You do a lot of weird things when you are preoccupied with your troubles. I’ve become rather forgetful.
Earlier, I’d written another fine youth sports column, got ready to send it in, then remembered that they had cut their freelancer’s budget and weren’t paying me anymore.
Then I started making an egg omelet for lunch. I fried up the onions and mushrooms. I put the cheese on the egg. Then I folded it in half. Perfect again – except I’d forgotten to add the onions and mushrooms beforehand. Very difficult to pry folded eggs and melted cheese open.
So, I ate. And let the dog outside. I went upstairs and got dressed for a meeting. It wasn’t until I was a bit up the street and saw the damn dog flying out from behind the house that I realized I’d forgotten something. Yes, my phone. I forgot to grab my phone. Good thing we have the dog.
If Sting is the King of Pain, I’m the King Scatter Brain. Seriously. I think I had six kids at one point in my life. I’m not saying that I lost one – there were always so many of them around and having been involved with so many women – I don’t know.
Maybe I shouldn’t have even mentioned anything. We always had six bikes in the shed though. And then one morning there were five. I never did get a good answer regarding its whereabouts.
But I’ve always been forgetful when it came to names. Especially kid’s names. When I coached them, I basically remembered them by whether they were respectful or not. Every kid was buddy or dude or hey you.
“Nice hit Buddy. Make sure you run through first base next time.”
“Dude, if you want to pick your freaking nose you can go behind the dugout and do it.”
“Yo – hey you – #7, I want you moving on every pitch Buddy. Got it? What? Yeah I know your name. But this is baseball. You want a name? You’re Mickey Freaking Mantle, #7. How’s that for a name?”
At least in football you have an excuse because you can’t see their darling little faces. But you can cheat. The kids have their names written on tape across the front of their helmets – at least until the season starts. As long as they were close enough for me to read, I was OK.
“Big kid, run over here so you can hear me. Yeah… Timmy – next time catch the ball with your hands and not your shoulder pad. And write your name bigger.”
When it came to the parents, there wasn’t a freaking chance in Hell of me knowing a name or which kid they belonged to.
They’d approach me, “Hey Coach, so what can I do to help my Tristan overcome his problem?”
How is it fair that they can call me Coach? Shouldn’t I be able to reply with, “Well Parent, Tristan stinks. He’s freaking eight years old. I’ll play him as much as any other kid and either he’ll get better someday or he’ll always stink. At that point he can either use his spare time to master the flute or try lacrosse or fishing.”
Wow, look at ME. Seems like I slipped a little of my youth sports philosophy in there. The great thing about an unsponsored blog is you get to say freaking this and freaking that and nobody can say a word.
So I’ll keep… what the heck was I just talking about?
Well, I have an announcement to make and I don’t care what the rest of the civilized world thinks. I’m rejoining the board of the Farmington Valley MudHogs Youth Football and Cheerleading League. Yup – it came to me in a dream. I’m going to focus on the 5-7 year-olds who are playing flag football.
How in the heck does anyone coach a team in that age group and let Johnny run the ball five times a game while Joey does nothing but block? I’ll be fixing that.
So, before I forget, I’m heading outside to pull the snow blower out and get it ready for the snow. It’s storm Charlotte. My dad was married to an unbelievable woman of the same name. THAT name, I will never forget. She left us way too soon.
Remember to keep track of your kids this weekend. Stupid, avoidable accidents happen during weather events like this way too often.
Be smart. Remember to use common sense.