Sometimes I Have To Lie

[Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.]

Dear Gary Meicen and the lovely Mrs.,

A good coach once told me to listen. And I respected that coach. Then, after I became a good listener, another coach told me something that I heard because my listening had really advanced to the verge of going PRO. I wish, incidentally, that Name That Tune was still on the tube, because then none of this would have happened, because with my listening superbness, I would have chosen naming tunes for money as my ambition in life.

However, not to delay, that second coach said to me, “Sean, sometimes I have to lie to you to make things work better for me.” That coach was also my dad. That dad is now in the hall-of-fame of Little League Coaches, in Western Indiana, mainly because he was a good coach, but also because he was killed by an errant log that was helping construct a new dugout. No one knew my Dad was in the half-finished dugout receiving oral pleasure from a dentist’s wife (who was lonely because her husband was more married to his job than her) and so he was killed as a crane dropped it (log), due to the crane operator having accidentally taken his wife’s anxiety medication (Xanax) that morning. To avoid harsh lawsuits and to make the whole matter go away, the town paid for the funeral of my dad as well as his induction ceremony and agreed to send me to Bakersfield Community College on a full-tuition scholarship, where I would have probably batted .450 if I hadn’t discovered a little study pill. That study pill led me directly out of college and to a sickness that was only cured by a lot of love, a little jail time, and a pair of those grip-strengtheners that allowed me to focus during prayer sessions. (Also, those grips were medically proven to put an end to my massive teeth-grinding problem.)

Now before you start bawling and saying how much you forgive me now that you understand “where Coach Sean is coming from,” please listen on account of this gets even better.

At first, Meicen family, I lied. I really did call your boy, Jason Meicen, “stud.” I was not, so you know, unfamiliar with the meaning of that term as it relates to the breeding of livestock, but knew that, in spite of that (breeding stuff), it sounded cool and, besides that, was a proven confidence builder among boys of his age. Especially in situations where I am going to need to exploit your boy’s trust, like in scaring an opposing ballplayer. So I am sure you now will thank me for helping you raise a tough guy, no? And by the way, like many politicians and some dads, I lied to you to protect YOU. Baseball is a rugged game. It is not for the squeamish. It is not like a murder scene, either though, so come on!!!!

BUT I will not employ a term like “stud” anymore, even though it is not a swear, you have to admit that. So I did learn the error of my ways.

Now for a new thing: Mrs. Meicen, I saw you and your sisters in attendance at our match vs. the BPOE Elks on Wednesday of last week, where we won 7-6 in extra innings but should have won by more with no extra innings. My point that I am coming to is I would like to buy your attractive sister some ice cream and play some music for her in a private situation, not the bleachers. What is the best way to contact her?

Your coach,

Sean