There are just a few issues with this.
I hate other people's kids. Not all of them, mind you, but for the most part, people's kids are shitheads. Two of the boys on the team hate me. Well, women. They hate women. How do I know? When I pull them in to talk to them about respect, and how they talk to me, they say, "Um, where's our real coach?" Really? I am, dude. "No, you're the team MOM." No you little fucking cocksucker, I am the COACH. And I will sit your ass out in a motherfucking heartbeat if you roll your little womanizing eyes at me one more time. I Double Dog Dare you to try me on this one.
I hate other kids parents. What do the jerk-off dads of the asshole kids do through this whole thing? Stand there. Giggling. It's going to be a long season.
I have played exactly ZERO baseball games in my whole life. This gives me the slightest little handicap in the whole "teaching other people" department. Fortunately, I am a fast study. And they gave me a handbook.
I can't throw a ball for shit.
I am not quite strong enough to properly lock the equipment shed, which is 15,765 years old and made of lead and the eenciest bit warped. My angle for this? Get there early, earlier than ANYONE, and unlock it, set up my field, and play dumb blond when the other coach says, "But we're the home team. We're supposed to set up." Ooooo, I didn't know! Oopsie. (This is where the boobie shirt really pays off)
Me? In a Baseball cap? Like Britney without any makeup on. Like Jack Nicholson in the morning. Like the kid from Mask. Not. Cool.
I have three kids. One of which is two. Only one of which is on the team. Baby wearin' is frowned upon in the middle of a baseball field during play.
Did I mention that I've never played baseball before?
I have the tiniest little potty mouth problem. Just sayin'.
Since I am a girl, the moms of the kids on the team think it's totally okay to come up to me and ask about the baby, and tell me how proud they are of their son, and how though all the rest of the kids are total shits, well, see how good my boy is being and aren't I a great parent and my isn't that a low-cut top you have on and do you knit because I just got this new pattern and shut the hell up, woman. I'm busy over here.
I have a nasally voice. I can't help it; I was born that way and you try living in Philadelphia during your formative years. It's not exactly the hottest of accents. Point is, I don't exactly command attention. Maybe I should go for the Fran Drescher thing. NO ONE can ignore that evilness.
Really, I've only ever even once watched a baseball game start to finish, and I am pretty sure I was fairly intoxicated and quite possibly making out with someone through most of it.
And the biggest problem of all? The real kicker? I am, and please don't repeat this, I am kind of liking it. As in, enjoying it. Shitty kids aside (I have awesome stink-eye; that'll be nipped in the bud) it's kind of, well, err, um, fun?
Someone get me Chrysler on the phone. It appears I'll be needing that minivan after all.
See all the Thursday Thirteens here.