Young Lions
A short story about parents who take youth sports too seriously
It’s football season, and the suburban coaches are back with a vengeance.
From his back deck, Nick Lasada could see his neighbor Frank Koplantsky in the kitchen spying on his party. The drone of the Vortech 8000 central air unit Nick had sold him a month ago undercut the sounds of splashing water, happy conversation, and Angus Young.
It was working extra hard this squalid July afternoon, a real southeast Pennsylvania boiler. As hot as it was, the men beside Nick stayed clean, smelling of fresh body wash and musk, and their polo shirts, caps, and loafers looked brand new. Nick tied an apron and arrayed the steaks and chicken breasts on the grill. He grinned and kicked back a bottle of Hop Devil IPA.
Their houses were as clean as their clothes, spotless structures in East Whiteland developments named Valley Creek, Stepping Stone, and Planefield Farms. Together they golfed, transacted business at the Great Valley Inn, commuted in SUVs and sport sedans to corporate parks along 202. They held titles like sales manager, senior partner, assistant VP of product development, chief financial officer. Sipping the Hop Devil, they oozed contentment and looked at their kids with string-bean legs and pudgy tummies, knees tucking into cannonballs.
