Here's a quarter, go and buy yourself a clue

Watching your kids play sports is one of the great thrills of being a parent. It is the unruly parent who puts his kid's needs above those of the team or the coach who must win at all costs who ruin this experience.

Last week Saturday, I took my seat on the 1st base line right next to the dugout to watch the Tigers, to whom my 8 year old, we'll call him All-Star, is a member of. A man and 2 women arrived late and sat not too far away from me. I recognized one woman as the mother of one of the Tigers. Her male companion, wearing all black and sporting a brand new SF Giants cap, nodded at me, stuck out his hand to shake mine and gave me his name. An uncle possibly? I wasn't sure. For our purposes, we'll address him as Dipshit. He asked me if I was the All-Star's father. I nodded in mock imitation of him.
"Good kid," he commented as he nodded to me again.
As we all settled to watch the game, Uncle Dipshit began voicing his displeasure at the way Tiger Coach was pitching to the kids (for Pee Wee Baseball, the coach pitches to his own team). Basically, he was heckling the team that he should have been rooting for! There was a palpable air of discomfort among the parents. A "WHO IS THIS IDIOT" look can be read on their faces as they shot glances at the antagonist.
"The pitches are too high." he'd mutter out loud.
At one point, he yelled, "Keep the pitches low!"
Uncle Dipshit leaned over to me and asked if I thought the pitches were high.

Bad Conscience poofed over my left shoulder:

(Who the fuck are you? Why don't you go out there and see how fuckin' easy it is to pitch to a bunch of 8-9-10 year olds?!?!)

Age, fatherhood and husbandry have softened me over several years. Good Conscience overcame me.

"Be a good example."

"Take the diplomatic route."

In other words, be a complete puss and reason with the fucker. Anyway, I told Uncle Dipshit that it's not easy to pitch to a small strike zone from that distance (approx. 30-40 ft.). If the ball is lobbed to the plate, the pitch comes in high. If you straighten out the ball and throw harder, some of the kids won't be able to catch up to it.
While he nodded in agreement with what I said, my voice of reason apparently did not resonate with Uncle Dipshit as he continued to voice his displeasure. This clueless nimrod just didn't get it.

It was with great relief among those in attendance that Uncle D.S. and his 2 companions got up to leave.
What brass this guy must possess! Arrive late, make a scene by criticizing Tiger coach out loud and then leave early. Nothing wrong with leaving early. If you gotta go, you gotta go. Just keep the whiney baby talk to yourself and let the game be about the kids. Oh, and take off the Giants cap. I don't want to be associated with knuckleheads like these.
The postscript is that the Tigers were given a ass-whuppin' by the Hurricanes*, 16-6, leaving them with a record of 5-5, on the cusp of falling out of playoff contention (8 out of 14 teams make the playoffs).
See: http://www.sanbrunopeeweebaseball.org/
*(What's the deal with calling your baseball team, the Hurricanes? And having the colors to boot. I realize that University of Miami baseball program is a successful one, but unless the coach or the sponsor attended the "U", I'd rather we stick to MLB team names or sponsor names, i.e. Cardinals, Yankees or Chico's Bail Bonds)