On game days, parking is tight at the field complex where Heidi's soccer team plays. Even so, we are usually able to snag a space in the lot rather than parking on the grass and along the entry drive, as so many other soccer enthusiasts must. Today was no exception: the lot was crowded, but we were able to squeeze into a space between an SUV and an electric pickup truck.
As Heidi went on ahead to check in with her fellow coaches and warm up the team, I relaxed in the driver's seat, fresh breeze and golden October sunshine streaming in through the open windows. By and by, the truck loaded up and hummed away, and a minivan pulled right into the spot it had vacated. I heard the door of the van roll open, and a boy of no more than six stood indignantly on its threshold. "Excuse me!" he called through my open window. "Can you move your car over?"
He was no more than 18 inches away, and I looked purposefully over my sunglasses at him and then to the SUV to my right. "No," I answered.
His mother hastily, yet carefully, opened the passenger-side door. "It's fine!" she told him, or maybe me. "We have a big car," she said, definitely to him. "We can carefully get our things and go to the game."
He scoffed, unconvinced, but as the family bustled up to the fields, I noticed that his dad and sisters were able to get out on their side without any trouble.
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