The Rules Reconsidered: Coach of the Tears
I was in my thirteenth hour jobbing. The America, my coworker, lovely as always, was informing a customer I had mocked her while her dog died.
The woman looked at me like I was a psychopath.
"I promise, madam, the young lady does not have a dog."
"But I do. I do have a dog."
"If you do, he isn't dead, then, is he? And if he isn't dead, I couldn't possibly have mocked him in his death could I?"
"Her," she said.
"Pardon me."
She found that funny.
"I hate you! Have you seen my cats?"
Before I could protest, she presented the screen.
"Well?"
"They look particularly feline."
"You're no fun."
"Not on the thirteenth hour jobbing, no."
"You should. You're usually fun. Now you look like my dog did that you made fun of."
"Vespucci!" I shouted, knowing how she hated that, completely convinced, as she is, that America is not named in honor of Amerigo Vespucci.
"I'm kidding. I'm kidding," she said, laughing, having a grand time, a grand time while I was buried in my thirteenth hour of jobbing.
My head was down, beaten by a few hundred orders into absolute despair. And I still had two more to go, 120 minutes of asking: do you want corn or flour with that, while making jokes for my own sanity, some corny, some flowery. Meanwhile, I was planning a lecture at TCU for my friend, Blake Hestir, aka., the Good Doctor, on Heidegerrian Authenticity as revealed in Tolstoyan Truth. What does that mean, you may ask. Please don't. But if you must, it's about the value of individualism in the modern era, and the need to take possession of one's life. Thus, to practice what I preach, I have a duty to my own soul to be funny. Or at least not to plagiarize anyone.
It was then I received my telephone communication from the Barry Lewis, this time by text.
An image populated my screen. Something called the Big 12 Smack Room. And someone saying: "I'm sorry, but how the hell did Scott Drew get coach of the year???"
And the Barry Lewis, dear man, wrote: "Here's a topic for you."
Now, I must say this on the outset. I like Scott Drew. My middle name being Drew and the father's Christian name Scott, I feel a particular affinity for this man. So I pushed back.
"I like him."
"He's Baylor's coach, Tyler."
"He has a fine name. We can't be punitive based on his unfortunate professional associations."
"He's Baylor's coach, Tyler."
"I'm confused," (as is so often the case). "Baylor is the highest ranked basketball team in the Big 12. Why wouldn't he be coach of the year?"
Seconds passed before Barry had miraculously managed an article-length exegesis of objections and the hermeneutics upon which said objections were predicated. "Baylor was good last year. Baylor was good this year. You have a point and that is why he got it."
I physically patted myself on the back for that one.
"What are you doing?" the America asked.
"Congratulating myself."
"You're crazy! For what?"
"For being knowledgable despite my deficiencies."
At which point she punched my arm.
"What was that for!"
"Fun!"
I was about to utter a litany of curses such as no man has ever uttered in the presence of a member of the opposite gender when I decided I had better return to the Lewis exegesis, and the hermeneutics thereof, of the Big 12 Smack Room.
"But on the flip side what did he do?" the Barry continued. "He kept a good team good. His team this year actually had a worse record than last year. ISU went 0-18 last year in Big 12, and only won two games all season. This year they got 20 wins. +18 over last year. Now that is a successful coach."
"ISU?" I asked aloud, and was in the process of appealing to Google when a new article revealed itself: "Tech lost their coach. No one expected them to be as good as they are. TCU was predicted to be 10th in the Big12. That's last!"
"That couldn't be! False prophecy!" I objected, meaninglessly, of course, as this being a text correspondence, Barry could not be witness to my protestations, and the America had no idea what I was writing about.
"They ended up 5th and are going dancing," the Barry continued. "All examples of good coaching. I present it as a topic to ponder. Keep in mind where I pulled that from. An FB all about talking smack. Isn't that what you do in all your pieces? Just don't quote me."
"Sure thing, Barry!"
At which point, I copied the entire correspondence, and pasted it whole into my notes.
"What are you doing now that you're smiling all of the sudden?" the America asked.
"Authoring an article," I said.
"Don't you have to type to do that?" she asked.
"Not this one," I said.
Thus, here is my opinion. Baylor lost its first tournament game to OU, and as such Dr. Drew was responsible for the Barry's and my favorite thing in college sports: Baylor tears. Scott Drew, great though his name may be, ought not to have been Big 12 Coach of the Year.
And Baylor fans who dislike this piece may, at their leisure, blame the Lewis. I'm sure he'll be honored to hear from them.
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