wanted to be a catcher because the gear looked cool. I wasn’t a good catcher by any means; I fumbled about one in every twenty pitches, and I couldn’t throw all the way to second base. But I got to try it out, and I rotated between catcher, shortstop (my other favorite position, where I was better), and center field for the season.

My dad never showed favoritism. Sure, I was his son, but I didn’t get the first shot at anything; if it was someone else’s turn to play catcher for a game, then I had to abide by that.

The parents of the other players HATED it.

My dad relayed a story many years later about how he had to constantly fend off and deal with parents who were arguing with his plan for play. THEIR son was the best hitter and should be the first to hit! THEIR son was clearly the best first baseman and shouldn’t be forced to play in left field just so some inferior kid could try it out.

My dad handled them all the same way: by calmly explaining that the players are kids, that having fun is more important than winning, and that they should talk to their kids about it. If a parent threatened to pull their son from the team (and more than a few did), my dad didn’t bend or break; he just said that would be fine if that’s what the player wanted.

Not a single player was pulled.

And by the end of the season, our team just barely lost the league championship game to what was universally decided to be poor umpires (even the other team agreed that the umpires were terrible).

My family moved away from the area shortly after the end of that season, but my friend’s dad took over the head coach responsibilities and kept mostly the same policies in regards to player positions and play time. No one rode the bench; everyone played, and having fun was more important than winning.

And they won the championship the next year.

All because my dad took time out of his ridiculously busy schedule to make sure his son got a fair shake at playing baseball.

CORRECTION: Misspelling has been corrected.

Many moons ago, I used to help run a sports scheme for my local municipal area in my country during the school holidays. Kids aged five to twelve could come along, their parents would pay a heavily subsidised small nominal fee, and get a cool four-hour sports session of soccer, basketball, tennis, etc. It ran very successfully and was really popular.

Around halftime, there would be a break to get a drink and a snack. There was a little 7-Eleven-style store just around the corner from the field/grass where we ran the scheme, so kids could get refreshments if they had money. We tended to walk everyone down there as there was a nice seating area outside the shop.

The trouble was, the kids started buying the most sugary snacks, candy, and drinks they could, and ended up hyper for the next hour, then had a sugar crash and were irritable little horrors for the final half hour. Magically, they’d all be fine about pick-up time.

To get around this, I banned the kids from buying anything sugary, and only savory snacks or fruit with water could be purchased. This lasted two days before the entitled parents of these little darlings complained to my boss that I wasn’t letting their kids buy whatever the h*** they wanted.

I was told by my boss to just let them buy whatever they wanted again, because apparently, “you’re not their dentist, it doesn’t matter what they buy!”

Fine, you wanna play rough, let’s do this.

From then on, we didn’t go to the shop at half-time, we went forty-five minutes before the end. They had just enough time to get super annoying and hyper before it was home time, then their parents had to deal with their sugary carnage at home. I kept it that way till the end of the summer and felt so much delight at these entitled a**holes having to deal with their own kids being awful, day after day.

The next summer, nobody complained when I went back to regulating their purchases at snack time. Win-win!

Reading this story reminded me of a similar experience in my own youth.

Whilst on holiday in Spain, a few mates and I are watching a football game being played in England. A team scored in the first half, and one of my mates says to me:

Friend: “I’d best phone my dad and tell him to put a bet on [the player who had just scored] as first scorer.”

Me: “Why? He already just scored.”

Friend: “Exactly. If he goes now, he can get the bet in before it happens in England.”

Me: “I don’t… wait.”

All of us turn away from the footie and stare at our friend. Trust me, for a bunch of British lads to take their eyes off of the game, something must be REALLY distracting us.

Me: “…[Friend], do you think we’re an hour ahead of England… as in an hour in the future?!”

Friend: “Well, yeah. It’s three here but only two back there.”

We didn’t let him live it down the entire holiday.

Related:
When You’ve Totally Time-Zoned Out

This story reminds me of an “easy” customer I had: 

I sell custom-made home decor ornaments online and have thirty colors of materials I can use to make them. I got an order for forty-five of them, which is impressive because people usually just want a couple. I proceeded to have this interaction with the buyer through an online messaging system over two or three days.

Me: “Thank you so much for your order! It’ll take a little longer than usual to fulfill it, but I can have it done in three weeks once I start. I just need to know how you want them to look. I have [list of colors] and patterns 1, 2, or 3. I can do them all the same, forty-five individual designs, or whatever combination you’d like.”

Buyer: “I don’t want you to rush. Take your time. I can wait!”

Me: “No worries, three weeks is plenty for me to make them without compromising the quality. I just need to know the colors and patterns you’re interested in.”

Buyer: “Some of each pattern, please. I’m sure they’ll be great. It’s okay if you end up needing extra time. No pressure!”

Me: “Thank you for being understanding about that, and I’ll keep you updated on my progress. What color(s) would you like?”

Buyer: “Whatever you want to do is fine. I’m easy.”

Me: Okay, I can definitely get you a wide variety. Are there any colors you want to be sure are NOT included? For example, if it were me, there’d be a couple of sports team colors I wouldn’t want.”

Buyer: “Yeah, that’s good; whatever you think is best. No worries about colors, we don’t watch sportsball in this house. Too low-brow for us. We don’t follow any of it, LOL.”

Yes, the buyer called it “sportsball” unironically when I just threw it out as an example… pretty clearly implied I enjoy sports. Don’t cut yourself on that edge.

Me: “You got it! Getting started on it now.”

And so, I made a beautiful array of ornaments, which the buyer was 100% satisfied with. I got a great review. Guess no one noticed that I made sure to include ornaments in the colors of my favorite football team, favorite basketball team, favorite hockey team, favorite baseball team, favorite soccer team…

I’m working as a ticket attendant at one of the stadiums during the 2024 Euro (football/soccer championship). A man with his face painted in the flag of one of the teams playing approaches my section. 

For security reasons, fans of opposing teams are usually kept separated from each other as much as possible. This guy is about to walk into a part of the stadium where, based on his face paint, he might get into trouble.

Me: “Afternoon, sir! Are you sure you’re in the right section?”

Spectator: *Already annoyed.* “YES, of course I am! Why does everyone keep asking me that?!” 

Me: “It’s just… you’re about to go into a section that has a lot of the other side sitting there.”

Spectator: “And I’m with them! Isn’t it obvious with the England flag on my face?!”

Hearing his accent and what he’s saying, I get it now.

Me: “Oh! Right… did you pay someone to do the face paint for you?”

Spectator: *Smugly.* “Nope. Did it myself. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

Me: “It looks great, sir… but that’s the Danish flag you painted.” 

He freezes and then looks at himself in the glass at my ticket station, as he’s about to walk into the England Vs Denmark match of the EURO 2024.

He shuffles inside, looking like he wants the pitch to swallow him whole.