Saturday, 2pm. This rain is the soft kind, but the wind blows it in nearly horizontal lines.
I can’t believe I’m outside in this weather, much less on a muddy field trying to coax my six-year-old to cheer on her wet teammates, rather than burrowing her head in the shelter of my jacket to eat a Clif Bar until it’s her turn to sub in.
I’m not even a spectator of professional sports. How did I become a person who totes around one of those folding camp benches and owns a dumb broad-brimmed waterproof hat that my son says makes me look like Crocodile Dundee?
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