Starting next week, I will be the coach of my son’s t-ball team, the Yankees. These are my qualifications:

1. I’m taller than every child on the team.
2. I’m older than every child on the team.
3. I passed the fingerprint test they gave me to make sure I’m not a sexual predator.

I have been given a list of 11 names. These are the Yankees. All of them are five years old. One is female. One is my son. My son is not the female. My son is the one who will jiggle his nuts and hock a loogie in the dirt before he steps to the plate because that’s what he sees the players on TV do and he thinks it’s rad that just shaking your junk a little bit can make you spit bigger spits. He is also the one who will ask the lone female on the team to be his girlfriend during our first practice. This is because he is a fucking mack daddy just like his old man, and I didn’t raise my kid to be no pussy.

My chore for tonight is to call every name on the list and introduce myself. “Hi. This is Coach Danny. I’ll be Mortimer’s t-ball coach this year. Oh, and I just had a vasectomy, too. You can read about it on my blog.” I do not have the names of the Yankees’ parents, so I will have to introduce myself and hope that the parent is not one of those crazies who feels no urge to reciprocate when someone tells you his name. If the parent neglects to tell me his or her name, his or her kid plays left bench. End of story.

If you really want to know the truth, I know as much about coaching t-ball as I do about nuclear fusion. I never played t-ball as a kid. My parents were more concerned with me growing up to be a good Jew than a good athlete, so while all of my buddies were playing t-ball, I was at the temple in an itchy wool sweater, listening to some dude sermonize about how eating the meat of a pig (or any scavenger) was tantamount to licking your own asshole. Frankly, I would rather have played t-ball.

My secret anxiety is that one of these parents is going to ask me what qualifies me to coach their kid, and then I’m going to have to make up some fantastic lie about being drafted out of high school by the Red Sox and then blowing out the rotator cuff on my pitching shoulder in a tragic accident during an asshole-licking ritual at the temple, thereby ending my career as a Major Leaguer and relegating me to coaching little brats like their kid that first base is THIS way, not THAT way. “That’s third, disphit! Run the other way! THE OTHER WAY!”

The commissioner of the Little League told that there is a 100% chance that I’m going to have “a problem child” on the team and a 99.999% chance that the problem child will be MY child. I got all up in his face when he said that and warned him not to cast aspersions about my family, but I do believe what he said is true. My son won’t listen to me when I tell him not to throw bars of Irish Spring at his little sister’s head, and I SERIOUSLY doubt he’ll listen to me when I warn him that if I see him sticking his wiener through the webbing in his mitt one more time, I’m going to buy him an itchy wool sweater and send him to the temple. “I don’t care if it feels good, bud,” I’ll say. “We are the Yankees, and the Yankees don’t bone their mitts!”

Comments

Eh, don't sweat it. You're more qualified than you think. I did play tball as a kid, and it's amazingly similar to wearing an itchy wool sweater.

No help on the mitt boning, though. Sorry.

I think you are going to be the best damn
t-ball coach they have ever seen because you are enthusiastic, supportive and just want to have fun. Plus, no one else stepped up to coach. I also think there is a 100% chance that our kids WILL be your problem child eventhough he he lives for sports.

my dad coached me in soccer, and i WAS a problem child. but it wasn't my fault! HE's the one who would stick me in some position no one else wanted (usu goalie) and then REFUSE TO TAKE ME OUT even though i had (1) never been taught the position of goalie (2) have absolutely no ability to catch a ball with my hands and therefore (3) had been scored on 8 times. seriously, i have good case for child abuse...

What qualifies you? The fact that you volunteered and they didn't. Who cares what the rules are, under those circumstances.

Them: What qualifies you to coach my kid?

You: I had some free time.

Them: I don't think thats a good enough qualification.

You: Glad you feel that way . Me too. YOu wanna coach this team then? No? Great! Then shut the fuck up junior.

You are funny! Even my husband laughed (out loud!) when I made him read this post - and he thinks I'm weird for reading blogs . . . .

My husband is coaching 9 year old girls in softball and he had to go to a class called "Protecting God's Children" (it's a Catholic youth league and my husband is an atheist haha). He said "Why can't god protect his own f*cking children, isn't he supposed to be omnicient?"

Prepubescent girls playing sports. It's going to be a looooong summer.

Just remember to not put any kids with glasses in the outfield. Neither my brother nor I did very well in the outfield...the glare always blinded us. Plus we were terrifed of getting our glasses broken by the ball SPEEDING TOWARDS US AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT, so we'd duck and cower.

Yes, we were wussies. I even cringe when my six year old lobs a ball in my direction.

Crystal conked it on the nose, there, dude ~ what qualifies you is T~I~M~E.... and the minor fact that no-one else stepped up to do it. Which, as she also pointed out, is some pre-ttt-y heavy cojones when pointed out ot other parents... man, they shut right up at that one... ( That's how I got to be PTO president.... who the hell wants that job??? almost NO-one, hence, someone like me got it.... hehehehe) Besides which, hotWife is right, have fun, and who cares? Take the boys out to pizza once in a while, and they'll love you and call you blessed...

Those other parents will just be so fucking glad that they don't have to be in your shoes that they'll love you no matter what. Believe me.

And your kid will be the problem child. I coached years of high school softball, but I wouldn't step foot on any field with my own daughter on it. Hell no. Being the coach's kid turns any little angel into a freaking monster. Or a crying monster in our case.

Or, ummm. What I meant to say is...it will be fun!

I would assume that they'll consider the fact that you're doing the coaching rather than their lazy asses qualification enough.

Just make sure to refer to the kids as "Little dipshits" in front of their parents. They like that sort of thing.

I cringed as I read this, our youngest son Bear starts this season too. I admire anyone who is willing to put up with the crap that comes with coaching. Not from the kids- but from the parents.

This is the funniest blog ever. What are you going to do when your kids can read it?

Our son's coach was arrested for DWI in the middle of the season. It was on the front page of the small town where i live. No one said a word to him about it, because we were afraid he would quit coaching and then one of us would have to do it.

Lol! You poor, brave, man.

Trust me, noone's gonna ask you what qualifies you to coach their kid. They'll be too damn glad THEY didn't get asked to coach.

Heh. My dad was the coach of my softball team once. I was eight and spent the entirety of every game making clover chains and doing kartwheels in the outfield. We won one game because the other team didn't show up.

He never coached again.

Hope you have better luck.

I'm my daughter's Brownie troop leader (same boat as you - no one else stepped up to lead, so I did) and she IS the monster. They expect special treatment when the parent is the coach/leader/person dumb enough to sign on for this shit.

But, the other commenters are completely right in saying that the other parents are so glad you stepped up that they keep their mouths shut.

But I swear on all that's holy that if I ever see another box of Girl Scout cookies again, I'm going to climb a clocktower and thin out he neighborhood.

OK, I've been reading your posts for a while, but this was hysterical. I couldn't stop laughing. God help me when my kid hits 5.

Don't sweat the parents. If I have learned one thing in two years coaching little girls soccer, it is that the parents are more happy that you take the brat and keep him occupied for a few hours a week, so they don't have to. Besides, they all feel sorry that you were the one who gave into the pressure from the nazilike "coach recruiter" at sign ups!! They look at you like you are the lamb being led to the slaughter.

Just remember.....Sincerity, once you can fake that, you got it made my friend!

Yeah, you'll do fine.

I am, however, disturbed that my husband hasn't begun teaching my Boy the bollock jiggling thing. He'll be four here in a few weeks (Boy not my husband, though he acts it sometimes ...)and I feel that this is an important skill!

He'll just have to take time out from those Evil Genius lessons.

-Blue

Yes, your qualification is that you didn't say NO! (or HELL NO!!!) And if they think they can do any better then step right up.

I was the leader of my daughter's Girl Scout troop. I believe they've all recovered and most of my hair has grown back. Good times, good times.

"We are the Yankees and the Yankees don't bone their mitts." A fair point, but valid only because David Cone had not yet joined the Yankees and was still a Met when he was caught doing just that in the bullpen during spring training. Ah, the boys of summer.

No mitt-boning? I guess this is listed right under the "no crying in baseball" rule. And remember: there is no defense in baseball.

you know, if your son was a REAL yankee, he'd be boning a lot worse than his mitt. count your blessings...

You never cease to make me laugh! Even after the week from hell, your blog was the first one I read tonight and I laughed out loud. Thanks!

Mitt boning...I can't believe I've gone my whole life so far without thinking of that...

his fine