the interview

The coach took a long drag on his cigarette, then a drink from his bottle. It was past midnight and he was in his campus office with the new beat reporter from the Daily News. He said, “You know all those blowhards – I’m not going to name names – who pass out all this sanctimonious bullshit about why they coach? Because they’re competitors. Because of the kids. Because … shit. I could go on and on.” The reporter nodded. He was young, too, too young, his editor at the paper would soon discover. “It’s all about one thing. Are you ready?” The reporter nodded, again. “Coaching is finite. That’s right. There’s an end to it. And if you fuck up – when you fuck up – you always get another chance, or mostly always. There’s always another game. Maybe not as big as the last one, but another one, just the same, and you know, too, that all you have to do is be good enough for an hour or two. It’s defined. You think all these guys are fucking geniuses?” The reporter shook his head, this time. “Most of them couldn’t pee by themselves if they had to do a real job. In real life, they’d be losers. And isn’t it funny that they’re the ones writing the books about how to be successful.” He paused, then said, “My fucking ass.” He looked at the reporter. The kid’s mouth was wide open, now. The coach said, “Aw, shit, you’re just a kid. Just my luck.”