Zoomboy and the Sign

Zoomboy is playing soccer.

"How is he doing?" Mate asks, and I tell him. It's not pretty.

"He runs like an epileptic giraffe in cement shoes," I tell him apologetically.

"That's your fault." (My family's complete lack of coordination is universally acknowledged. When my father dances, lives are at stake.)

"I know," I tell him.

"What else?"

"He can't focus. I spent a couple of practices giving him a verbal redirect, but the coach would rather we not yell at them on the field."

"What were yo...