So it’s football season again in Poland, Ohio. The insanity has begun. Every day I walk the dogs through the woods and past this football field where young boys charge around, and their parents sit up in the bleachers and scream. (For crying out loud, I want to say, Get a life.) To make matters worse, there’s always this big-assed coach, yelling. I mean, this man loves to yell. I swear there’s some kind of coaching disease that miserable middle-aged men catch, and they go berserk. It's as if they have rabies and can barely contain the urge to bite someone. Really. Someone should lock them up. Or come to the games with a big bag of rotten tomatoes. The other day this coach was making the boys stop the practice and line up. He was really steamed.
How many times do I have to tell you? he yelled.
How you gonna play ball if you don’t know how to line up?
You call that a line?
You call that a g.d. line?
How many of you boys know what a line is?
Look at you boys. When I say a line, I mean a line. You hear me?
And where’s Johnny Z gone. Has anyone seen Johnny Z?
He’s taking a leak in the woods? Again?
He’s taking a leak in the woods when I say line up?
You think you’re going to be taking a leak in the woods during a real football game?
You think you’re going to be taking a leak whenever you want to, like Johnny here?
You think real football players take leaks?
I am reminded of my daughter's high school cross-country coach. (Maybe we all have our coaching stories.)
You think you can skip practice just because you have the flu?
You think any college coach is going to put up with your shenanigans?
You think just because your knee hurts, you can't race?
You think you know your body better than I do?
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