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Saturday I met up with Whitty and his family to go to a Mariners baseball game. I didn’t know it at the time, but there was also a motocross race happening at the football stadium, which is right next door. We’re walking down the street to where the stadiums are (me, Whit, his wife, and their two boys, aged 7 and 5), when I noticed a whole bunch of people with THEIR kids walking through the crosswalk. The way they were dressed told me that these folks were NOT going to a baseball game. Oh sure, they had ball caps on, but most of the ones I saw that day (on non-Mariners fans anyway) were some version of camouflage, and they were wearing motocross jerseys with some guy’s number and name, or better yet, that stupid NO FEAR logo, or sometimes the jersey was basically an ad for some packed-with-sugar energy drink. At any rate, there was a mix of thousands of ball fans and thousands of motocross fans all walking to the same area.

Up at the intersection in front of us, I saw a family walk past, with their children doing that little hop/jump/skip sort of thing that children do when they’re excited, and I said as adoringly as I could, “Awwwww, would you look at all those cute little rednecks….how sweeeeet!” And just as we got to the intersection, Whitty’s 7 yr old asked, “What’s a redneck?”

Needless to say, a whole bunch of camo hats turned 180 degrees to look at us. There might even have been a full set of teeth between them.

So I guess the moral of the story is: Oh sure, I might know when to and when not to whisper, but the kids don’t, so it’s my job too to make sure that I don’t accidently put ideas or questions into their sweet little heads that may illicit innocent remarks at the wrong time.

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