A few days ago I picked John up from a pool party and then swung by the grocery store. Pool parties exhaust kids in a way they haven't been since they were babies, and I asked him if he'd rather stay in the car while I shopped. "I'm just picking up a couple things; I'll be out pretty quickly," I said.
He nodded, eyes closed.
It took longer than I expected -- I picked up some extras, and spent some time looking through magazines. When I got back out to the car maybe 10 minutes later, John was sitting up and fuming.
"Oh, I really hate that," he said, fists clenched.
"What, what?" I said, thinking he was mad at me for taking longer than I had said.
"It just bothers me so much," he snapped.
"Dude, better out than in," I said.
He sighed and shook his head. "Why is it that all the [rival town's team] kids have to put those stickers on their cars? The one that shows a hockey player and their name and number? It's like they're showing off for themselves, but they're not proud of their team! I HATE that! ARGH!"
He pointed to the next car, which, sure enough, had a couple of decals on the back. No team name, but we knew from the colors who they played for.
"And there was one at Stewart's today, too! I can't STAND it!"
I started the car and we pulled out of the lot.
"Geez, you play for the name on the front of the jersey. Not the back."
That's right, Coach.