Part 3 (1/2)

Not Pammy, though. She's never been a person, and I'm glad. Pam doesn't just have s.e.x with guys; Pam f.u.c.ks reality. As I type this, she has divorced Lee and is involved with mook musician Kid Rock.5 Here again, Pam has made the perfect romantic decision. Here's a guy who actually named himself after youth and rock 'n' roll. Here's a guy who openly aspires to be the new David Lee Roth. Here's a guy who operates within the idiom of rap metal, an art form that critics despise and normal people adore. Here's an underrated antigenius who represents the redneck renaissance and what's great about music, pot, and popular culture (and, I suppose, America). Kid Rock's not a person either. I sure hope those crazy kids make it! Here again, Pam has made the perfect romantic decision. Here's a guy who actually named himself after youth and rock 'n' roll. Here's a guy who openly aspires to be the new David Lee Roth. Here's a guy who operates within the idiom of rap metal, an art form that critics despise and normal people adore. Here's an underrated antigenius who represents the redneck renaissance and what's great about music, pot, and popular culture (and, I suppose, America). Kid Rock's not a person either. I sure hope those crazy kids make it!

My eyes have drifted back to my TV just now, and I spent a few moments looking at Tommy Lee's p.e.n.i.s. I realize this is no brilliant insight, but Tommy Lee's genitalia is stupidly huge. In the scene I'm watching right now, he appears to be beating his p.e.n.i.s against the steering wheel of a boat. It's oddly rea.s.suring. In fact, it's making me think about Joe DiMaggio again: DiMaggio used his 36-inch, 36-ounce bat to hit safely in fifty-six straight games, and Tommy used his 10-inch, 13-ounce bat6 to hit Heather Locklear, Bobbi Brown, and the single-most important woman of our times. World-cla.s.s s.e.x kittens no longer date sports heroes because modern sports heroes have joined heavy metal bands. Tommy Lee is our ”Joltin' Joe.” Most of the guys I know would much rather have s.e.x with three of the world's most beautiful women than hit .325 career against American League pitching. Now, it's possible this was always the case (perhaps young men in 1953 felt the same way). But the difference is that admitting that choice in the 1950s meant you were profoundly honest and a little pathetic. In the twenty-first century, it still means you're pathetic, but that's considered normal. to hit Heather Locklear, Bobbi Brown, and the single-most important woman of our times. World-cla.s.s s.e.x kittens no longer date sports heroes because modern sports heroes have joined heavy metal bands. Tommy Lee is our ”Joltin' Joe.” Most of the guys I know would much rather have s.e.x with three of the world's most beautiful women than hit .325 career against American League pitching. Now, it's possible this was always the case (perhaps young men in 1953 felt the same way). But the difference is that admitting that choice in the 1950s meant you were profoundly honest and a little pathetic. In the twenty-first century, it still means you're pathetic, but that's considered normal.

That's the weird irony that makes Pam Anderson so essential to our times: She's not a real person, but she's still more real than any s.e.xual icon we've ever had. Pam Anderson is a mainstream, nonsubversive p.o.r.n star who actually does all the dirty things her disciples fantasize about. Marilyn Monroe was the perfect vessel for an age where it was wrong to want wild, easy s.e.x; Pam is the perfect vessel in an age where not wanting wild, easy s.e.x makes you a puritanical, born-again weirdo. It's not enough just to talk like Mae West. Anybody can do that. We need proof. We need proof. Pam has the proof. In the short-term, the Tommy-Pamela videotape sullied her already sketchy reputation. But it was probably the greatest thing that could have happened to her long-term legacy-it made her transcendent and organic in the same breath. Pam has the proof. In the short-term, the Tommy-Pamela videotape sullied her already sketchy reputation. But it was probably the greatest thing that could have happened to her long-term legacy-it made her transcendent and organic in the same breath.

Whenever I hear intellectuals talk about s.e.xual icons of the present day, the name mentioned most is Madonna. That seems like a good answer, and it's the kind of answer Madonna has worked very hard to perpetuate. Earning that t.i.tle was her only career goal. But Madonna's not even close to representing contemporary s.e.xuality in any important fas.h.i.+on. She tries way too hard, and it never seems honest. It's very telling that the two best songs in Madonna's catalog-”Like a Virgin” and ”Like a Prayer”-are t.i.tled after similes. Her whole career is a collection of similes: Madonna is like like a s.e.xual idol, but that's just the plot for her self-styled promotional blitz. When she overtly attempted to embody Marilyn Monroe in the video for ”Material Girl,” Madonna got the dance steps perfect but completely missed the message: That song suggests that s.e.x is about money, and that s.e.x is about power, and that s.e.x is about getting what you want. Well, fine. That's how it is with Madonna. But with the original Monroe, s.e.x was about a s.e.xual idol, but that's just the plot for her self-styled promotional blitz. When she overtly attempted to embody Marilyn Monroe in the video for ”Material Girl,” Madonna got the dance steps perfect but completely missed the message: That song suggests that s.e.x is about money, and that s.e.x is about power, and that s.e.x is about getting what you want. Well, fine. That's how it is with Madonna. But with the original Monroe, s.e.x was about s.e.x s.e.x. It was completely without guile or intellect. Being a s.e.xual icon is sort of like being the frontman for an Orange County punk band: As soon as you can explain why you're necessary, you're over.

Madonna is an unsuccessful s.e.xual icon because she desperately wants to be a s.e.xual icon. Pamela Anderson is the perfect s.e.xual icon because she wants to have s.e.x. You think that makes her dumb? Well, maybe you're right. But how smart are you you while you're having s.e.x? What part of s.e.x is ”intellectual”? Certainly none of the good parts. while you're having s.e.x? What part of s.e.x is ”intellectual”? Certainly none of the good parts.

There are a lot of interesting moments on my Pam 'n' Tommy Fuji videotape, several of which are so weird that its authenticity can't be doubted. Pam and Tommy listen to MC Hammer and Soul Asylum. They try to write a cookbook for dope smokers. Tommy uses the word rad rad in casual conversation. Pam tells Tommy, ”You're the best f.u.c.king husband on the planet,” and they get married with the aid of a s.p.a.ceman. But if you had a transcript of this film, you'd find that there's one phrase that appears more often than all others: in casual conversation. Pam tells Tommy, ”You're the best f.u.c.king husband on the planet,” and they get married with the aid of a s.p.a.ceman. But if you had a transcript of this film, you'd find that there's one phrase that appears more often than all others: ”Where are we?” ”Where are we?”

This question is asked over twenty times, and it's never answered. They're on a boat, they look at the horizon, and they say, ”Where are we?” And if someone wanted to use Pam as a metaphor for the decline of American morality and the vapidity of modern relations.h.i.+ps, they could point out that phrase as an illuminating example of a lost generation. ”Where are we, indeed,” such a critic might write in the last paragraph of an essay. But that kind of snarkiness is more negative than necessary, and it misses the point. We don't need Pam to know where she is; she helps us understand where we we are. are.

1. It's possible that The Man Show The Man Show might be off the air by the time this book is released, mostly because Jimmy Kimmel seems like something of a rising cultural force. Of course, it's entirely plausible that Comedy Central would replace might be off the air by the time this book is released, mostly because Jimmy Kimmel seems like something of a rising cultural force. Of course, it's entirely plausible that Comedy Central would replace The Man Show The Man Show with an innovative new series featuring two guys sitting in a beer garden each week and comparing their wives' v.a.g.i.n.as to that of a Hereford heifer. with an innovative new series featuring two guys sitting in a beer garden each week and comparing their wives' v.a.g.i.n.as to that of a Hereford heifer.

2. Although the fact that he never missed a cut-off man in his entire career somehow makes this seem acceptable.

3. And-as I mentioned earlier-it's surprisingly uns.e.xy (it's sort of like watching that cow get butchered at the end of Apocalypse Now). Apocalypse Now).

4. However, you gotta give Steve Nash this: On December 11, 2001, Nash scored 39 points against the Portland Trail Blazers on 12 of 16 shooting. He scored 17 points over the final 6:23 of regulation, including two free throws with3.9 seconds remaining that gave Dallas the win. And then he went back to his hotel roomAND PROBABLY HAD s.e.x WITH ELIZABETH HURLEY. Nice night, dude.

5. And here's something you only notice if you're as obsessive as I am: Kid Rock likes to mention in interviews how he hates Radiohead; in his video for ”You Never Met a Motherf**ker Quite Like Me,” he actually wipes his a.r.s.e with toilet paper that has the word Radiohead Radiohead embossed on every tissue. On the surface, that might seem like a statement against pretension and elitism, almost as if Rock is saying he's the ant.i.thom Yorke. However, it actually has to do with Motley Crue. On page 358 of the Crue biography embossed on every tissue. On the surface, that might seem like a statement against pretension and elitism, almost as if Rock is saying he's the ant.i.thom Yorke. However, it actually has to do with Motley Crue. On page 358 of the Crue biography The Dirt, The Dirt, Tommy Lee mentions that Pamela threw a ma.s.sive birthday party for him when he turned thirty-three, and Lee says she ”cranked our favorite band, Radiohead, on the sound system.” I have no doubt that Pam has told Kid how she and Tommy used to adore Tommy Lee mentions that Pamela threw a ma.s.sive birthday party for him when he turned thirty-three, and Lee says she ”cranked our favorite band, Radiohead, on the sound system.” I have no doubt that Pam has told Kid how she and Tommy used to adore OK Computer, OK Computer, and it drives him crazy. Kid Rock hates Radiohead for the same reason I hate Coldplay (as described on page 4). and it drives him crazy. Kid Rock hates Radiohead for the same reason I hate Coldplay (as described on page 4).

6. Approximate.

”You're missing the point,” she said. ”What you're saying makes sense in theory, but not in practice. You're trying to compare apples and oranges.”

”Why do you keep saying that?” he asked in response. ”Apples and oranges aren't that different, really. I mean, they're both fruit. Their weight is extremely similar. They both contain acidic elements. They're both roughly spherical. They serve the same social purpose. With the possible exception of a tangerine, I can't think of anything more more similar to an orange than an apple. If I was having lunch with a man who was eating an apple and-while I was looking away-he replaced that apple with an orange, I doubt I'd even notice. So how is this a metaphor for difference? I could understand if you said, 'That's like comparing apples and uranium,' or 'That's like comparing apples with baby wolverines,' or 'That's like comparing apples with the early work of Raymond Carver,' or 'That's like comparing apples with hermaphroditic ground sloths.' Those would all be valid examples of profound disparity. But not apples and oranges. In every meaningful way, they're virtually identical.” similar to an orange than an apple. If I was having lunch with a man who was eating an apple and-while I was looking away-he replaced that apple with an orange, I doubt I'd even notice. So how is this a metaphor for difference? I could understand if you said, 'That's like comparing apples and uranium,' or 'That's like comparing apples with baby wolverines,' or 'That's like comparing apples with the early work of Raymond Carver,' or 'That's like comparing apples with hermaphroditic ground sloths.' Those would all be valid examples of profound disparity. But not apples and oranges. In every meaningful way, they're virtually identical.”

”You're missing the point,” she said again, this time for different reasons.

7 George Will vs. Nick Hornby 0:86 Like many U.S. citizens, I spend much of my free time thinking about the future of sports and the future of our children. This is because I care deeply about sports.

In the spirit of both, I've spent the last fifteen years of my life railing against the game of soccer, an exercise that has been lauded as ”the sport of the future” since 1977. Thankfully, that future dystopia has never come. But people continue to tell me that soccer will soon become part of the fabric of this country, and that soccer will eventually be as popular as football, basketball, karate, pinball, smoking, glue sniffing, menstruation, animal cruelty, photocopying, and everything else that fuels the eroticized, hyperkinetic zeitgeist of Americana. After the U.S. placed eighth in the 2002 World Cup tournament, team forward Clint Mathis said, ”If we can turn one more person who wasn't a soccer fan into a soccer fan, we've accomplished something.” Apparently, that's all that matters to these idiots. They won't be satisfied until we're all systematically brainwashed into thinking soccer is cool and that placing eighth1 is somehow n.o.ble. However, I know this will never happen. Not really. Dumb bunnies like Clint Mathis will be wrong forever, and that might be the only thing saving us from ourselves. is somehow n.o.ble. However, I know this will never happen. Not really. Dumb bunnies like Clint Mathis will be wrong forever, and that might be the only thing saving us from ourselves.

My personal war against the so-called ”soccer menace” probably reached its peak in 1993, when I was nearly fired from a college newspaper for suggesting that soccer was the reason thousands of Brazilians are annually killed at Quiet Riot concerts in Rio de Janeiro, a statement that is-admittedly-only half true. A few weeks after the publication of said piece, a pet.i.tion to have me removed as the newspaper's sports editor was circulated by a ridiculously vocal campus organization called the Hispanic American Council, prompting an ”academic hearing” where I was accused (with absolute seriousness) of libeling Pele. If memory serves, I think my criticism of soccer and Quiet Riot was somehow taken as latently racist, although-admittedly-I'm not completely positive, as I was intoxicated for most of the monthlong episode. But the bottom line is that I am still willing to die a painful public death, a.s.suming my execution destroys the game of soccer (or-at the very least-convinces people to shut up about it).

According to the Soccer Industry Council of America, soccer is the No. 1 youth partic.i.p.ation sport in the U.S. There are more than 3.6 million players under the age of nineteen registered to play, and that number has been expanding at over 8 percent a year since 1990. There's also been a substantial increase in the number of kids who play past the age of twelve, a statistic that soccer proponents are especially thrilled about. ”These are the players that will go on to be fans, referees, coaches, adult volunteers, and players in the future,” observed Virgil Lewis, chairman of the United States Youth Soccer a.s.sociation.

Certainly, I can't argue with Virgil's math: I have no doubt that battalions of Gatorade-stained children are running around the green wastelands of suburbia, randomly kicking a black-and-white ball in the general direction of tuna netting. However, Lewis's larger logic is profoundly flawed. There continues to be this blindly optimistic belief that all of the brats playing soccer in 2003 are going to be crazed MSBL fans in 2023, just as it was a.s.sumed that eleven-year-old soccer players in 1983 would be watching Bob Costas provide play-by-play for indoor soccer games right now. That will never happen. We will never care about soccer in this country. And it's not just because soccer is inherently un-American, which is what most soccer haters (Frank Deford, Jim Rome, et al.) tend to insinuate. It's mostly because soccer is inherently geared toward Outcast Culture.

On the surface, one might a.s.sume that would actually play to soccer's advantage, as America has plenty of outcasts. Some American outcasts are very popular, such as OutKast.2 But Outcast Culture does not meld with Intimidation Culture, and the latter aesthetic has always been a cornerstone of team sports. An outcast can be intimidating in an individual event-Mike Tyson and John McEnroe are proof-but they rarely thrive in the social environment of a team organism (e.g., Duane Thomas, Pete Maravich, Albert Belle, et al.). Unless you're Barry Bonds, being an outcast is ant.i.thetical to the group concept. But soccer is the one sport that's an exception to that reality: Soccer unconsciously rewards the outcast, which is why so many adults are fooled into thinking their kids love it. The truth is that most children don't love soccer; they simply hate the alternatives more. For 60 percent of the adolescents in any fourth-grade cla.s.sroom, sports are a humiliation waiting to happen. These are the kids who play baseball and strike out four times a game. These are the kids who are afraid to get fouled in basketball, because it only means they're now required to shoot two free throws, which equates to two air b.a.l.l.s. Basketball games actually But Outcast Culture does not meld with Intimidation Culture, and the latter aesthetic has always been a cornerstone of team sports. An outcast can be intimidating in an individual event-Mike Tyson and John McEnroe are proof-but they rarely thrive in the social environment of a team organism (e.g., Duane Thomas, Pete Maravich, Albert Belle, et al.). Unless you're Barry Bonds, being an outcast is ant.i.thetical to the group concept. But soccer is the one sport that's an exception to that reality: Soccer unconsciously rewards the outcast, which is why so many adults are fooled into thinking their kids love it. The truth is that most children don't love soccer; they simply hate the alternatives more. For 60 percent of the adolescents in any fourth-grade cla.s.sroom, sports are a humiliation waiting to happen. These are the kids who play baseball and strike out four times a game. These are the kids who are afraid to get fouled in basketball, because it only means they're now required to shoot two free throws, which equates to two air b.a.l.l.s. Basketball games actually stop stop to recognize their failure. And football is nothing more than an ironical death sentence; somehow, outcasts find themselves in a situation where the people normally penalized for teasing them are suddenly urged to to recognize their failure. And football is nothing more than an ironical death sentence; somehow, outcasts find themselves in a situation where the people normally penalized for teasing them are suddenly urged to annihilate annihilate them. them.

This is why soccer seems like such a respite from all that mortification; it's the one aerobic activity where nothingness is expected. Even at the highest levels, every soccer match seems to end 10 or 21.3 A normal eleven-year-old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and n.o.body would even notice, a.s.suming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions. Soccer feels ”fun” because it's not terrifying-it's the only sport where you can't f.u.c.k up. An outcast can succeed simply by not failing, and public failure is every outcast's deepest fear. For society's prep.u.b.escent pariahs, soccer represents safety. A normal eleven-year-old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and n.o.body would even notice, a.s.suming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions. Soccer feels ”fun” because it's not terrifying-it's the only sport where you can't f.u.c.k up. An outcast can succeed simply by not failing, and public failure is every outcast's deepest fear. For society's prep.u.b.escent pariahs, soccer represents safety.

However, the demand for such an oasis disappears once an outcast escapes from the imposed slavery of youth athletics; by the time they reach ninth grade, it's perfectly acceptable to just quit the team and shop at Hot Topic. Most youth soccer players end up joining the debate team before they turn fifteen. Meanwhile, the kind of person who truly loves the notion of sports (and-perhaps sadly-unconsciously needs needs to have sports in their life) doesn't want to watch a game that's designed for losers. They're never going to care about a sport where announcers inexplicably celebrate the beauty of missed shots and the strategic glory of repet.i.tive stalemates. We want to see domination. We want to see athletes who don't look like us, and who we could never be. We want to see people who could destroy us, and we want to feel like that desire is normal. But those people don't exist in soccer; their game is dominated by mono-monikered clones obsessed with falling to their knees and ripping off their clothes. I can't watch a minute of professional soccer without feeling like I'm looking at a playground of desperate, depressed fourth-graders, all trying to act normal and failing horribly. to have sports in their life) doesn't want to watch a game that's designed for losers. They're never going to care about a sport where announcers inexplicably celebrate the beauty of missed shots and the strategic glory of repet.i.tive stalemates. We want to see domination. We want to see athletes who don't look like us, and who we could never be. We want to see people who could destroy us, and we want to feel like that desire is normal. But those people don't exist in soccer; their game is dominated by mono-monikered clones obsessed with falling to their knees and ripping off their clothes. I can't watch a minute of professional soccer without feeling like I'm looking at a playground of desperate, depressed fourth-graders, all trying to act normal and failing horribly.

In short, soccer players kind of remind me of ”my guys.”

Now, when I say ”my guys,” I don't mean kids who are actually mine, mine, as I am not father material (or human material, or even Sleestak material). When I say ”my guys,” I am referring to a collection of sc.r.a.ppy, rag-tag, mostly unremarkable fourth-and fifth-graders I governed when I was sixteen years old. During the summer in 1988, I worked as a totally unqualified Little League baseball coach. This is noteworthy for one reason and one reason only: I remain the only youth sports instructor in the history of my town who was ever fired, a distinction that has made me both a legend and an antihero (at least among ”my guys”). And even though I happened to be coaching the game of baseball that summer, this was the experience that galvanized my hatred for the game of soccer-and particularly my hatred for the ideology that would eventually become the Youth Soccer Phenomenon. as I am not father material (or human material, or even Sleestak material). When I say ”my guys,” I am referring to a collection of sc.r.a.ppy, rag-tag, mostly unremarkable fourth-and fifth-graders I governed when I was sixteen years old. During the summer in 1988, I worked as a totally unqualified Little League baseball coach. This is noteworthy for one reason and one reason only: I remain the only youth sports instructor in the history of my town who was ever fired, a distinction that has made me both a legend and an antihero (at least among ”my guys”). And even though I happened to be coaching the game of baseball that summer, this was the experience that galvanized my hatred for the game of soccer-and particularly my hatred for the ideology that would eventually become the Youth Soccer Phenomenon.

Between my soph.o.m.ore and junior year of high school, I applied to coach Pee Wee and Midget baseball in Wyndmere, North Dakota, the tiny farming town (pop. 498) where I lived and breathed and listened to Guns N' Roses. The compet.i.tion for this position was not intense: There were twenty-three kids in my cla.s.s and only fourteen in the grade ahead of me, and almost all of the other boys had to spend the summer working on their family farms. Theoretically, I should have been in the same position. However, I was too clever to farm and too lazy to work, and I simply had no interest in s.h.i.+t like cultivating (or in cultivating s.h.i.+t, for that matter). Instead, I decided to spend my summer coaching Pee Wee and Midget baseball for $250 a month. I had to deliver my job application to the Wyndmere Park Board, and-since this job was always given to local high school boys-one of the questions on the application asked who my role models were. I wrote ”Bobby Knight and George Orwell,” and I wasn't joking. But it really didn't matter what I wrote, since I was the only applicant. ”We're excited by your enthusiasm,” said the vaguely blonde Park Board president.

We had practice three times a week. The Pee Wee kids worked out from 9 A A.M. to 10 A A.M., and this was always a horrifically boring sixty minutes. These were really little kids (like, under four feet tall), and they hit off a batting tee. As long as n.o.body broke their clavicle or vomited, I viewed practice as a success. Only one kid had any talent (a left-handed shortstop!), but apt.i.tude was pretty much a nonfactor: I played everybody the same amount and generally tried to act like that black dude from Reading Rainbow Reading Rainbow. I mostly just tried to convince them to stop throwing rocks at birds.

The Midgets, however, were a different story. Though not vastly dissimilar in age (the Pee Wees were eight-and nine-year-olds and the Midgets were ten and eleven), the Midgets were ”my guys,” and I intended to turn them into a war machine. At the Midget level, there was real pitching. There was base stealing. There was bunting. And-at least in my vision-there was. .h.i.tting and running, double switching, outfield shading, middle-relieving, and a run-manufacturing offensive philosophy modeled after Whitey Herzog's St. Louis Cardinals. I'm convinced we were the only Midget League team in North Dakota history to have a southpaw closer. I even implemented the concept of physical conditioning to my preseason regime, which immediately raised the eyebrows of some of the less-compet.i.tive parents. However, my explanation for making ten-year-olds run wind sprints was always well-founded. ”The running is not important, in and of itself,” I told one skeptical mother. ”What's important is that 'my guys' realize that success doesn't come without work.” Weeks later, I would learn that this mother respected my idealism but disliked the way I casually used the phrase ”in and of itself.”

To be honest, I was merely coaching these kids the way I had wanted to be coached when I was in fourth grade. I was a pretty f.u.c.king insane ten-year-old. I was the kind of kid who hated authority-but sports coaches were always always an inexplicable exception. For whatever the reason, a coach could tell me anything and I'd just stand there and listen; he could degrade me or question my intelligence or sit me on the bench to prove a point that had absolutely nothing to do with anything I did, and I always a.s.sumed it was completely valid. I never cared that much about winning on an emotional level, but winning always made sense to me intellectually; it seemed like the logical thing to want. Mostly, I just wanted the process of winning to be an inexplicable exception. For whatever the reason, a coach could tell me anything and I'd just stand there and listen; he could degrade me or question my intelligence or sit me on the bench to prove a point that had absolutely nothing to do with anything I did, and I always a.s.sumed it was completely valid. I never cared that much about winning on an emotional level, but winning always made sense to me intellectually; it seemed like the logical thing to want. Mostly, I just wanted the process of winning to be complicated complicated. I was fascinated by anything that made sports more cerebral and less physical; as a consequence, my coaching style became loosely patterned on the life of Wile E. Coyote. We'd practice conventionally from 10:00 to 11:00, but then we'd spend forty-five minutes memorizing a battery of unnecessary third-base signals (I recall that tugging on my ”belt” meant ”bunt,” because both words start with the letter b b). I also a.s.saulted their fifth-grade cerebellums with dozens of strategic hypotheticals: ”Let's a.s.sume our opponent has runners on first and third with no outs, and they send the trail runner to second with the count at 02,” I would theorize. ”What is our objective?” One frail kid with eyegla.s.ses answered pretty much everything; most of the others just discussed their favorite flavors of Big League Chew. I constantly questioned their commitment to excellence.

Still, four or five of ”my guys” were oddly enthusiastic about my Pyramid of Success, and that was enough to kill (or at least scare) most of our early season opponents. But what I kept noticing was that the other fifteen kids on my squad didn't care if we won or lost. They didn't seem to care about anything, anything, really, or at least nothing that had an application to baseball. I couldn't tell what they found more excruciating: when they didn't get to play (because sitting on the bench was boring), or when they really, or at least nothing that had an application to baseball. I couldn't tell what they found more excruciating: when they didn't get to play (because sitting on the bench was boring), or when they had had to play (because that meant another two strikeouts and an hour of praying that no fly b.a.l.l.s would be hit in their general direction). In fact, some of ”my guys” started complaining to their mothers. And near the end of June, I was told to attend the next Wyndmere Park Board meeting for a ”free-form discussion about my coaching style.” to play (because that meant another two strikeouts and an hour of praying that no fly b.a.l.l.s would be hit in their general direction). In fact, some of ”my guys” started complaining to their mothers. And near the end of June, I was told to attend the next Wyndmere Park Board meeting for a ”free-form discussion about my coaching style.”

Now, it should be noted that Wyndmere didn't really need a park board, because Wyndmere doesn't have a park. Wyndmere does have the Rock Garden (not a a rock garden, but rock garden, but the the Rock Garden), which is a stone enclosure that's as big as a city block and augmented by a forty-foot replica of a Scottish castle (it also has a basketball court and several uncomfortable picnic tables). When, who, or why the Rock Garden was built remains a mystery on par with Stonehenge, so living in Wyndmere always made you feel a little like Leonard Nimoy on Rock Garden), which is a stone enclosure that's as big as a city block and augmented by a forty-foot replica of a Scottish castle (it also has a basketball court and several uncomfortable picnic tables). When, who, or why the Rock Garden was built remains a mystery on par with Stonehenge, so living in Wyndmere always made you feel a little like Leonard Nimoy on In Search Of In Search Of. And what's even crazier is that the Wyndmere Park Board had no clear jurisdiction over the Wyndmere Rock Garden; the Wyndmere Park Board seemed to exclusively serve as a legislative body for Little League athletics. When the secretary read the minutes from the May meeting, the only item was, ”Board approves motion to hire Chuck Klosterman as baseball coach.”

Now, had I only been meeting with the actual park board members, I suspect the whole affair would have gone smoothly: I would have outlined my goal-oriented mission statement and expressed deep affinity for the future of ”my guys,” and I would have exited the meeting with nothing more than a gentle reminder to keep everyone's best interest in mind. I have no problem pretending to be conciliatory if the ends justify the means. Unfortunately, a few mothers showed up at the meeting that night as well. And-as we all know-there is nothing more frustrating than a mother who cares about her children.

Predictably, these were the mothers of kids who really had no interest in baseball, or in sports, or in competing against other children in any meaningful way. And that's fine; these kids were great people (possibly), and have gone on to fine careers (perhaps) and wonderful families (I a.s.sume). There's nothing admirable about having the kind of killer instinct that always felt normal to a weirdo like me. I mean, these little guys didn't want to spend two months chasing a stupid leather sphere through the stupid green gra.s.s in stupid right field; they just wanted to do something that kept them under the radar until they got to tenth grade, when they could quit pretending they cared about sports and start listening to Replacements ca.s.settes. I'm sure my guys would have loved loved youth soccer. youth soccer.