By Timothy T. Tater, Editor and Chief Spud
The Sweet Potato
Ah, the Coach Dad. Let’s face it, we all know one of these fellas. You’ll spot him immediately at any youth sporting event, dressed head-to-toe in athletic wear despite not having exercised since the Clinton administration. He’s the one yelling “helpful” instructions from the bleachers while simultaneously mansplaining the rules to anyone within earshot—including the actual official, who apparently went to “officiating school” but clearly doesn’t understand the game like Brad does. He can also be seen in the wild with a clipboard at other youth games, scouting opponents and attempting to poach players.
Coach Dad has been preparing for this moment his entire adult life. Sure, he works in accounting now, but back in ’92 he was this close to making the little league all-stars. And by “this close,” he means that he “hurt his shoulder and was just never the same.” His best sports attribute was being an EA Sports All-Star at Patrick’s sleep over, the one night they stayed up late and played PlayStation. The point is, he understands the game on a level that these “professional coaches” with their “degrees in sports science” simply cannot comprehend.
You’ll recognize Coach Dad by his signature moves: the aggressive sideline pacing, the dramatic throwing of hands in the air when little Matty doesn’t execute the perfect pick-and-roll (in a recreational 8-year-old league), and the post-game breakdown that’s longer and more detailed than most NCAA film sessions. He yells at mistakes like a madman who just snorted a line, thinking he’s the only one who knows a mistake was made. I mean, how would a kid know he made a mistake when he just let the third out go through his legs. He’s got opinions about everything—why Jenny should be playing point guard, how the team’s offensive strategy is fundamentally flawed, and why modern kids “just don’t have the fundamentals” like they did back in his day.
The beautiful thing about Coach Dad is his unwavering confidence. If Coach Dad were actually running the show, well, things would be different. Championships would be won. Trophies would be earned. Rings would be worn. Respect would be commanded.
He’s already mentally redesigned the entire program. Better drills, proper fundamentals, real discipline. None of this “everyone gets a turn” nonsense that’s clearly holding back his future Division I athlete. He’s got a three-ring binder at home filled with plays he’s drawn up, complete with X’s and O’s that would make Vince Lombardi weep with admiration.
The tragedy, of course, is that Coach Dad’s brilliance remains unrecognized. Season after season, less qualified individuals somehow get selected for the coaching positions. People with “experience” and “training” and “the ability to relate to children.” Meanwhile, Coach Dad sits in the stands, a tactical genius trapped in the body of a middle manager, forced to watch inferior minds squander the potential of these young athletes.
But hope springs eternal. There’s always next season, always another opportunity for Coach Dad to volunteer his services and finally show everyone what real coaching looks like. Until then, he’ll continue his vital work of providing color commentary from the bleachers, because someone has to maintain standards around here.
After all, these kids won’t coach themselves. And who better to guide them than someone who was stopped from playing sports by a in elementary school?