The most cavernous cunt of a coach I’ve ever encountered in my bleak journalistic career was just last night. I shouldn’t give away what high school the guy coaches for, so with the power of subtlety let’s just call it Ass Crack High. Anyway, this piece of shit thinks he’s fuckin Joe Torre or something when he’s nothing but a wrinkly old twat winding down his asscrack of a career. After over twenty-five years of unspectacular mediocrity, you would think the old prick would have learned how to conduct himself professionally by now, but that rather rational assessment would be woefully wrong.
I called this cocksucker seventy five thousand times without a response. I left messages. I e-mailed. I called in the morning, I called in the afternoon, I called at night. I even called the fuckin school in desperation as my deadline ticked dangerously closer. Finally, that was it. 10 a.m. deadline. I turned in the story, quoteless, and heartbroken.
Normally, I would never need a high school coach to soil my precious stories with their often lame facsimile of a professional coach’s non-interview. I usually try to catch the coach of the team I’m covering after a game, but that’s just to flesh the story out. It’s not exactly necessary, but it certainly adds to an article, and I often frame my outlines around a coach’s quotes in order for everything to flow smoothly. Still, if I miss the guy it’s not the end of the world.
But this isn’t a simple story about a game I just watched, it’s a season preview of a team I have never fuckin seen.
I’ve never even been to that shitty town. How the fuck am I gonna write a story about a buncha high school broads I’ve never watched for so much as an at-bat? Wait, I know, I’ll ask the coach. It’s not like he’s gonna act like a giant pile of shit and go into the Witness Protection Program or anything. Oh wait…
What does this asshole think, that I’m so fuckin enamored with his stupid team that I’m hounding him for interviews? Like the press is swarming his house clamoring for exclusives about his retarded small-town softball squad. No you cocksucker, it’s my fuckin job, and by treating me like a leper for two days you just made it infinitely harder for no reason other than you’re a pompous dickwad.
How do I know this? Because colleagues who’ve had the misfortune to deal with this diva before weren’t surprised in the least that my efforts were to no avail. I heard the guy does this shit all the time. That was the last straw. So it wasn’t just a Seinfeld-esque series of unlucky coincidences that led me to a quoteless story, the guy got my calls, and my messages, and my e-mails, he simply and consciously decided to put his nose up in the air like I’m some filthy fuckin peasant daring to beckon the King of all things coaching. Meanwhile, all that gaping asshole is doing is fucking over his players by not bothering to comment on them. He doesn’t seem to understand that reporting about high school sports is about the kids, not the over-inflated egos of their douchebag coaches.
All I know is it sure would be a shame if coach Cunt’s team got knocked out of the tournament this year in his likely final season. Man, would I hate to be covering that game. And don’t worry fuckface, after the game I’ll skip the interview.