Hearing the crack of a can helped...

My dad didn't think I was cut out to be a college coach. He didn't see that his little girl who used to throw up in trash cans on the side lines of the Drexel Hill Middle School track before CYO meets could handle the pressure of coaching professionally. I was so nervous to run. I knew I was slow and I hated losing. It was a pretty stressful situation for a 12 year old. You know what I've learned? Those who can't do (well enough to be the best), teach. Or in this case, coach.

We got our asses beat today. This is the perfect storm of a season- only goalie is out with a concussion and four or five of the twelve players who have skill are injured. Another got hit in the head with a shot today. It's been bad- and it's only getting worse.

I don't remember the score exactly but it was something like bad guys: mid twenties- good guys: high single digits. It was so annoying. Worst part? Dick head male coach was pressuring my goal keeper on our defensive clears- after they were up by 12, 13, 14, 15+ goals. I called a time out to tell my squad something to the affect of "look, they're a bunch of a-holes just keep playing hard, and don't do anything stupid like get ejected, etc."

Dad was a little off. I know I'm cut out to be a coach. What I'm not sure I'm cut out for is figuring out how to get them to take the reigns and figure it out on their own. I DEFINITELY think I'd be better able to get through the season if I could drink a damn beer.

I'll probably edit this tomorrow. I'm blerrrrging from my telephone.

Blerg.

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