“You got a cold, or what, Niemath?” Coach Newtrokni demanded.
“No, Coach.” The flutiness was more muffled now, as Rhino and I shifted in towards Nuke Outlaw to block her further from view.
“Quarterback...” Coach Newtrokni mused. “Make a note to ask the Doc, can he do something about that voice box,” he told the second assistant coach. “Else, how they gonna hear him call the signals?”
The assistant coach completed the roll call. Coach Newtrokni elbowed him aside and again faced the team, rocking from side to side on thick bandy legs. There was open hostility in the gravel being kicked up as he resumed speaking.
“Cards on the table!” he proclaimed. “The Whittier Stonewalls are to pro football what President Ronald Reagan is to the art of summit diplomacy, which is another way of saying this team is a total disaster. Hold it!” His snarl silenced the murmur of protest. “I know most of you guys weren’t here the last two seasons when the Stonewalls earned this rep. On the other hand, if you were any good, you wouldn’t have been signed up by us this year. You’d have been snapped up by some halfway decent team.”
“That go for you too, Coach?” a redheaded linebacker with a faceful of freckles like a measles epidemic wisecracked.
“Now hear this, Foley!” The Coach’s voice sank to a hiss like bubbling lava. “I don’t like honesty. I don’t like forthrightness. I don’t believe my players should tell it like it is. I place a high value on humility, kowtowing, and groveling. My good graces are best entered by a regular tugging of the forelock. In short, Foley—and you’d better remember this—my ass is here to be kissed. Any questions?”
“No, sir, Coach. Foley’s face had turned so white that it looked like the freckles were dribbling off it.
“The first time any of you forget that could cost you fifty; the second time, a hundred; and the third time, you’ll be long gone. Now, to get back to what I was saying about the team. The way I look at it, you guys are a batch of mixed turds, an’ I’m the guy with the shovel who has to mold you into a solid shitpile. Practice and training will do that on the field. Discipline will back that up off the field. Now, you’ll find I don’t operate like other coaches. But the one thing I do have in common with them is that I expect absolute subservience and obedience as regards the rules I set down when it comes to training. These rules have to do with your physical well-being and with your morale.”
“Excuse me, Coach Newtrokni.” A defensive linebacker named Simon Sabbath held up his hand respectfully. “But I’m sure you want to keep our spiritual well-being in mind, as well.”
Lesson One for Defensive Linebackers: Never assume!
“Negative!” The Coach didn’t actually breathe fire it just seemed like he did. “Now hear this! I am an atheist! I will tolerate no Bible-thumpers on my team! All crosses, mezuzzahs, plastic Jesuses, Buddhas, and other religious artifacts will be turned in to the assistant coach here. There will be no prayer breakfasts! There will be no praying at all! Any player who breaks training by sneaking off to church to pray will be fined. There is no place on my team for born again sinners, Catholics who confess, Jews who observe the High Holy Days, dunked Baptists, Buddhists on the track of Nirvana, transcendental meditators, or any other religious believers of any sort. And, since we are a team, I expect you all to feel the same reverence for atheism that I do. Questions?”
“Beg pardon, Coach.” A halfback who had made a name for himself at Columbia dared interrupt. “I’m an agnostic. Is that okay?”
“Negative! Resolve your doubts, Luther. There are no maybes. You want to backslide, you pray I don’t find out about it. And you pray to me, ’cause I’m all there is! Your only deity! Anything else is heresy. Questions?”
The room was silent.
“Okay. Now Training Rule One is, no religion. And Training Rule Two is—” He snapped his fingers at the first assistant coach.
“Curfew.” The f.a.c. came in on cue smoothly, as if someone had pressed his response button.
“Right. Curfew. There will be no curfew for my team. I want my players to stay out late and get up early. Sleep dulls the senses, and I want my players sharp. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. No curfew! No catnaps. No lying around in bed when you could be out cavorting. Now, what do I mean by cavorting?” He snapped his fingers again, this time at the second assistant coach.
“Women!” The s.a.c. spit out the word the way a Salvadoran says “Yankee!”
“Right. Now, some misguided coaches feel that their players should stay away from women and conserve their bodily fluids. I know better. The disposal of semen by use of the orifices of willing women is the best outlet there is for cleansing the body of distracting fluids. It relieves the pressures of desire and frees the body for the business of football. It keeps the whole thing out of the locker room and away from our training quarters. So, go out every night and screw your asses off, fellows. And come back every morning with clear heads and cleansed bodies and play football.”
Simon Sabbath looked on the verge of tears. First he’d been deprived of his religion, and now he was being ordered to sin. What next?
“What next?” Coach Newtrokni snapped his fingers at the f.a.c.
“Diet!” The word whirred from the lips of the f.a.c.
“Right. Diet. Now you men should know that the cornerstone of my atheism is vegetarianism. Some atheists are not vegetarians, and some vegetarians are not atheists, but those poor souls are misguided and could certainly never run a professional football team. Understand me. There will be no steaks at my training table. There will be no red meat. There will be no eggs, milk, or other dairy products.”
“What will there be, Coach?” a tight end was brave enough to ask.
“Carrot salad. Alfalfa with wheat germ. Zucchini. Raw coconut. Sunflower seeds.”
“Potatoes?” another player inquired desperately.
“Yams. Mashed, with yogurt. Other health foods, as well. This will build you up and give you the strength to devastate all those lead-bellied meat-eaters you’re going to come up against.”
“But won’t a diet like that leave us hungry, Coach?”
“Of course it will! That’s the whole idea. Nobody ever felt satisfied after a meal of raw beets and bean sprouts. You’ll be so hungry you’ll be savage. You’ll be unsatisfied carnivores. You’ll tear into that opposing line like a starving pack of jungle cats tear into fresh-killed springbok carrion!”
“Kill!” The s.a.c. snarled.
“Kill!” The f.a.c. gnashed teeth like computer gears.
“Excuse me, Coach. But do we have to drink carrot juice and squeezed celery and like that?”
“Negative! You get to drink—” The finger snap again.
“Beer!” The s.a.c. beat the f.a.c. to the punch. Lesson One for Second Assistant Coaches: Never assume!
“Wrong!” The brown turds behind the thick glasses condemned the s.a.c. “Beer bloats! Hard liquor is much better for you. Hard liquor and stout, which has body. As of right now, bourbon and stout is the official drink of the Whittier Stonewalls! Any objections?”
There were no objections.
“I like to see my men plastered. Plastered is relaxed. Come home sober, and you’ll play like a deacon the next day. Come home relaxed and you’ll be loose as a goose.”
“How about smoking, Coach?” someone inquired.
“Develops the lungs. I recommend a minimum of three packs a day if you want to last on this team.”
“Grass, Coach?”
“Stoned is even more relaxed than plastered. I suggest a joint at the start of each game and another one at halftime. Any more questions?”
There were no more questions.
“Okay. Now, just one more thing.” The harsh tone changed, softened, became more conciliatory, more paternal. '°There’ll come a time for each of you when you have a problem that you want to talk over. Maybe it’ll be a problem having to do with the team. Maybe it’ll be financial. Maybe it’ll be personal. Maybe it’ll involve a girlfriend, or a sick mother, or a faithful old dog that’s dying. Now, guys, do you know who you can go to when you have some such problem?”