My name is Darren Mitchell. You may know me as “Coach Darren.” I’m a 42 year-old recently divorced but devoted father of two wonderful children, William and Bree. You’ve probably seen these rascals at the playground, at Happy Harry’s Ice Cream on Saturday evenings (actually, every other Saturday evening), or maybe they share a classroom with your own children (assuming your children live in the fancy schmancy Riverview Area School District…thanks another billion, Sherry). I’m also the new claims adjuster for Bentleyville Insurance Co. In fact, I may have visited your place after last week’s storm. (Don’t shoot. I’m just doing my job. LOL.) Most importantly, I donate two nights a week to coach a Pee Wee baseball team: the Lil’ Happy Harry’s. I love it…teaching teamwork, instilling confidence, and especially seeing smiles on the kids’ faces.
That said, you bet your ass I threw at that showboat Eddy Thomkins in the bottom of the fifth inning last night. I don’t care that he’s “only” six. Rub some dirt in it, pip squeak. You’re never too young to be taught to respect the game. Folks need to understand that by intentionally beaning Eddy Thomkins I was actually teaching the twerp about gamesmanship, just like I teach more likeable kids to catch with two hands or to keep their eyes on the ball.
Let me explain myself to the average fan. The ‘Lil Happy Harry’s were already down six runs in the second inning, and the bases were loaded with Mini Budget Oil Changes when Eddy strutted to the plate like he was king-shit. He got ahead in the count 3-0. Then, I grooved one right down the middle. Baseball etiquette says to lay off the pitch and take a strike. But what does that little pecker do? He swings super hard. And hits a fly ball to right field. Right field! Of course, poor Robbie Swanson doesn’t expect to have to make a play in right field, for Christ’s sake. Eddy sees that Robbie is doodling in the grass. So, flashy little dickweed that he is, Eddy flips his bat like it’s nobody’s business.
I know a lot of parents don’t think Eddy flipped his bat, but I’m telling you he absolutely did. It was very subtle, like raising a middle finger just high enough to say “f’ you, Darren” but not high enough to later deny it.
Then, rather than hustle, the little turd starts trotting around the bases like he’s Kirk freaking Gibson in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. Keep in mind, the ball is still in play! Granted, Robbie is picking his nose and doing some kind of weird moonwalk-yodeling thing while the ball is slowly rolling to the warning track. Regardless, why does that Thomkins kid gotta’ make such a spectacle of himself?
That shit doesn’t fly with Coach Mitchell. I’m old school, baby.
If you think I’m a monster for cracking Eddy when he batted again in the fifth inning, it’s because you simply don’t understand or don’t know or don’t care about the unwritten rules of baseball. Sure, the umpire gave me a stern warning, but that’s only because the stupid “real” rule book says that he is obligated to. Any true baseball man knows that the real real rules are the ones nobody bothered to jot down, and he teaches them with beanballs, and maybe a concussion or two.
I know what you’re thinking: “Darren, now I understand why you threw a baseball at a child. Thank you for teaching the uppity twat a lesson. But why did you throw at him again while he was holding back tears and walking to first base?” Fair question. The answer to this one is a bit more complicated. His father is James Thomkins. While I was watching Eddy drag himself to first base all I could think about was his old man and his old man’s new chick, my ex-wife Sherry, getting busy in the Cracker Barrel bathroom. I just got so lost in my thoughts that I snatched a ball from the bucket and chucked it. Eddy just happened to be in the ball’s flight path. I’m a victim of circumstance here.
Now, the third ball that nailed Eddy while he was crumpled on the base path was meant for him. Anything that comes from the loins of that fuckface James Thomkins…
Ok. Get a hold of yourself, Darren.
Listen, Sherry. I’m sorry. Especially for that time I got so cranked-up that I literally threw Miss Puss out the bedroom window. I was so tired of her fluffy ass sitting on my face and purring in the middle of the night. But would an “incurable powder keg who just happens to fart way too much in public,” as you so artfully put in at the custody hearings, apologize in public?
I’m also sorry for attempting to put the ump in a figure-four leglock when he charged at me after I pointed at the bleachers and yelled “ You’re next for donging my wife, you impotent cuck,” as I dug another ball from the bucket. I realized after dropping the volunteer umpire (who I later learned is Reverend Stein) with an eye gouge and flopping around about the mound for about ten seconds that I didn’t even know how to execute a proper leglock. That’s why I just ended up whipping a baseball at the reverend.
Listen. You people don’t know how much pressure is on a claims adjuster. The workload, the miles, the neighbors... My adrenaline was pumping after the leglock shitshow. When I looked up at the angry faces in the bleachers I had a flashback to all the disgruntled clients who had to sit down with me after last week’s storm and answer intrusive questions about roof upkeep. Do you think I like my shitty job? I need to do something to pay child support. That’s why I started firing baseballs at the unsuspecting grandparents in the top rows like a Satchel Paige Gatling gun.
I OWE SO MUCH IN BACK ARREARS!!! I’M JUST A DUDE TRYING TO CLAW HIS WAY THROUGH LIFE.
RESPECT THE GAME. I GOT BUCKETLOADS OF BASEBALLS AND A LOOSE-ASS ARM. RESPECTME, GODDAMMIT! RESPECT DARREN!!!
…Anyway, you won’t see me on the mound for 5, maybe 3 years with good behavior. I’m sorry for all the fuss I caused. I guess I also learned a lesson, just like that brat Eddy. I can do better. We can all do better. By the way, if anyone is available to umpire for the next few weeks please contact your child’s coach, unless I’m your child’s coach.
Peace and respect,
Coach Darren
Gunmeddle 