You little whippersnappers...

One of my many activities during the work day consists of minding the soccer field during lunch. Fortunately, nobody is allowed to actually eat lunch on the field, because it's artificial turf. This reminds me of when Lenny Dykstra, a world-class tobacco chewer and spitter, used to play for the Phillies. They had an artificial turf field and the tobacco juice had nothing to soak into, as it would on a grass field. So there it would sit and if it didn't rain for a while the area where he would stand would become increasing brown (you could see this on TV) and sticky (or so I read).

Unfortunately, I lack the ability to fully illustrate why this is such an unpleasant enterprise and can only offer the observation that the field is used almost exclusively by 13 and 14 year-old boys and that my only responsibility is to ensure that they do not suffer mortal wounds from either (1) driveway traffic, or (2) each other.

This responsibility is complicated by this particular sub-species' complete inability to connect actions with consequences. It is, however, good practice for my future as a cranky old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.