Living the Dream

I wrote some time ago about how I'm working two jobs to help pay down bills and pay for extravagances, like washing machines from Craigslist and groceries. I'm still working the two jobs, and it is just about as much fun as you can imagine. I'm also, you might remember, trying to write another book, publish one of the ones I've finished and "fix" a couple of others that I want to publish. Oh, and I'm teaching myself Latin. You know, easy shit. Plus, I've been trying to lead the glorious Roman armies into Egypt and conquer them, but that's been slowed a bit by Egypt's development of atomic weapons. Civilization is very much historically accurate, why do you ask?

But, because I've had so much free time on my hands, I decided I should coach my son's soccer team. Because nothing says "I've got WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS" like directing a bunch of 7- and 6-year old kids to run around like fools on a field of grass every Saturday.

I had originally signed up to be the coach in the beginning of the season, but someone screwed up (probably me, but I'll never take the blame!) and had me set for Wednesday night practices. This, at the time, was impossible because I had to work at the book store on Wednesday nights, pretty much every week. When I told the people in the league this, they said fine, found someone else, and then, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, rescheduled my son to be on a team that practiced Thursday nights.

Oh, and they made me assistant coach. Without letting me know.

So, the first Thursday rolls around, and I'm not there (because I'm working two jobs) and my wife is fielding a thousand angry phone calls from people wondering why the fuck no coach has shown up to teach their kid how to kick a ball. Because, let's be honest, Under-8 Youth Soccer is not exactly the UEFA cup; kicking is about all they do.

I wrote to the league commissioner, wondering what the fuck was up, and he said that, since I had expressed interest in coaching before, he thought I would positively love being an assistant.

Now, I positively love tits. I positively love blow jobs. And I positively love rum. Coaching soccer? Not so much my thing.


Oh, sure, I played soccer. I was good at soccer. But, when I was playing, I was a goalie. I went through goalie drills. I didn't go through all the drills for midfielders and forwards and defensemen. Yes, I knew what they were, but I couldn't really teach them.

So, the commish took me off being an assistant coach. There was much rejoicing.

And then...the coach quit. You could also read this as "And then...the universe decided to have itself (another) good laugh at my expense (once more)."

Reluctantly, I kind of took over the coaching of the team. I mean, someone had to think of the children, right? For once? Since I had been through the "coaches clinic" (three hours of my life which I will never get back and for which I was not nearly drunk enough), I figured I could step up and help out. It was...almost...fun. Some of the kids actually showed up to practice. Some of them came to games, too. It was...actually...nice. I made friends with some of the other coaches on other teams. I actually got along with the referees--mostly because they were high school kids who were volunteering their time. Also, they were pretty cool and they weren't douchebags with the calls.

There is one guy, though, who is an A-Prime cocksucker. He's bald and I'd wager 2-1 that he's got a dick like a sparrow poking out from between his thighs. He also only calls handballs on the kids wearing the green jerseys, despite the fact that one time I actually saw a midfielder grab a ball and spike it to the ground like a fucking volleyball and play on. Since we were up several goals, I was able to contain my rage and not get asked to leave the sidelines.

I still mentally insulted several generations of his ancestry, convincing myself that they were all tiny-dicked, bald cocksuckers. Apples don't fall far from trees, you know.

I was worried that the kids would kind of suck, like not skills-wise, but be little assholes. Because I'm crotchety like that. Get off my lawn and all that.

Pleasantly, the kids are all pretty nice; it's the parents that I can't stand. They talk about "Soccer Moms" and "NASCAR dads" in political circles, but I haven't seen any of those. Mostly I've had to deal with Douchebag Dads and Methlab Moms.


One of the first practices, I had the kids trying to pass the ball back and forth to each other, about five yards apart. I looked over, and one of the dads was on the sidelines...doing push-ups. Uh...you see...he was...bored...I guess...and...yeah.

He's since stopped with the upper-body exercises to pass time; instead, he sits on the sidelines dicking around with his iphone throughout practice. Fine. Whatever. Just keep your douchery away from me, sir.

Overall, it's been fun. And, this past weekend, my kid almost scored a goal. He even started having fun and said that he wishes soccer season would never end. Ha, little scamp...I see someone has been getting into daddy's rum supplies.

And now my daughter thinks that she might give soccer another go. Joyous.

I just wish that the parents would remember to bring snacks for the coach, too. It's a little embarrassing to be standing there with my mouth watering over the rice crispy treats and Capri suns. Cherry is my favorite flavor (hint hint).

If only I had a second source of income where I could purchase such luxuries as marshmallow and puffed-rice snack treats along with foil envelopes of flavored juice drinks...