Uncoachable kids become unemployable adults. You’ve gotta get your kids used to someone being tough on them. That’s just the way it is. That’s life. Kids aren’t really kids nowadays. They cry too much. They don’t hit the ball the way they used to. None of them want to be the hero of the game. Marcus is crying in the locker room; he’s trying to be quiet about it, but I can hear him sobbing. He has to shed a few tears over that dropped ball, so next time he won’t miss it. It sounds harsh, but kids have got to learn to be ball players or they won’t learn to be anything. Our team’s still in it for the trophy, but we won’t win it unless these kids get it together. Rubbish, rubbish, dropping the ball, slippery fingers.

The kids don’t like me, but they respect me, and even if they complain about me when they think I’m not listening, deep down they know a coach like me is good for them. I give them an edge on the competition. They get a head start on life from me. My ball players are going to be the iron bars of the workforce. No team with a “nice” coach ever won a trophy. No nice man ever got to the head of his company. You’ve got to throw your weight around. You’ve got to learn about authority.
The other day we had our second ballgame of the season. The kids started out playing their best. We were up two runs in the eighth inning and I was feeling pretty good about myself, when all of a sudden Marcus dropped an easy fly and his game went to pieces. I called a timeout and went to have a word with him. “Marcus,” I said, “Marcus, boy, you can’t drop the ball like that. You’re going to lose us the game. Come on. I know you’re better than that.” Not even that mean, even though I did yell a bit. It’s all about walking a line, so that the kid cries, but not until after the game. The boys ended up winning when Charlie got a lucky hit and cleared the bases, and they all picked up Charlie and carried him around on their shoulders until I told them they had to stop.

“Listen,” I told them, once I had them all gathered around me, “In a moment you’re going to go out and shake the other team’s hands. The trick is to grip harder than the other boy so his fingers hurt. Do you think you can do that?” They all told me they could. Some of the parents on the PTA would have a problem with it, but I say as long as they’re shaking hands, they’re as sportsmanlike as they need to be. Sportsmanship is for the losing team, after all, is what I always say. Ha!

These boys are lucky to have a coach like me. I really care about being a coach. I’m the best one in the whole league.

Today I was coaching the boys, having them practice running the bases. They were working up a real sweat, this was old-style training, good training. All the boys were listening to me. We were making real progress. Then out of nowhere comes this pasty administrator guy who’s probably never hit a baseball in his life and he starts talking to Charlie. I could see Charlie trying to break away and run another lap, but the administrator wouldn’t let him go and kept asking him stupid questions.

“Well, how do you do, Charles,” the administrator asks him, “So, I ran into your mother the other day in town, and I saw that she was walking your neighbor’s dog. So I asked her, what’s the dog’s name, and she says he’s is called Mowgli. Do you know where the name Mowgli comes from, Charles?”

“Yes,” Charlie said in a small voice, “Mowgli is from the Jungle Book.”

“Very good,” says the administrator, “Aren’t you a clever little boy. Now, do you know who wrote the Jungle Book?”

“Rudyard Kipling,” says Charlie, obviously trying to pull away, but the great pasty administrator grabs him by the shoulders and won’t let him go. “What a bright little boy you are,” says the administrator in a syrupy voice. Damn me, I’m harsh on my boys but I’m not about to let some earthworm of an administrator talk to them like they’re morons.

“You leave him alone,” I tell him, “How stupid do you think my athletes are? As stupid as you? Leave them alone, you great grub.” I give him a shove for good measure.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, Mr. Larson,” he tells me gleefully, “I’m going to tell the principal about you. I’m going to tell them that you are causing emotional harm to your young athletes, and in addition to that, you are disrespectful to your superiors in this school district’s employ.”

“Well, I’m going to tell the principal that you’re a great fat fuck of a pedophile who won’t take your hands off of ten-year-old boys.” I give him another shove. I really shouldn’t, but now I’m mad for real. “You leave Charlie alone! You leave him alone, I tell you! Now get away from here and let us finish our workout. Don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you, Mr. Kopper.”

“Well, I think,” says Mr. Kopper, “That this does concern me, because I care about the wellbeing of the students here. I worry that you are working your athletes too hard, and not giving them time to be kids.”

“Of course they’re being kids,” I roar, “Don’t be daft, Kopper! They’re good kids, too, not absolute pussies like the ones you’re raising. They can throw and catch and run and they aren’t afraid to get dirty! And they’re smart, too, you saw Charlie could answer all your stupid questions. That’s because he’s a ballplayer. Ballplayers have discipline. You need discipline if you’re going to get anywhere in life, that’s my motto. Your kids, I bet, they’re going to grow up like you, a great big lump with nothing to do, probably living off the public dole if there aren’t any administrator jobs left by the time they grow up.”

“Oh, but Mr. Larson,” cooes that great pasty administrator Kopper, “I know you feel very strongly about this, but you need to keep up with current research. It isn’t good for kids, to treat them this way. They need a warm and loving space where they can learn and grow.”

“They need you-” I say, and get right up in his face, “To get off their asses!” He looks a little bit scared of me, now. His tiny beady eyes are watering and he’s gone deathly pale, even paler than usual. Good, let him be afraid of me. I’m not really going to hurt him, he’s just a coward fool. “Mr. Kopper, I’ve been coaching kids this way for forty years, and every one of my ballplayers has grown up successful and ready for the workplace. They learn young, things like respect, and deference, and that life isn’t fair. And they just have to get used to that.” I look Mr Kopper dead in the eye. He flinches first. “Now get out of here, mister. Ten more laps, boys. Faster! Slowest one gets it.”

See, that’s another thing I’ve learned coaching these boys. You can’t reward the winner, or everyone wants a trophy, and there aren’t trophies in the real world. What you have to do is you have to punish the loser. That keeps them focused on what they’ve got to do. That’s what the real world is like. Marcus is the last to finish his laps. He’s a weedy little kid, with long legs and big ears. Too skinny. That kid has got to learn to eat. He’ll learn soon enough is what will have to happen.

Anyway, he rounded the bases last, and he had a couple of tears in the corner of his eyes because he knew what was going to happen next. I decided I was going to go easier on him than I could’ve, because he was a good kid. Even a tough coach like me, I know when to back off. “Ten burpees,” I tell him, “But they’ve got to be perfect form, or I might change my mind.”

“Yes sir,” he says. He’s shaking, a little bit. Marcus needs to toughen up. His parents aren’t raising him right. I’ve never seen a kid like him in all the years I’ve been coaching. He’s always shaking and crying and carrying on. Maybe it’s something they put in the water these days that turns the kids into little wimps. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll have a word with him after practice and see if I can’t get to the bottom of it.

Next I tell the kids that we’re going to practice passes. I pair them off, Marcus with Jimmy, Charlie with Koch, and so on, down the line, then I hand them each a ball and tell them to play catch. Every time they drop the ball, they both have to get down and do five pushups, and if I see anyone cheating, there’ll be trouble.

Mostly, the balls stay in the air. I’ve got the best team in the league, and it’s because I’m not scared to be their coach. I don’t want to be their friend or their dad. I’m in charge. They’ve got to learn to respect me. That’s just the way it is. After they finish the drill, I tell them they can all get a drink from the water cooler. Marcus holds up the line; he drinks for a few minutes straight and everyone else is getting antsy.

“Hey!” I tell him, “You done there?”

“In a bit, sir,” he says meekly. That won’t do. He’s done when I say he’s done, not in a bit.

“Well, then, Marcus,” I tell him, “You keep drinking. You’re going to drink until that water cooler is empty, if you want water so bad.” The cooler holds five gallons. It’s orange and thick, well insulated so the water will stay cold. I spent good money on that cooler. It’s real big. Marcus looks up at it with dismay. It’s nearly full.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and he starts to drink. At first he drinks slowly, but then he realizes it will be better for him if he gets the whole thing over with, and starts to drink faster. I can see every gulp traveling down his pale neck. He’s really young, his adam’s apple hasn’t sprouted yet but I can see it bobbing beneath his skin when he makes a particularly huge swallow. I’m actually impressed with him, I thought he was going to give up or start crying again but he drinks and drinks and in just a few minutes he’s drained the whole cooler. I realize I’ve been holding my breath; I didn’t believe he’d really do it. He can barely stand, but he did what I told him to, and that’s worth a lot, in my book.”

“Is Marcus okay?” asks Jimmy, when they go back to playing catch. Marcus keeps dropping easy balls, and he looks a bit ill. “He looks like something’s wrong with him.”

“He’ll be fine,” I say, “He’s just a bit waterlogged, is all. A fish can handle that much water, and you boys are tougher than fish, aren’t you?” I chuckle, but nobody else does. Damn kids don’t laugh at my jokes. I can’t really punish them for that, but I want to.

“My dad says that if you drink too much water all at once like that, you can die,” says Charlie. His eyes are wide. As soon as he says it, all the kids get nervous. I know they’re faking it; they weren’t all antsy until Charlie the smartass said something his dad told him once. Probably it isn’t true. Marcus is fine, he’s just a bit sick to his stomach. He’ll be alright. I tell the kids to stop whispering and get back to playing catch.

“Look, you guys,” I tell them, “If you play some really good passes right now, we’ll have time at the end of practice for sharks and minnows.” They look excited for that. Little boys love tag. It’s in their blood. they just want to hunt each other down - they love it. Charlie still looks a bit worried, but the rest of the kids shut up about how Marcus might be dying and get back to playing catch.

I think we really might win the championship this year. We’ve got a good team. Willy and Patrick Greeney haven’t dropped the ball in nearly twenty catches. They’re identical twins, both great athletes. I think a lot of it is because of the competition. They both want to be better than the other twin. Because they’re so similar they don’t have any excuses for losing. You treat kids fairly but you keep the expectations tight, and you get real, talented, disciplined ballplayers.

“Coach Larson!” I hear a reedy little voice from the end of the lineup and I turn. It’s Charlie, the smart one. Smart enough to know better than to call me coach Larson. So I don’t answer him. “Sir!”

“Fine! What is it, Charlie?”

“Sir, we have to stop,” pants the little boy, “I think something’s wrong with Marcus. And I’m not just saying it to get out of playing ball, either, I swear, sir. Honest, I think something’s really wrong with him. We have to stop playing.”

“Alright, alright,” I groan, “But if you’re lying, you’ll stay behind and do extra burpees. Now, what’s wrong with Marcus?”

“He’s over there,” says Charlie, pointing at the dugout. Marcus is a little slouched shape. His jersey is too big, it balloons around him. He doesn’t look well. I walk over to him.

“What’s wrong, Marcus?” I ask, then gently, “How are you feeling?” He gives a little groan like a tired dog.

“I don’t feel very good, sir. I’m dizzy, and my tummy hurts.” Now, dizziness and a sore, tummy, that happens every day. I don’t stop practice just because one little boy is winded and has a stomach cramp or else we’d never get to playing ball. But I’m worried about Marcus, not because of what he’s told me, but because of what he hasn’t. His voice is quiet and cracking, and when he looks at me he looks off to the side, not meeting my eye, as though he can’t see me.

Little boys love to complain. They’ll whine for hours over a scrape on their knee or a stuffed up nose, they’ll cry over a broken bone. So when they aren’t complaining much you begin to wonder if something’s really truly wrong with them. Or I do, anyway.
“Listen to me, boys!” I shout. They all gather round. Charlie is whispering something to his neighbors, who look worried. I wish I could have a word with his parents. Raising such a smartass kid never goes well. “I’m going to take Marcus to the doctor to have him checked out. The rest of you, stay here. Jimmy, you find a teacher and tell her what happened. If any of you cause trouble, you sit out Saturday’s game.”

They all nod yes sir. I grab Marcus, who can’t stand up at this point, and we get in the car. I drive a pickup. It’s dark blue and I keep it shiny. I’ve never had a kid in there before. There’s something wrong with the tank; whenever I drive, I smell petroleum. I should get it checked out, but I don’t have time to worry about that now. Marcus has his eyes closed, and he’s moaning a little, but so quietly I can barely hear him over the hum of the engine. I’m worried about him for real now.

He makes a little coughing noise, like a cat with a hairball, and I know what that means. I pull over real fast and open his door. He retches twice and throws up and enormous amount. There’s no blood in it, at least, mostly just water, but not nearly as much as he drank. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jersey, and I help him back into the car. He looks at me with half-closed, dreamy eyes. “Where are we going, dad?” I’m not his father. I bite my lip and drive faster.

When we get to the Emergency Room, I look over and see that Marcus is out cold. He’s still breathing, at least, so I think it will be okay. The hospital has wheelchairs, but I worry that there isn’t time to grab one, so I scoop Marcus up in my arms and carry him. He’s so little, lighter than a soccer goal and much more wieldy. I carry him to the front desk and they check him in, then he’s called up again almost immediately.

The emergency room is so damned expensive, and all of it will go on Marcus’s father’s credit card. It’s going to look really bad if it turns out to be something that could have waited until tomorrow. Oh well, that’s what his parents get for raising a sickly kid. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t!

The nurse asks me a lot of questions. She’s nosy. I decide not to tell her about the toilet paper stuck to her heel. I’ll let her find that out later. She asks me, over and over, what happened. “We were playing baseball,” I tell her, “At practice, for the big game. We ran laps, and then we played catch, and then Marcus started to look funny.”

“Did he have anything to eat or drink?” she asks.

“A lot of water. But water can’t hurt anyone.”

“How much water?”

“I don’t know,” I say, exasperated, “Two gallons, three.” Her eyes get wide and she tells me that the hospital is going to admit Marcus, and that I had better go ahead and call his parents. I don’t want to, but I do. I just tell them that Marcus got sick and I took him to the hospital and they should come. I don’t tell them about the water.
Marcus was okay, in the end. He got really really sick, and was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, the first one he stayed in intensive care and couldn’t have anything to eat. After he finally got out of the hospital, he was really sickly. He’d always been skinny, but this was much worse than before. He gained the weight back, eventually, but he had a caution and a mistrust to him that never really went away.

He never came back to practice. Charlie had told everyone, in a hard whisper, about how if you drank too much water all at once, especially if you exercised, you could get sick and maybe even die. The Greeney twins were pulled from the team by their mother right after that. When I saw her in the supermarket, she wouldn’t look at me. Jimmy stayed on the team, and became the captain. I almost lost my job, but in the end I didn’t. Mr. Kopper was all for firing me, but he was ultimately outvoted. The administrators concluded that it had all been a freak accident, and there was no use firing a good coach over an honest mistake.

We lost the championship that year.