Coach Bob Takes the Field

By Bob Wire, 6-24-10

My daughter, Speaker, plays 3rd grade soccer with a thousand other kids every Sunday. It’s a YMCA program that supports about a couple dozen teams, most of which feature jerseys in some shade of green. Speaker is one of the lucky ones, wearing yellow this year. In the past the girls have always chosen a team name that combines some kind of food with an animal. She’s played on the Blueberry Dolphins, the Banana Bumblebees, and the Moldy Cheese Iguanas. This year they’ve abandoned the food motif, and are going straight to psychological intimidation, calling themselves the Killer Bees.

Her coach, Stephen, does a great job coaching these 8-year-old girls, which is similar to herding a bunch of ADD-afflicted cats. Only he was gone bird hunting this weekend, a weekend when their schedule ballooned to three games, including a double-header on Saturday. Since no one else volunteered, I told the coach I’d step in and head up the team while he was gone. I’ve watched them play for years, of course, and figured it couldn’t be much different than spectating, only I’d be hollering at them from the field instead of a folding camp chair. Plus, I could use a whistle, which has amazing power to freeze children in their tracks. I’m going to start wearing one around the house. (“TWEEEET! Rusty!! Stop painting the dog!”)

So Speaker and I got ready early on Saturday, gearing up for a full Soccer Day. She came out of her bedroom wearing a skirt.

“You can’t play soccer in a skirt,” I told her.

“Girls play field hockey in a skirt,” she responded. “Besides, it’s not a skirt. It’s a skort.”

“A skort? Isn’t that what you eat with at Taco Bell?”

“No, that’s a spork. This is a skort. It’s shorts combined with a skirt.”’

“Whatever. You can’t play soccer in that—those—whatever it is. Are. You need sweatpants.”

“FINE.”

When we got to the soccer complex—which is roughly 14 square miles of soccer fields—I realized that I’d forgotten to check which field we’d be using. I saw a few girls from our team hanging around on Field 9, so I rounded them up, gave a quick motivational speech (“Please don’t scream, Coach Bob is a little hungover”) and had them do some warm-ups. I’m not sure what Stephen has them do, and I find 8-year-old girls to be very unreliable sources of information, so I fell back on the classics.

“Okay! Okay, girls! Hey! Girls! Killer Bees! Hey! TWEEEEEEET!! Alright, that’s better. Everybody line up on this blue line and do some jumping jacks!”

Ten girls in unison: “What are jumping jacks?”

“Like this!” I do four or five, and soon they’re doing it with me.

“This is stupid,” says one girl.

“Coach Stephen never made us do this,” says another.

“Yeah, this is stupid,” says another.

TWEEEEEET!! “Alright, that’s enough,” I wheeze. “Now we’re gonna do an old favorite of mine, called “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes!”

I start doing the oldest stretching routine known to man, and, amazingly, the girls start doing it too. They LIKE this one!

“Alright, keep doing that for a while, Coach Bob’s going to go get some coffee,” I tell them, and I start walking off the field toward the espresso cart.

I’m intercepted by another coach (I can tell because he’s wearing a whistle and carrying a clipboard).

“Hi, Coach,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m not sure which field we’re supposed to be on. I’m subbing for the regular coach.”

I see he’s carrying a schedule and a diagram of the field. I take it from him.

“You guys are Team 31, the moonlight forest green jerseys?” I check the schedule, and see that we lucked out and picked the right field. “You’re playing us, right here on Field 9. Dude, you really gotta know this stuff before you come out here. These girls are counting on you!” I dismiss him with a wave, and gather my girls on the sideline. There’ll be no time for coffee.

The Killer Bees immediately start lobbying me for the positions they want.

“I want to be goalie!”

“I wanna be a sweeper!”

“Offense! Offense! Offense! Offense!”

“No, I want to be goalie! You were goalie last week!”

“I want to be a mid!”

TWEEEEEET!! “Look, goddammit, I’ll give you your positions, and that’s where you’ll play! Y’all sound like a bunch of damn magpies!

The girls fall silent, looking at each other with shock. Then they look at Speaker, as if to say, we feel sorry for you for having to live with this maniac.

“Alright, just go out and play the positions you had last week.” I point at the sweeper wannabe. “You’re the sweeper.”

She laughs gleefully and prances onto the playing field. I look at another girl.

“You’re the dustpan.”

“What?”

“You know, next to the sweeper,” I explain.

“You mean the defender,” she explains back.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant, defender.”

So, with the help of a knowledgeable mother, and the encouragement (or maybe tolerance) of the parents, I made it through all three games without smacking anyone, using the F-bomb, or having a folding camp chair thrown at me. The Killer Bees scored a few goals, played hard and fair, and all agreed that Coach Stephen would no longer be allowed to go bird hunting until after soccer season.

Join the Bob Wire Appreciation Society

Stumble It!