I yelled, “Nice pancake!” So what? I also yell things like, “Nice swing!” “Nice dig!” “Nice block!” and “Nice serve!” But when I yell about a pancake, others in the crowd turn to look at me.

That’s because people like Delmar don’t know what a pancake is.

Brenda, my niece, had dived to the floor and slid a fully splayed right hand, palm down, beneath the volleyball before it touched the hardwood. That’s called a “pancake,” and it was a nice pancake.

“Nice waffle!” That’s what Delmar yelled only a couple of seconds after I’d cheered for the pancake. He was sitting a few rows up to the right. I don’t know why he was at the game, but he was rooting for the other team. I couldn’t help but to think he was rooting for them just to spite me. Delmar is my son-of-a-bitch neighbor.

But I let the “waffle” comment pass, because I try to be above petty fighting. I hate to see parents fighting during high school sporting events, so I don’t want to be like that.

My wife Kelly noticed I was annoyed. “Just let it go,” she said. I nodded.

Then I saw another great pancake, this from Brenda’s teammate, and I screamed, “Great pancake!”

“Woo hoo!” Delmar shouted. “Can I get some sausage patties with them pancakes!”

I turned and glared. “A pancake is when …”

“I know what a pancake is!” Delmar interrupted.

“No you don’t, Delmar.” I left it at that and turned my attention back to the game.

Then a girl on the opposing team blocked a hit, and Delmar yelled, “Nice pancake!”

Delmar likes to intentionally piss me off, but I refused to respond to his stupid commentary. Delmar is an idiot.

“Nice pancake!” he shouted, louder this time. I refused to look at him.

The other team won the first game by only two points.

“Hey, look at me!” Delmar commanded. “I’m a pancake!” I turned to look, almost involuntary. He was standing and doing a jig, shimmying. It was like some dumbass version of the Twist.

Then he started singing “Pour Some Syrup On Me,” his jackass version of the Def Leppard song.

People were laughing at him! And by extension, they were laughing at me!

“A pancake,” I began rather loudly as Kelly placed her hand on mine, “is when a player gets her hand under the ball …”

“A biscuit,” Delmar interrupted, “is when a player jumps over the net and pulls down an opposing player’s pants!”

And people laughed at his moronic joke. That’s when I realized Delmar understood “pancake” as a volleyball term. He was just screwing with me.

As I was realizing this, I noticed Delmar and I were staring at each other. He was smiling, but I must have had a look of anger. The crowd around us was quiet, possibly waiting for a fight.

“What the hell’s your problem, Delmar?” I asked him, standing up for myself.

“I don’t have a problem,” Delmar said. “One of the players is hurt, so maybe we should show some respect.” The crowd murmured in affirmation.

I turned to the court. The next game had started, but Brenda was down. She was crying. She had sprained her ankle.

“You hate to see that,” I heard Delmar say. “But it was a great pancake.”

Kelly nudged me, silently urging me not to respond. She must have known what I was thinking – how unlikely it would be to hurt one’s ankle while attempting a pancake. I didn’t see the play, but how could …

“Let it go,” Kelly whispered. “Let it go.”