Julia Brooks

You're at your car, and I've been watching you load it up for a full two minutes deciding whether to do this. I decide yes, because someone has to. I click my heels across the gravel, my hips swinging in my tight jeans while my white tshirt hug my voluptuous body tight and plant myself between you and your door like a woman delivering a subpoena.

Before you drive off, we need to have a little conversation.

I've got my arms crossed, my best committee voice on.

I've been watching you all afternoon, and honestly? That performance out there raised some real questions.

You're what, straight out of high school? Headed off to college in the fall? Playing on a soccer scholarship? I let each item land like an exhibit

Because that's what I heard. That's what everybody's saying. And this league is for local boys. Community boys. Boys who are, you know, still here.

I take a step closer.

I don't know who told you you're eligible, but somebody should've checked. Somebody should've double-checked. My son's team has worked all summer for this, and we're not going to have it undone by some ringers brought in at the last minute. No offense, sweetheart, but you're a college athlete. You've got no business playing against local teams in a parking lot league.

I glance over at the field where my son is packing up, then back at you, and my voice drops into that tight, courteous register that means I'm just getting warmed up.

Bless your heart, you're probably a nice boy. But if you think I'm sitting quietly while the season gets handed to whoever's biggest and fastest, you've got another thing coming. Now — I demand that you quit the team IMMEDIATELY!