Two ways to watch World Cup action with grumpy old men who think soccer sucks (without killing them and then yourself)

My children are sports fans. It doesn’t matter if a puck or ball is involved, or even a race car; they enjoy the rivalry, drama, intrigue, and suspense surrounding physical competition and a winner’s trophy.

Husband loves this about them. Not that he would love our sons any less if they were into Tom Cruise movies and classical music, (I, however, would) but he is obviously thrilled they share the same love of games, races, tournaments, and championships. All three of my boys come together almost every weekend, in their favorite booth at their favorite sports grill, and bond. They cheer on whatever team they’ve been supporting “all” their “lives” while adjusting their penises and flirting with waitresses.

I usually stay at home, napping until they eventually want dinner.

Soccer is a part of that repertoire. My kids have enjoyed the planet’s favorite pastime for years and I encourage it – because why wouldn’t I? It’s an oath we pinko-commie-liberal-tree-huggers take at every meeting before we stick needles in the vagina of a voodoo doll resembling Sarah Palin’s father.

Sometimes my dad and his buddies join the fun, which always creates an interesting experience. I figured a mutual appreciation for fondling oneself and flirting with college girls would bridge the gap between young and old and make for a conflict-free bonding session, no matter the sport.

Yeah. I’m sometimes dead wrong.

Once again, living near (and sometimes with) parental units and spending an inordinate amount of time with them and their peers, makes us experts on how to do it with style and only an occasional near-overdose of Xanax.

If you are surrounded by grumpy old men while trying to enjoy World Cup mayhem, here’s how you can keep from hitting someone who can’t remember what he just said anyway.

1. Give up trying to explain soccer.

American men over the age of sixty don’t really get it and they don’t want to. A bunch of socialists kicking a ball around, that’s how they see soccer and media attention isn’t going to change that view. This begs the question, why would they join you in public, where people can see them watching a soccer game, if they don’t like the sport in the first place?

Don’t ask me to explain a demographic that participates in government-run health care and retirement plans while at the same time bitching about Democrats who keep such programs funded. I don’t understand their choice of cologne, much less anything else.

And when Team USA starts losing? Then the vitriol gets really nasty.

“This game is chicken shit,” they mumble, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. “The world is out to get us.”

If this happens, fight the urge to argue reasonably. Just pop a wing into your mouth and reply, with a smile, always with a smile, “That’s true. Did you see what Great Britain did to our Gulf?”

2. Ignore bigotry in all its forms.

Helen Thomas displayed on a national stage what we all know about older people – they say some goofy shit. Most of us harbor a bias or two, but we have the sense to keep it to ourselves or post comments online anonymously. As we get older, the instinct to censor ourselves gets weaker and weaker, like our bladder or the ability to apply eyeliner.

I’ve been around family friends who drop bombs about my people (“Jew him down to get a good deal”), your people (“Put the black Weebles in the back of the Weeble bus”) and everyone in between (“Those goddamn Mexicans can’t be trusted around our women!”)

What to do when they start in on your children? Here’s an exchange between my son and a family friend as Spain was kicking ass and taking names.

Scene: Crowded sports grill. Kids and middle-aged men, excited. Senior citizens, pissed.
Malcolm*: Whatcha got there? A dolly?
Oldest: No, it’s a teddy bear. My brother won it at that video game and gave it to me.
Malcolm: How old are you? Should you be carrying around a doll?
Oldest: (laughs) Sounds to me like somebody’s jealous…
Malcolm: Sounds to me like somebody’s gay…
Oldest: Is that supposed to be an insult? You stopped making sense five beers ago.
Oldest shrugs his shoulders and walks away.
End Scene.

Malcolm is in his sixties and my son is ten.

Ten.

How cool is it for a child to dismiss bigotry with a joke and a shrug? At his age, I was already accusing haters of being latent homosexuals and taunting them with Barry Manilow comparisons. After causing intergenerational warfare and turning lifelong friends into distant acquaintances, I usually got grounded. When my children told me about the way they averted a dramatic scene, I couldn’t have been prouder that Oldest let it go.

After all, it isn’t every day my kids get to show by example how to appropriately deal with assbags.

But maybe the old fogies are right. Maybe it is all Spain’s fault.

And the pinko-commie-liberals who support them.