Play T Ball

Ok, this may be a great mistake, but I'm about to accept the nomination for coaching my son's T-ball team. I know, I know...I'm a horrible team player and he can't catch or throw for shit (...he'll be starting!), but I feel this is something I could do. I feel this is something that I could do well.
I want my team to win. I could very well see us being the league champions, and we'll stop at nothing for the Manor Township T-ball championship trophy. My guys will run if they're late for practice. My guys will run if they fall out of line. These kids will come to me doughie little punks and will leave boys. There will be no ice cream celebrations for a loss. After a loss, we will return to the practice field and review tapes and concentrate on mistakes. We will practice in the pouring rain. Thunderstorms? Are you kidding? That's what makes real t-ball players...a little lightning to get your ass running around the bases. That's right.
Oh, don't worry...I'm not going to be the type of coach to let an umpire's bad call get the best of our road to victory...no no no. I will memorize every damn rule there is to this game and keep the rule book in my back pocket for reference at all times. I plan on being thrown out of many games red faced and swearing at the line judges...all in devout pride for our team and our reluctant hunger for victory. I can see it now...

"Foul Ball!"

"A foul? A foul?...You're kidding right? A foul? The ball was clearly fair play."


"Take a seat, Coach...let's move along here...T up!"

"Take a seat? What next? Go home and watch (at this point, I wrestle the rule book from my back pocket, having a hard time, because my cut off jean shorts are so damn tight, you'd think they were painted on)...and watch the grass grow?"

"Coach...Please."

"Please what, DUDE? I can show you right here in the damn book what a damn foul ball is...You gonna tell me now that we're not gonna play by the damn rules? My boys aren't going for the effing championship trophy based on a bunch of damn..."

"Coach...please watch your mouth...I apologize for the call, but I gotta call 'em like I see 'em"

At this point...my senses let loose. Maybe it's the damn too tight cut off's I got on, or the 12 cups of coffee I had before the game...dunno. But, my clip board is let go from my free hand, sending my paper work and notes of play to the April winds and I dart to the poor volunteer line judge in a raging fury...
"Call 'em like you see em? and I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL!!!!"

Luckily my rampage gets stopped before it gets out of hand. The local police chief and Jr. Karate instructor took me down easily before I was four steps away from the dugout.
People turn their heads in embarrassment as I am growling obscenities into the sod, with the two local heroes pinning me down, helpless.

The game is postponed, because parents got upset with the line judge as well, and started getting the kids off the bench before the inning was up. My wife and son leave in tears as the chief and karate coach finally release me; drained and very apologetic. The assistant to the volunteer line coach tells me that my coaching privileges could be revoked, if another such out burst takes place. I try to reason with him and start to open my rule book to the chapter on 'fair play', but now the pages are ripped, grass stained and not really legible. He pleas with me to put the rule book down and go home. I leave peacefully. I walk home delighted...we are still undefeated.