Saturday is all about sports in our house. With two boys, I am either on my way to a game, watching a game or securing snack for after the game. Don’t get me wrong, it is with much love and adoration that I share my soccer mom personality with my family, but I’m awful at small talk so the communicating with other parents kills.
Today after the game, one dad was aloof; standing back from the rest of the parents in a fabulous pair of sunglasses with his arms firmly crossed. I approached.
The icebreaker: ” How old is your little one?”
“Four.” he retorted.
Another chip at the ice: “He’s tall for four. Does he play basketball like his brother?”
“He’s not interested.”
This is the moment when your subconscious should tell you to retreat. I seem to be missing that gene. I insisted on moving forward. I couldn’t tell if he was a snob or if he had no interest in my ilk.
I continued to ask benign questions about kids and sports (all topics that should be of interest to a man at a kids basketball game). He wasn’t really relaxing. I called for backup. I waved for my husband to come over. He sauntered over and melted the ice.
The conversation opened up and soon we were going over child discipline, LA communities and private school ethics.
And while I still felt a slight twinge of arrogance in the air, I was consoled by the fact that he was not completely adverse to me. He’s just not that comfortable talking with humans that produce milk.
The moral of the story: Stick to the snack prep and let sports dads have their small talk.
