Stan

by Walter L. Newton

(When the curtain opens or the lights come up, we see Stan. He is dressed in grey pants and a grey shirt)

That’s my kid out there. Look at him… watch that pitch. Major league material. He’s 16 years old. He’s been playing baseball since he was eight. I’ve been with him right from the beginning. Driving him to this ball field, to that ball field. I worked overtime to pay for his equipment. He has a drivers license now. He can drive me to the games. It’s a beginners license, so I still have to be in the car.

Look at the coach… bastard… I didn’t mean that. But he pisses me off sometimes. He’s got a problem with winning. He says my kids too competitive. He says being part of a
team is more important than winning.

Where did he come up with that crap. I’ll tell you, my kid knows about winning. I taught him. You see that SUV over there, look at his uniform, those shoes of his cost me more than a plane ticket to New York.

That’s because I’m a winner. That’s because I learned how to lead the team, not get lost in the second string.

Now look at that shit. The coach is taking him out of the game just to give another kid a chance to pitch. My kid hasn’t given up a run in three innings and has struck out four batters. Why don’t we just tuck our tails between our legs and become women?

I don’t care… much. But what is this doing to the kids. Makes them fell worthless. That’s how they treated me when I was young. I was a little fat kid then. We’d play dodge ball and the other team would make sure I was the last one left in the game. Then they would grab all the extra basketballs and pelt me good.

Fucking gym teacher would just stand there… laughing. I would go home and tell dad what happened… and he’d punch me in the face. Then he would dare me to punch him back. He said he was teaching me a lesson. “Fight back you little pansy… don’t let them get the best of you.”

Shit… two runs in six pitches. Where the fuck is the coach? Is he even watching this?

No… I didn’t punch him back… never. I was chicken shit at the time. And that wasn’t the only time he punched me. If I got an “f” on a test, when I failed my Boy Scout exam, if I wimped out on a date…

Bam… bam… bam… “That’ll teach you a lesson.”

I’m not going to let my kid get treated like I was. I told him about my dad… how he was. I told my kid that if I ever smacked him it was because I loved him. “Kid… you’re going to be a winner and don’t you ever let any motherfucker tell you otherwise.”

Oh god… I have to watch my language around here. I may accidentally insult someone. One day the coach told me… “Hey Stan… cool it… some of these parents don’t want to hear that shit.”

So what is all this non-competitive sports stuff all about? Why do we teach them how to play the game if we stop short of teaching them about winning. It’s for their self-esteem… they say. Bullshit… nobody in life is going to give you jack for your self-esteem. I didn’t get an office with a window-view because of any self-esteem. I didn’t get a company car and a expense account because I felt all warm and cuddly about myself. I got what I got because I fought for it.

My kid hooked into all of this “I’m Okay, You’re Ok” crap. Once… get a load of this… once he went to the coach and asked him to pull him from the game so some other weasel-assed kid could have a chance to pitch. My kid will never forget the lesson I taught him that night. But you know I love him… he’s still on my side.

(continued)