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So what does this have to do with my kid? I think he’s given in. I mean given in to all this tree-hugger shit.

He tells me “Hey dad… don’t worry… the coach is just trying to give the other kids a chance.” A chance at what? A chance to loose?
And his mother? My wife… shit… a good women… but she would side with the kid in an instance. “Stan… he’s just trying to be team member. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

No… there’s nothing wrong with that… not if you want to spend the rest of your life in line with the losers.

Forget the game. Look at them… there’s no way they are going to win that game.

It’s the coach… he’s poisoned their minds. Filled it will all that P.C. stuff. I ran into the coach one night, in a bar. I went up to him and told him… straight out… “My kid is good… my kid can make your team a winner… you know that you stupid son-of-a-bitch. Let him pitch. I’m getting tired of dragging him to your games, just to see him sit on the bench… twiddling his thumbs… while your fat-assed lazy under-achievers prance around the field like a bunch of ballet dancers.”

He got the message. The school called me and warned me that if I ever pulled a stunt like that again, that my kid would be dropped from the team.

My kid even came to me, crying… crying is eyes out. He told me I embarrassed him… that all the kids at school were making fun of him. His daddy is crazy. And the kid agreed with them. He blamed me. He wanted me to stay out of his business.

It was MY business. He is MY son. I haven’t signed any papers giving that school the right to raise my kid. I brought him into this world… and…

Ok… now they put him back into the game. See that… now that their ass is in a hole, they’re going to dump all the responsibility on his back.

Have you ever thought about killing someone? It seems strange at first. You can’t quite figure out why you would think of such a thing. It isn’t in your nature… that’s what you tell yourself. You forget about it for a while… but it comes back. You already know that you could do it… but you keep telling yourself it’s just some sort of fantasy.

But then it becomes sort of a mind-game. If you really wanted to do it… how would you… where would you… when would you? You start to work out the details. You pass by the baseball field, looking over the place. You mentally check out the places where no one would see you, the bathrooms, underneath the bleachers, maybe in that clump of trees behind the outfield. You think about the time of day… afternoon after a game… a private meeting… maybe in front of everyone?

What kind of weapon? Everyone knows how to shoot a gun, even if you have never done it. Guns are easy to get, you may have a few in your house. Just for protection… that’s what you said when you bought it. To protect the little lady and the kids.

At some point you put the gun in the car with you. Hell… the crime rate has gone up in the neighborhood… maybe it would be a good idea to keep a little protection nearby. You’d never use it, but it makes you feel better.

Do you remember that day? Did you read about it in the papers? It was one of those things. The wife didn’t wake me up on time… so I raced out of the house with the kid and barely made it to the game before it started. The kid was supposed to open the game, but the coach benched him for being late.

The game was a disaster. They lost… 13 to zero. I was never so mad at the coach as I was on that day. And I let him know it. Every inning… every error… I let him know it… loud enough so everyone could hear me. I let him know what a dumb-assed excuse he was for a coach.

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