Coach

Alright, so I was invited to check out a basketball game ( I think Oklahoma vs. Miami), at a local bar, with some friends of mine. I wasn’t really going for the game- I just wanted to get out of the house. The three of us arrived; me, a girl friend and a guy friend (who has a girlfriend). We sat at the bar- along with the 5 other people. We talked, watched the game, and had a drink. Then I decided to take a break to enjoy my favorite concoction of cloves outside. I imbibed and across the street I notice this seasoned gentleman walking toward me and says, “Excuse me.”

Somewhere inside- I’m sure I had a moment that said, uh-oh..run away. This is not good.

My action step was that I should ignore him.

He soon got closer, “Excuse me, can I just say one thing?”

“Sure,” I reply.

“You are just gorgeous!”

“Um, thanks.”

“Can I just say one, thing?”

“Ok.”

“You see I used to coach for Nebraska, but now I coach for Pitt.”

Then, he went off for like 10 minutes repeating the same football story from 20 years ago, in Nebraska! 20 years ago! And the team didn’t even win. It went something like, “And he dove, the mother-fer, excuse my language, was down at the line and just dove. But we lost the game. You see, those kids from Nebraska- they just go for it.”

With several variations, even cornering another couple walking by, he repeated his nostalgic tale from way back before anyone listening was born. He continued to fluff his feathers, and show off his shorts – (which were Pitt sports gear). He made certain that I knew he was a coach at Pitt, and that we should get dinner sometime. Also, that the bar down the street gives free drinks to people who work for Pitt. He was clearly intoxicated, but I (silly me) continued the conversation. Throughout, and basically every five minutes, it was interrupted by one of these lines.

“Can I just tell you one thing?”

“Oh, Nebraska! You should have seen that dive.”

“Can I just talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Don’t tell anyone, I said this, but…”

“Can I just tell you one thing?”

“I havn’t told anyone this.”

“Those cornhuskers…”

“Can I talk to you for like two hours?”

“Can I just tell you one thing?”

Intermittently throughout these questions, the repetitious homage of the past consisted of football, football, football, 1982, Tommy Dorsey, football, football, 1983, another important figure, football.

“I think you are just gorgeous,” never stopped, as well. During these rants he continued to touch my forearm, grab my hand and kiss it while making his ever-so important points. I thought it was hilarious. All this was outside. The salt and pepper haired seasoned “gentleman” seemed to be fond of me, and wouldn’t let me go back inside. So, what did he do? He invited himself inside and sat down with me and my friends.

The same stories were told. He showcased his shorts again, to my friends. He continued to talk about football, until the topic of the Beetles arrived. The he proceeded to serenade for the next 15 minutes. But despite his intoxication, he couldn’t remember the lyrics to any of the songs, or the names of the songs. Luckily, my good friends said they had to go home and they were my ride. So, I patted his back and walked out the door.

Miami won, by the way.