coachandrei

[coachandrei]

Coach Andrei

I signed my kid up to play soccer for the first time this fall. All the neighborhood kids play, so I figured it’d be a good idea for him to join in. He’s not the most athletic, but he’s not the least athletic either. More importantly, he tries really hard, which I like. If the kids are members of the animal kingdom, my kid is definitely not the skilled and powerful lion, but he’s also not the slow and fat sloth. I guess he’s probably a little chicken – always running full speed but with little predictable path or thought. Like, if he’s playing right midfield and the ball is on the left side of the field, little Spencer is there chasing it like it’s the last bag of feed on the planet.

Anyway, it’s fun to watch him play, but what’s most entertaining is the crazy guy that coaches his team. It’s this young kid. Must be 27 or 28. I don’t even know where we found him. But, he’s Russian, and he’s serious. His name is Andrei Samarov. Right now, it’s halftime, and I’m watching him talk to the kids. Talk may be the wrong word though. Now granted, we’re down 5-0, and it hasn’t been a pretty half of soccer, but this guy is a maniac. He’s over there stomping his foot on the ground telling them God knows what. He’s in a crouch, lifting his left leg, and stomping the ground. Maybe it’s some kind of sumo soccer strategy or something. He’s pointing to his foot and continuing to stomp. “Foot on ball. Put zee foot on zee ball!” While he’s doing it, his other arm is waiving up and down like an ax. I’m 100 yards away, and I can see his veins sticking out of his neck. To put that in perspective, I’m legally blind in 48 of 50 states. This isn’t going to end well. It would only be our first loss of the season, but for Andrei, this seems unacceptable.

The referee walks back onto the field, blows the whistle, and calls for the kids to return for the second half. Andrei finishes his instruction with a full 360 degree spin, seeming to incorporate some homeland figure skating into his soccer coaching, and the kids run on to the field. Oh look, Spencer is starting in the second half. That’s good. He does try hard, so it’s nice to see Andrei acknowledge that. As the kids get set, our coach walks over to one of the two water coolers, lifts it over his head, and dumps it on himself. Naturally, he follows this with five push-ups. Sure. Why not? What a nut job! “Tovel! Tovel!” he screams, and little Tyreke hands him a towel. He wipes his face off and shoves it in the front of his pants. Then he turns to the other coach, grabs his crotch, and for good measure, removes the towel and throws it at the guy. Nice.

I could probably watch this show all day, but the whistle blows to start the second half and my kid is playing, so I focus on the little guys. Our team, the Reds, seem to be reacting positively to the Soviet brand of training. You could say that they’ve got a pep in their step, and they’re successfully keeping the ball away from our opponents, the Butchers, which if you ask me, isn’t the most appropriate name for a team of twelve-year-old soccer players. I mean, ours is a bit political for my taste, but the Butchers? Way too violent. That said, they do have a kid with a beard, a nose ring, and a tattoo of a pig on his forearm. Must be a Brooklyn thing. Andrei is pacing the sidelines barking commands: “Svitch zee field”, “Mark man! Mark man!”, and my personal favorite “Attack! Attack! Attack!” Keith’s grandpa brings him to the games, and I guess the call of “Attach! Attack! Attack!” elicits some war memories because Philbert always hits the deck and covers his head. Bless his heart. So, the kids are passing well and putting together some offense when Patrick #1, our best player, kicks the ball deflecting it perfectly off of the head of a Butcher and into the goal. Hey, hey! 5-1! Andrei grunts with approval and beats his chest with both fists. Somewhere, a gorilla turns its head.

Then, another Reds goal, and then another. It’s 5-3, and I realize that Spencer has had nothing to do with it. In fact, Spencer is nowhere to be seen. I’ve lost him. I squint and can’t see him on the sideline. Somehow, I’ve lost my kid in the excitement of the comeback.

My ex-wife is going to kill me. Of course, it’s ok that she lost Spencer for five hours when she was getting a wax before marrying Franz the German painter, but that bitch will run me through the ringer if I don’t bring Spencer home in pristine condition. I sprint to the other sideline in full panic. Maybe Andrei knows where I can find Spencer.

Panting, I ask, “Andrei, Andrei. Have you seen my boy?”

“Vat boy?” He asks. “Who are you?” he pauses between each word making the question sound quite philosophical.

“I’m Spencer’s dad.”

“Ah. Your wife is lady with big milkers?”

“Ex-wife. But, yeah. That’s her.”

“Oy, Jack. Beeg mistake letting cow leeve farm.”

“It’s Barry. Andrei, where’s my kid?”

“Coach Andrei!” he yells. “Your kid zer,” he says as he points to the table with the remaining water cooler. Horrified, I see little Spencer under the table holding a bottle of vodka. When the Butchers aren’t around or looking, Spencer hops out from underneath and pours the vodka in the water cooler. Then, he pops back under. Shocked, I look at Andrei. He nods. Then, I look at the field, and as if on cue, two Butchers running in erratic patterns smash into each other. Patrick #2 steals the ball, passes to Patrick #1, and a shot rips into the goal. 5-4 Butchers.

Andrei cackles. “Drunk tvelve year old no can play soccer. Understand?” Andrei asks.

I look at the kids on our bench. They’re drinking from their own water bottles. In fact, Andrei never lets our kids drink from the water coolers at the fields. Things are coming together. Now I understand why a Rabbi vomited all over himself, a Yodeler ate a gallon-sized bag of orange slices, and a Labradoodle humped a goal post.

“Andrei, you can’t feed these kids vodka!” I exclaim with what I strongly believe is clear-headed logic.

“Coach Andrei I said! Leesten, Jack. I coach. Ve vin. You clap like monkey toy. Everyone happy. Go avay.”

“I will not allow this!”

“Jack, I coaching. Go avay.”

I grab Andrei and spin him around. “You’re not coaching. You’re bartending, you dirtbag!” I scream. The kids on the field stop playing. The parents stop cheering. All eyes are on Andrei and me. Andrei looks at me intently. His eyebrows’ eyebrows stand up, and before I can react – remember, I can’t see shit – he head butts me in the face. I’m covered in blood and my glasses are cracked. Everyone is screaming as Andrei stands over me. “More vhere zat came from, Jack! Come to daddy!”

I’m not much of a fighter, so I just lay there. I know I’m not going to die. I’ll just hang out until the ambulance comes. I hear the referee announce that the game will be postponed. That’s good. I’ll make sure to bring this incident up at the next league meeting, and hopefully, we can remove Andrei and return to good, clean suburban fun.