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Monday, April 30, 2012


It is the anniversary of last years big event.  As Cranky is on vacation and in honor of the occasionI am submiting a rerun from last April

The big wedding is coming up.  Everyone will be able to watch the pomp and circumstance of Prince William and Princess-to-be Kate’s ceremony.  Millions and millions will watch on TV, the internet, and it will be filmed for posterity.  Only a select few will enjoy the royal reception.

Here is what we will all miss:

William and Kate are introduced, “And now for the first time ever as Prince and Princess” to Steve Martin singing “King Tut.”

Prince Charles is introduced as the “Future King, and perhaps current Queen”.

Camilla is announced as “Charlie’s friend”.

A major faux pas is committed when the Queen and Prince Phillip are introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Mountbatten.

The DJ is introduced to the castle dungeon.

All the guests join in to dance the traditional “Hoity Toity”:

Put your right arm in; try not to be real loud;

Make your hand a little cup and you wave it like your proud;

You do the Hoity Toity and you smile a phony smile;

That’s how you please the crowd.

Before dinner is served and when everyone is seated, the Prince and Princess shake hands after much glass clinking.  Then comes the highlight to the evening, the Prince’s College chum stands to make the Best-man speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Dukes and Duchesses, Earls and Earlesses, Princes, Queen, future Kings and most commons….. I was told not to use commoners; I have known William for ten years.  Let me tell you, he is a real Royal.  A royal pain in the ass! (Rim shot) What a bore.  His favorite game is checkers.  He loves to say ‘King me’ (Rim shot).

William could have gone to college anywhere.  He was accepted in the states to several schools.  He turned down Princeton, been there done that! (Rim shot)   Duke was beneath him. (Rim shot)   Queens College was out of the question (Rim shot) Kings College is in Brooklyn, next to Queens, that was too confusing. (Rim shot)  He settled on St. Andrews.  

Willy wanted to study Oceanography until he realized he was The Prince of Wales; the island, not the fish. (Rim shot)   Bill wanted to try his hand at the theater.  When his first play was finished the audience took a bow. (Rim shot)  William will be a perfect King.  When he goes to the loo he uses a real throne! (Rim shot)

Of course Charlie over here is going to be King first.  That’s what Liz said.  I quote ‘he will be King over my dead body’. (Rim shot)   Charlie you will be a great King, one who will listen to the people.  Everyone says you are all ears! (Rim shot)   Charles got thrown out of a casino the other day.  He wanted to play craps, but he couldn’t hang on to the Di! (Rim shot)   Wow Camilla, that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile since…..well you know. (Rim shot)  Look at the Queen; she knows what I’m talking about!

Then there is Katie.  Katie, William promises to treat you like a Princess.  I know he loves you, he has told me so.  ’Alf,’ he told me, ‘I love her…whatever love is.(Rim shot)   I know he thinks you are very intelligent he always tells me how much he loves your head! (Rim shot)   Just remember William’s house really is his castle. (Rim shot)  Finally, Katie I hope you know what you’re getting into.  This is permanent.    The only escape is to tunnel your way out!” (Rim shot)

At least the DJ had some company.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Headlines 043012

Headlines 043012

The Crankys are chillin in Bermuda, but I still have time for this week’s silly headlines and my stupid, sophomoric and sometimes offensive comments.

2 arrested for allegedly planting deadly booby traps on Utah walking trailEveryone knows that booby’s are not in season until May!

Va. couple accidentally shot at gun safety classHusband and wife both will receive a failing grade.

Man Wished to Have Wife Murdered as a Birthday PresentWife was hoping for a fur coat instead.

Woman Spills Yogurt on ObamaTurns out the President is anti-probiotic

Tour bus features porn star, free breast examsSign me up!

North Korea claims to have 'mobile weapons' capable of striking USOh YEAH….well we have FOOD!!

Tennessee bar to livestream Sunday church sermon – They will be serving red wine only, in very tiny cups; wafers in bowls will be offered on the bar.

Does the G-spot exist? New study fuels debateExperts claim it is right between the F-spot and the H-spot, but for some unknown reason men cannot find it.

Key prosecution witness in Edwards' trial Young set for more grilling Oops! Nevermind, I thought it said GIRLing. ….Had a good one for that!

Iranian naval admiral: ‘If needed, we can move to within three miles of New York’ - Theoretically yes, but property taxes are really high, and goats are not allowed.
Is slow growth actually good for the economy? – Apparently it is if you are running for reelection.

Saturday, April 28, 2012



Last night I was channel surfing on the TV.  Mrs. Cranky was on the computer and not really paying attention to the TV.  I settled on a show on the Animal Planet, “River Monsters.”

“River Monsters” is a show where this insane fisherman, Jeremy Wade, tries to catch fresh water river fish which he suspects of being man-eaters.

The show last night involved a four foot fish with giant razor sharp teeth. Jeremy suspected these fish occasionally join together in large schools to attack bait fish and in some cases human beings.

Mrs. Cranky peered over the computer and asked me in all seriousness, “Can you tell me what is so interesting about this show?”

 Keep in mind that this very morning I was subjected to watching two hours of “Say Yes to the Dress” reruns which we have already seen several times.  Two hours of ruching, crumb-catchers, mermaid cuts, Cinderella cuts, bling,  Wow-factor,  Bust lines, flair, sweetheart neckline, veils, Gay Randy and Pnina Tornai.  Still, she wanted to know what was so interesting about catching a:


Thursday, April 26, 2012

From – “Maybe It’s Just Me!” - The Great George Garbageboatwalk

From – “Maybe It’s Just Me!”

This is a bit long for a blog.  It is my favorite story from “Maybe It’s Just Me!” and it fits in with this week’s theme of Youth Sports, so if you want to take the time, please enjoy:


The game of baseball takes on many shapes to kids with little space and lots of imagination.  In the streets it becomes stickball and punchball.  When the streets are too crowded, stepball prevails.  In the backyards of suburbia, in the late fifties when the Yankees were kings, the ultimate form was wiffleball.

The Wiffleball is a small hollow plastic sphere with holes strategically positioned so that the slightest change in grip will produce a variety of inshoots, outshoots, risers and drops.  The weight of the ball precludes the possibility of a broken window, and when struck with a bat it can be driven such a limited distance that the smallest yard can become Yankee Stadium.

A popular game for many in our neighborhood, my brother Chris, four years my senior and I developed wiffleball into an art form.  The rules were designed so that one person could form a team.  We had three bases; first, third, and home.  Second base was discarded as our yard was not wide enough to form a normal diamond.  A fielded grounder thrown within three feet of a base and ahead of the runner was a putout.  We allowed two outs to an at-bat.  Any ball which did not at least reach the pitcher’s mound was foul.  There were no walks, no called strikes, (you were expected to swing at anything close) and three strikes you’re out.  There were never any arguments; tie goes to the runner and the rest of the rules were clear.

There was no left field in our Stadium, only left center.  A right-handed pull-hitter was in danger of reaching the yard of the dreaded Mrs. Rosenthal.  This became an automatic out due to the danger of Mrs. Rosenthal leaping out of nowhere to abscond with any ball which might land in her precious yard.

A ball hit over the hedge in center and into the Tully’s yard was a homerun. A pop fly lofted over the telephone wire in short right field, our own pennant porch, was also a homer.

If a ball landed and stayed on the roof of our house along the right field foul line it was an automatic out and the batter had to shinny up the drainpipe to retrieve the treasured 19 cents of plastic gold.

Our bat was a forerunner of modern equipment.  We used a section of an aluminum shaft from an old spear gun.  It was the first aluminum bat.

The actual game as my brother and I played it was of secondary importance.  My brother was older and more skilled than I, and it was a foregone conclusion that he would score the most runs.  The real game was in creating the illusion of a big league contest.  Each team required its own special line-up.

Unlike other kids who assumed the personalities and line-ups of their favorite major league team, we had to invent our own players because we were both diehard Yankee fans and each refused to compete against his heroes.  Inventing and developing players became one of the chief skills of “The Game.”

We developed and acted out the persona of each “member” of our teams.  Yankee P.A. man, Bob Sheppard, announced lineups, pinch hitters and pitching changes.  Mel Allen called the play-by-play.  Great fielding plays received a “how about that” and all homeruns were greeted with the obligatory “going going gone” that was Mel’s trademark.  We had bean ball wars, players were thrown out of the game for arguing, and all players were described as “one of the nicest fellahs off the field that you’d ever want to meet.”

Each player on our squads had a particular skill and a unique personality.  Any variance from these traits was strictly forbidden (an unspoken rule).  The player’s skill and personality was dictated by his name; much like professional wrestling at this time, Killer Kowalski, Haystacks Calhoun, Gorgeous George….

For years the stars of Chris’ team were Little Louie, a quick shortstop and clever punch-hitter, and Big Mike, a slow but powerful slugger.  Louie was allowed to run fast to first base but had no power as he always choked halfway up the bat.  Big Mike was a tremendous power-hitter but was so slow afoot he was a sure out on any grounder.  Chris cleverly managed to sneak his favorite Yankee pitcher on the mound, Whitey Ford, by introducing a crafty right-hander by the name of Blacky Buick.

Other members of my brother’s unbeaten team were Cyclone Sam, a speedster, Killer Klu, a slugger who rolled up his sleeves and assumed the stance of Ted Kluszewski, and Happy Harry, a utility fielder and team flake.

For the most part my club concentrated on speed.  The outfielders were Hurricane Hank, Rapid Rupert, and Cheetah Chaz.  Chokeup Charlie played shortstop, Lumbering Luke was my power-hitter, and catcher Stu Pid was my resident flake.  To combat Blacky Buick I developed Flower Weekly, another crafty right-hander who threw a knuckler suspiciously like Yankee star Bud Dailey.

Every game new players were invented and brought up from the minors to meet specific situations.  If they played well they stuck.  If they struck out it was back to triple A.  I tried numerous players and constantly juggled my lineup, but never could I beat the great Chris All-stars. 

Most games did go down to the last inning, a result of Chris’ manipulation to prevent “laughers” which made “The Game” dull.  Manipulation of the game was of prime importance.  The object was to give a glimmer of hope that my troops could possibly win, and at the same time force the All-stars to demonstrate their great skills in the clutch.

If Chris was in the middle of a big inning, he would kill the rally by sending up Killer Klu who generally struck out due to his tendency to take prodigious swings with his eyes shut.  On the mound Blacky would help me back in a game by throwing his famed “elbow pitch” change-up.  The elbow pitch was a weird lob which I was able to consistently hit, provided I could keep from breaking up laughing at the outrageous delivery with which it was thrown.  If the game was still not close enough, Happy Harry would resort to his flakey fielding to tighten up the score.  Harry would try to catch flies behind his back, in his pocket, or on a rebound off his head.

Once I was back in the game, the All-stars would finish it with a dramatic pinch hit homerun or by the superior pitching of the master, Blacky Buick.  The results were always the same.  Mel Allen would announce a typical exciting finish.  “Bottom of the ninth, 6-4 Chris ahead, one out and the bases are jammed.  Gripping the old aluminum comes Lumbering Luke to the plate. Luke is a real slugger who could ice this game up with one swing.  Blacky goes into his windup, delivers the pitch…swing and a miss on a wicked inshoot!  Blacky remembers the third inning when Luke pounded an elbow pitch over the hedge in center and you can bet the chairman of the board won’t make that mistake again.  Here comes the pitch….swing and a pop-up to short. Little Louie is under it, he pounds his palm, and the ballgame is over.”

Although I never beat the All-stars, I did achieve the next best thing in the summer of 1959.  I invented a ballplayer that Chris fell in love with and had to have on his own team.

 One of Chris’ favorite players was Yankee great, Moose Skowrun.  The “Moose”, Big Bill, Chris loved him, but as with most of his heroes he could not find a way to slip him into his lineup.

One warm July afternoon, Mel Allen announced a pinch hitter for the Joes.  “Now batting, up from Columbus, is the latest sensation, first baseman, number 14, Big George Garbageboatwalk.” “Time out”, Chris protested, “what the Hell kind of name is Garbageboatwalk?” “What is a scow”, I responded and without waiting for an answer, “it’s a garbage boat, “and” I hastened to elaborate, “The opposite of run is walk.  Scow-run, Garbageboatwalk, it fits.” I loved it and though he said nothing, I knew Chris loved it also.

So determined was I that Garbageboatwalk be a success, I distained the left-handed stance we normally assumed to avoid the crazy lady in leftfield, and made and made “Big George” a right-hander, my natural stance.  As much as I wanted George to be a star, my brother wanted him on his team.  Unbeknownst to me he plotted a course of action which would set up the first trade and biggest steal in wiffleball history.

From the outset Chris mocked the name and refused to acknowledge my ingenuity.  For weeks, every time Garbageboatwalk stepped up to the plate he saw only the best inshoots and drops which Blacky could muster.  The great Buick threw no elbow pitches and his risers had a little something extra on them.

George was an immediate flop.  Mel began to refer to him as “the biggest disappointment in wiffleball history.”  Hitless in ten games and with eighteen strikeouts, I was ready to give up on “Big George”.  It was then that Chris struck.  “Tell you what”, he offered casually, “I’ll trade you even up, Little Louie for Garbageboatwalk.”

The deal was made.  I had to do it.  An established star for the “biggest disappointment in wiffleball history” could not be passed up.  The first trade in wiffleball history was sealed, and like the Yankee purchase of Babe Ruth it changed the face of “The Game”.

Little Louie was damaged goods.  The veteran had lost a step, his hands were not as sure, and his bat was not as quick as it was in his All-star days.  Meanwhile, George Garbageboatwalk became the greatest hitter in all of wiffleball!  His first five times up as an All-star he pounded out tremendous homeruns.  George batted over .700 for the rest of the year, and he averaged one round-tripper for every three times at bat.

The ultimate manipulation became a Garbageboatwalk blast in the ninth.  It was the cruelest humiliation over which I had no control.  Flower invented new pitches, threw bean balls, and refused to throw the ball over the plate.  It did not matter; George was just too great.  He was far better than my old nemesis, Big Mike who Flower could occasionally get out.

I dreaded Garbageboatwalk’s every at bat.  The joy of the game was over for me.  It was devastating to face the “greatest hitter in wiffleball history and know he was once my property.  Every time up the introduction was the same.  In the best imitation of Yankee PA Bob Sheppard, Chris would drone, “Now batting ing ing number fourteen een een the first baseman and onetime property of the Joes, the Great George Garbageboatwalk alk alk!”

1959 was the last season of Wiffleball for my brother and me.  Chris got his driver’s license and became too grown up for his kid brother and a silly game.  “The Game” and the “Great One” were soon forgotten.  Chris went to college, and then to law school.  Our folks moved from Long Island to New Jersey, and later retired to the Eastern Shore of Maryland.  Chris married, took up law practice in Atlanta, and became father to two sons.  I graduated from college, married, and became a Jersey-to-NYC commuter.  My wife and I had three children, a girl and two boys.

Years later, during a summer reunion at our parent’s new home, we stumbled upon the old aluminum bat.  We began to reminisce on the way we used to play “The Game”.  “They just don’t make players like Blacky Buick or Cheetah Chaz today” Chris asserted.

He did not mention George, “Guilt”, I thought to myself, “he knows he stole him.  Now it’s like it never happened.”

I wanted to say something about Garbageboatwalk as some wounds never heal.  I decided to let it slide, let bygones be bygones.  Instead I followed up on his thought.  “Probably have a relief pitcher today named Cocaine Carl,” I joked.  “Yeah” Chris followed, “with a peculiar habit of first going to the rosin bag and then to his nose in tough situations.”  “Or Millionaire Mike”, I continued, “a DH with special designer shoes and Gucci batting gloves who spends most his time on the dugout phone talking to his stock broker.”

We continued on this vein for some time when Chris issued a challenge.  It would be he and his two boys versus me and mine.  I accepted but suggested we play the game straight so as not to ruin our image with the boys.  “Yeah”, Chris agreed, “God forbid they find out we used to be kids too.”

 And so we purchased a new 69 cent wiffleball, established ground rules, explained the game to the boys, and play began.

Three against three, Chris and I both full grown; he no longer had the obvious advantage of strength and coordination.  In fact age was now to my advantage and I had my first real chance to actually defeat the All-stars.  As agreed upon we did not play with the old childish flair.  There was no play-by-play announcing, and we assumed no alter egos at bat.  On the mound, though unnamed, the pitchers’ deliveries were unmistakably those of Blacky Buick and Flower Weekly.

It was a low scoring, uneventful game as the boys were usually easy outs.  Going into the bottom of the ninth my team held a 6-5 lead over the All-stars.  Little Chris, my brother’s oldest, popped out and with Grant, his youngest, at bat I felt my first victory was at hand.  Grant managed a bloop single, but I still felt in control when my greatest fear was realized.

As Chris strode to the plate, I recognized a familiar grin on his face.  He underwent a strange transformation.  His 5’9” slightly paunchy frame seemed to grow to 6’2” 210 pounds of steel.  Muscles bulged and a vein in his now 17” neck started pulsating.  Aluminum was flaking off the bat under his now powerful grip.  Nothing was said, but in my head I heard the familiar Bob Sheppard voice, “Now batting ing ing, number fourteen een een, first baseman and one time property of the opposition on on…..”

A lump formed in the pit of my stomach.  If guilt had caused Chris to forget, competition and the threat of his first loss had revived his memory. The outcome of “The Game” was once again a foregone conclusion.

The Great George Garbageboatwalk was coming to bat!

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL - a rerun from 2011

It is the start of another LL Baseball season.  This is a rerun from last June of my favorite LL Stories

This is dedicated to my favorite LL coaches; Ray Hanson of North Brunswick N.J. and Jamie Rivera of Metuchen N.J. Both represent to me the many dedicated parents who manage to balance teaching, competition and skills to kids while never losing sight of the fact that these kids are….well….KIDS!!

It is nearly the end of another Little League baseball season. There is still a summer league, but my son will not be playing baseball this summer.  At thirteen years old this is Spencer’s last year of playing Little League Baseball.  I went through five years of Little League with my son Matthew over twenty years ago.  Now my second time around as a Little League parent is about to come to an end.  It is a good time to share my fondest memories of this American tradition.

I have experienced many Little League horror stories,  coaches making kids cry, parents making asses of themselves arguing with umpires half or a third their age.  There have been kids with a bad attitude, kids who are mean to other kids and many examples of bad sportsmanship which were particularly uncalled for in a “children’s game.”  I choose to forget all the bad things that sometimes come out of Little League, the good stuff far outweighs the bad.  Here are three of my favorite Little League stories.


When my son Matt was ten, his team made it to the division championship game.  At ten years old, every fly ball is an adventure, every at bat a challenge.  On this team there was a little boy who at age twelve was such a poor player he was forced to play with the ten year olds.

I don’t remember his name so I will just call him Ralph.  Ralph knew he was a bad player, but he loved the game.  I’m not sure Ralph could even see.  He wore coke bottle thick glasses and it seemed he sometimes had trouble even finding his glove.  He never complained, never argued, never threw a bat, and he always hustled.  Ralph always tried his best. He was always smiling.  He was always happy.  In twenty-five games, Ralph never hit a ball into fair play, and he never caught a fly ball.

In the final half of the final inning of the final game, the game for the championship of the ten year old division, our team was leading 9-8. There were two outs and there were men on second and third.  Ralph was in right field.  Right field is where Little League teams try to hide their worst fielder.  Right field is the position which sees the least action.  Right field is where the final batter in the last half of the final inning of the final game, the game for the division championship, lofted a high fly ball.

The ball was hit directly at Ralph.  If he dropped it, two runs would score and our team would lose.  If he caught it, the game would be over and our team would win.  Ralph did not move one inch.  He stood with his hands at his side as he followed the flight of the ball.  Everything was moving in slow motion when at the last second (my apologies to the Steve Martin movie “Parenthood” which came several years after this event) Ralph stuck out his glove.  The ball dropped in the pocket, Ralph closed his mitt trapping the fly, and in one motion with his right hand he grabbed his hat, swirled it in the air, brought his arm across his belly and made a perfect bow to the cheering crowd of 55 parents and siblings.

It was the only fly ball Ralph had ever caught in his life.  It was probably the last fly ball chance he would ever get, and Ralph caught it with panache.  I loved that catch, I loved that kid!


When Matt was twelve, he umpired games for the younger divisions.  At eight dollars a game this was a great gig, but umpiring games coached by sometimes enraged parents was not always easy.

I went to one game to give Matt a ride home after he was done.  I arrived in the last inning of a one run game just in time to watch the game’s final batter strike out on a swinging foul tip to the catcher.  The pitch was inside and it appeared to have grazed the batters fist on the swing.  Matt called the batter out, and the manager ran onto the field.  “It hit his hand, it hit his hand, he should get first base!”  The manager screamed.

Matt made a foul tip signal, and replied firmly, “All bat coach, all bat.” That explanation seemed to satisfy the coach; game over.

When Matt got in the car, I asked him if the pitch hit the kid’s fist or not. He replied, “Oh it hit him, but I am pretty sure that when you swing the hand is considered part of the bat and the strike out stands.  I didn’t want to get into it with the coach, so I just said it was all bat.”

Until that moment, I did not know if Matt was particularly smart or not. With this one umpiring call I realized he was not just smart, but quick on his feet as well!

By the way, the hand is considered part of the bat if you swing.


Before the start of each season, players go through a tryout.  Coaches evaluate each player before they decide who to choose for their team. During one of these tryouts I got to talking to Ray Hanson, one of the managers.

“I see you make different notations after each player, what do they mean?”

“Well it’s hard to remember each kid, so I just jot down different notes. For instance “gf” means good fielder.  If he can throw I put “ga” for good arm.  Good hitter gets “gh”.  If he runs fast I put “gs” for good speed.

“Hey Ray.” I asked. “You have “glm” after this kid, what does that mean?”

“That?  That’s my tie breaker when two kids are close.  “Glm” stands for Good Looking Mom!”

I am going to really miss Little League Baseball!

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

YOUTH SPORTS COACHES – cont. from yesterday

YOUTH SPORTS COACHES – cont. from yesterday

Sam Shapasshole

The last time I ever failed to step backward fast enough resulted in my coaching AA Little League baseball.  These were eight and nine year old children.  Few could hit the ball or throw worth a hoot.  Some could catch a fly ball. 

RT - Apparently there is a portion of a child’s brain which allows them to properly judge the closing distance of an object in motion.  This part of the brain does not fully develop for most children until the age of nine-and-one-half.  This is why most eight year olds try and catch a ball by sticking their glove out and turning their head away.  Most kids really should not start to play baseball until age ten.

My first duty as coach was to choose a team of fourteen kids from a list of 120 children of whom I knew maybe 20.  I then called the parents to notify them their child was on my team.

My very first call was to the father of my second to last pick, Sam Shapasshole (name slightly modified to protect anyone named Shapirole).  When I told Sam’s dad his son was on my AA team he went ballistic.  WHAT? Sam is 10 he should be in AAA!! (Sam was close to ten but he was in fact nine).  YOU do something right now to get him in the right league!!"

I calmly directed him to the league president to straighten out his issue.

Sam ended up on my team.

That season:

Sam did not like his uniform number.  Mommy and daddy (both short fat loud annoying pieces of shit) were not happy.

Sam’s pants were too big.  (Mommy and daddy had picked them out.)

Sam lost his hat.  (Three times.)

Sam wanted to pitch.

Sam didn’t want to pitch

Sam could not wear his hat correctly (brim facing forward.  My only rule.)

I was informed that Sam was A.D.D. so I needed to treat him special!! (Thirteen other kids on the team were daydreamers with a short attention span…oh they were NINE YEAR OLD BOYS!)

Sam lost our catcher’s mitt which cost me $75.  (He refused to catch…don’t ask.)

Sam’s parents left the game and did not pick him up for 15 minutes after the game was over.  (It was OK; I had nothing better to do!)

After the last game of the season, Sam’s dad offered me two tickets he got free from work to that day’s Yankee game.  I said I might be interested.  He then told me he only wanted $30 apiece for them.  It was at that point that I told him, “You know what…Go Fuck yourself!”

(Well I wanted to tell him that)

The next year at the AAA championship game (I was just a spectator) Sam’s dad got thrown off the field by the league president for taunting the umpire, a twelve year old kid. 

(What class!)

He also ran for Mayor of the town that year.  He received 8 votes.

The next time you read about insensitive over-zealous horrible parents who coach youth sports please think of Mr. Shapasshole.

(Name slightly modified to protect anyone named Shapirole)

Note: If anyone named Shapasshole wants to sue me for slander I have about 150 witnesses to the above behavior. 

You are a turd!

(I have no witnesses that you are a turd, sue me for that.)


Monday, April 23, 2012



People who volunteer to coach youth sports do not get the credit they deserve.  Most of the stories you read about youth sports coaches involve pedophilia or fanatical nut jobs who care nothing about sportsmanship or the children, they only care about winning.

I have been involved as a coach three times in my life.  I did not volunteer so much as I failed to take two steps backwards as quickly as the other parents at the meetings.  I was coach of two different seven year old soccer recreation teams (about twenty years apart) and a nine year old Little League baseball team.

I would like to use my forum here to blast the real culprits in harming children through youth sports….PARENTS!  

In case you did not hear let me make it clear; annoying busybody do nothing drop the kids off so you can babysit piece of crap freaking parents are the trouble with youth sports.

The worst of the parents are soccer moms (and dads). 

My first experience with coaching was for a soccer team of seven year olds. One soccer mom was unable to drive her daughter to and from practice and games.  I picked up this little girl for all practices and games.  I was never thanked for this…that was fine; I felt sorry for the little girl because of her mom was a little…er….WEIRD! 

All season I was this little girl’s chauffer.  We finished the season, and the next Saturday was the annual soccer picnic.  The girl’s mother came up to me at the picnic furious that I did not pick up her daughter for practice on that Thursday.  I explained to her that since the season was over last Saturday, it would seem silly to hold the usual weekly practice on this past Thursday.

“Well you could have at least told me.  I HAD PLANS!!”

You’re welcome.

Twenty years later I again forgot to step backwards and was coaching another seven year old soccer team.  I did not mind that kids seldom made practice and showed up for games ten minutes late; I did mind that parents of these kids expected the same playing time for their kids as the ones that showed up on time. 

The parents always knew to the minute who played more than their child.

These games were four eight minute quarters.  Each team had ten kids.  You could only field six at a time.  Every kid wanted to play goalie, or forward, or only on defense.  Few of the children were accustomed to not getting what they wanted.  Coaching became almost completely trying to monitor who played where and for how long.  It was VERY important that everything be equal.  Screw teaching the kids how to play the game.

One game I apparently failed to put one little boy in the game an equal amount of time as the rest of the children.  His mom and dad let me know very loud and clear.  I was accused of holding him out and playing better players so we could win the game (We didn’t even keep score so as not to damage the little precious children’s self esteem).

I was attacked in such a way I really had only one of two choices.  Pop the kids obnoxious dad in the chops (I would never hit the mom) or walk away.  I walked away.

The next week I intentionally played this kid an extra quarter and held my own son out.  I did this to make a point.  The dad attacked me again.

“I know what you’re doing, playing my son extra just because I complained.  That’s not fair either.”

I stepped back and told this dad, “Last week I elected to walk away from you inappropriate tantrum instead on knocking you on your ass.  I am beginning to see what a bad decision that was” (well something to that effect.)  My assistant coach stepped between us before I corrected the previous week’s decision and another parent suggested this gentleman back off….quickly. 

I did get an apology from the wife over the phone.  I accepted, but none too graciously.

Too be continued tomorrow- Sam Shapasshole and Little League Baseball.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Headlines 042212

Headlines 042212

Sunday is time again for Cranky’s silly headlines and even sillier, sophomoric and sometimes offensive comments.

Suspect in Okla. shootings says he's not racist – “I may be a cold-blooded murderer, but I am not a racist!”

Taliban commander hands himself in, demands $100 reward – “Or Else!!”

Woman sexually assaulted by husband ordered to pay alimony – He’s in jail how is he expected to earn a living?

TRENDING: Damon: I'd kiss BushNot sure this is a new trend Matt, but whose bush?

Dortmund can clinch Bundesliga title Saturday - Dortmund hosts Monchengladbach, but Bayern Munich visits Werder Bremen earlier in the day, and a defeat or tie from the record champions will seal Dortmund's title. 

I know that I am just on the edge of my seat over this!

6-year-old allegedly locked in jail cell as part of school field tripFirst graders are looking forward to next week’s class trip to the “Bunny Ranch.”

Missouri Man Faces 30-Year Prison Term for Stealing 52-Cent Doughnut – If he took the jelly-doughnut he would be looking at “LIFE!”

Wisconsin Nude Beach Has Sex Problem Go figure!

Starbucks to Stop Using Crushed Beetles as Dye in Drinks – PETA action against crushing the beetles has convinced Starbucks to dye drinks with uncrushed beetles.

‘Pregnant man’ Thomas Beatie splits from wife – Wife suspects man of cheating.

California teacher fired for porn appearances fighting to get her job back – Teacher in a mission to get back in her old position will fight doggy-style if needed, claims superintendent is just being anal and needs to suck it up!
Texas prom queen who collected $17G arrested in fake cancer scam – Why would anyone give money for this?  I’m pretty sure that Fake Cancer has a 100% cure rate!