The year of my divorce I decided to coach basketball. "Just throw up a fucking shot," I told a particularly brutal player. "I don't care."
These kids were ten and their parents started to complain that it was supposed to be a fun experience and blah-de-blah-de-blah. One undersized kid was the runt of the team's litter. His dad and I got along well. He said that he appreciated what I told his son regarding his dream of growing up to play for the Celtics. I had told the boy he should seriously pursue a career in politics.
Week after week, I started to notice Mrs. DiSilva lingering after practice while her kid and my son stayed to work on their shooting. This time she wore black lace leggings.
"I like bad boys," she whispered while her son was throwing elbows at mine.
"I'm not a bad boy, I'm a bad coach. There's a difference." I made sure to whisper the final part back to her.
"Come on, let's go," she yelled to her sweet little bastard. Mine was wiping blood off his nose with the back of his hand.
At the games I would be very verbal. I liked to shout out the calls. The referees didn't like it too much, they would often ignore me. Three-second violations became five seconds and fouls needed to produce injuries or they didn't count. At the final game I brought my own whistle. The first time I blew it, the game stopped immediately. I kind of scared myself and some of the parents laughed nervously. The game resumed with the kids playing at the pace of a runaway train, so I used the whistle a second time. When the official blew his own and pointed at me, I knew I was gone. I gave the scorebook to my assistant and I told him the truth. "I've been thrown out of far better places," I said.
Actually, this is the truth: Walking out of the gym I felt the best I'd felt in awhile. Mrs. DiSilva mouthed Call me as I walked by while my ex-wife, one row closer, said something completely opposite. I flipped her the whistle in case she needed to use it. "Place it between your lips and blow," I said.
These kids were ten and their parents started to complain that it was supposed to be a fun experience and blah-de-blah-de-blah. One undersized kid was the runt of the team's litter. His dad and I got along well. He said that he appreciated what I told his son regarding his dream of growing up to play for the Celtics. I had told the boy he should seriously pursue a career in politics.
Week after week, I started to notice Mrs. DiSilva lingering after practice while her kid and my son stayed to work on their shooting. This time she wore black lace leggings.
"I like bad boys," she whispered while her son was throwing elbows at mine.
"I'm not a bad boy, I'm a bad coach. There's a difference." I made sure to whisper the final part back to her.
"Come on, let's go," she yelled to her sweet little bastard. Mine was wiping blood off his nose with the back of his hand.
At the games I would be very verbal. I liked to shout out the calls. The referees didn't like it too much, they would often ignore me. Three-second violations became five seconds and fouls needed to produce injuries or they didn't count. At the final game I brought my own whistle. The first time I blew it, the game stopped immediately. I kind of scared myself and some of the parents laughed nervously. The game resumed with the kids playing at the pace of a runaway train, so I used the whistle a second time. When the official blew his own and pointed at me, I knew I was gone. I gave the scorebook to my assistant and I told him the truth. "I've been thrown out of far better places," I said.
Actually, this is the truth: Walking out of the gym I felt the best I'd felt in awhile. Mrs. DiSilva mouthed Call me as I walked by while my ex-wife, one row closer, said something completely opposite. I flipped her the whistle in case she needed to use it. "Place it between your lips and blow," I said.
About the Author
