It was late my freshman season, a roadie in Baltimore, the first time I saw coach go that completely off the rails—eyes bugging out all pink and blue and shaking like baby rattles, face shining and tomato-red, and this vein, big as your finger, bulging down his forehead.
Now I’d seen him plenty pissed before, like the time I snuck a teeny sliver of soap into his post-practice whirlpool session, which ejected suds all over the training room and put naked coach slippy-sliding onto his ass after a performance like Bambi on ice.
“You motherf—ers better have come to play tonight and don’t embarrass yourselves in front of this crowd, because they will eat you for f—–g lunch and run your asses back to Syracuse,” he screamed and pounded his fist into his hand again and again.
After another ten minutes of chalktalk-less ranting, screaming, sweating and more profanity laced with face-to-face accusations of certain Oedipal freakishness, he croaked out, “Now go out there and tear a new asshole into those motherf—ers,” spun on his heel and nearly tore the locker room door off its hinges as he stormed the court.
I guess I was still kind of bug-eyed when I looked over at our trainer, Buddy Larocque, poking his head like a gopher above the pile of towels in his arms, where he’d been smothering a laugh, as he said, “Get used to three more of these kid…he always goes off like this every year when we play here in front of his mom.”
I’m not really sure if it was watching Coach Jim Boeheim’s recent wig out at Virginia or remembering my old football coach in college (I actually did the soap bit to a senior who treated us freshman like you-know-what) that brought forth this quickie in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt, Furious.