The mustache. The sneer. The polyester pants wrapped tightly around the beergut. The Coors-fueled rage that often simmered beneath the surface, only to emerge on the sidelines in the midst of battle. You, sir, were the quintessential assistant football coach. Not to mention your math classes. Maybe it was just my high school, but it always struck me as odd that so many math classes were taught by coaches. Perhaps you were driven to it by the game, for with all the uncertainty that comes with sports, maybe you needed the absolute certain finality that only numbers could provide. A squared + B squared = C squared, goddammit.
Except I didn't play football, and I never sat in any of your classes. No, you and I came into contact when you landed the job of assistant soccer coach. It was immediately apparent that you knew very little about the game. But what you lacked in soccer knowledge, you made up for with your ability to make some motherfuckers run some laps. You also totally rocked at getting mad. We weren't the worst team in the district, but we were pretty far from the best, so we did endure a few ass-kickings. I remember near the end of one particularly bloody slaughter, you called a time-out so that you could scream at us. "I don't care if you have to punch somebody, just make something happen!" I'm pretty sure we failed you in that regard. Ah well, I'm sure you had a La-Z-Boy and a six pack to go home to.