Let me set a scene. The exact details aren't important. So let's call the year 2002.Â
It's a Sunday afternoon in suburban Delaware. Football season. The Philadelphia Eagles are on TV and things aren't going well for the Birds.Â
In the family room, there's the rest of my family: my dad, mom, and brother. They're watching, upset their favorite team is losing, but handling it fine.
Me...not so much. I'm 11 years old and have been sent to watch the game in our basement, plopping down inches from a tiny TV. I'd been relegated there because if I couldn't (wouldn't) stop yelling â" like screaming, pitching a fit â" then I wasn't going to get to hang around the family. Fair enough. Who wants to enjoy an afternoon of an 11-year-old hurling insults at refs and belting "catch the DAMN ball" at receivers? Read more...
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Source : http://feeds.mashable.com/~r/Mashable/~3/oaWYkjZOLlg/
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