Bread and Circuses

I never had any great athletic dreams. Which neatly fits with the fact that I never had any great athletic ability. A decent basketball player, conscientious objector in football, later comer to baseball, and a Southern boy who thought ice was just something they put in tea.

But I could see myself as a coach. Give me a dry erase board, whistle, and lucrative shoe contract. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Baseball is probably out. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Pitchers would never stand for me. I can see myself on the mound with Roger Clemens in the 6th inning. “You want to come out. You WANT to come OUT? There’s no whining in baseball. There’s no whining in baseball. I’ll see you in two innings and if your attitude hasn’t changed you’re going nine. (walking away to catcher) If he says one more word put something on your return throw and make it low.”

The other problem is sartorial. Have you noticed this windbreaker thing with baseball managers? Nintey degrees outside and the Michellin Man is wearing a pullover windbreaker. It’s a dead giveaway that he has a serious drug habit, or has smuggled the Pillsbury Doughboy in under his shirt. No, unless I can do the Connie Mack thing with the suit and straw hat there is no way I’m managing a baseball team.

The NBA is a much better fit. I spent nine years in radio. Not because I was a great radio announcer. It was because I had a face made for radio. But in a nice suit I can almost pass for average looking. NBA managers look successful. Except for Mike Brown of the Cavaliers who looks like Al Roker no matter how expensive his suit. You half expect him to call and time out, face the sideline cameras, and say, “And a happy 105th birthday to Millie Farnham in Tallapahatchie Falls, Wisconsin”.

College basketball is out. There may be some sleazier way to make a living than prostituting your dignity to get seventeen year olds to sign letters of commitment. But I don’t want to find out what it is. Then there’s the matter of having to pretend to like the wealthy alumni. Wait a minute. That IS the something worse than having to text message high school kids with 610 SAT’s whose choice of a college determines whether you remain employed. Pass.

Football? Two words. Terrell Owens. Then there are the work days. Supposedly, these guys spend about twenty-two hours a day watching film and spend two hours a day and hanging upside down in closets at their training facility. If I’m going to watch that much film there must be a bowl of Orville Redenbacher’s handy, and a DVD of “Bringing Up Baby” or “Casablanca” on the schedule. No can do.

I could, however, see myself as a hockey coach. For one, it’s the only way I would ever be able to afford decent seats at an NHL game. And of all the coaching jobs, hockey coaches are also the best protected. You go to work surrounded by 22 angry guys with heavy sticks and bad attitudes. “You wanna come down here and say that about the coach? (actually, you’ll have to say “aboot the coach, because the players are like, Canadien, eh?) Yeah, come down here and explain that to Mr. Domi.”

The learning curve to become a hockey coach is also shorter. Memorize these phrases. “Dig, dig, dig.” “OK, we’ve got the power play, stretch the defense and get a good shot.” “Finish your checks.” “4th line. Go, go, go.” If you’ve done that you could be a hockey coach.

Once you get past deciding what sport to coach, it’s all down hill. Then you’re starting the road to success, big money, and fame. Yes, you can look forward to the day you’re fired. Then you can be an expert analyst and talk about the job you didn’t understand well enough to keep from getting fired from in the first place. Sports. What a country.

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