It was halftime and my small Catholic school varsity football team, tragically pathetic and victims of upper middle class families, stood toe to toe with one of the state's best high school programs. The score was 0-0 at the half and I'm confident that we marched into that sweaty, urine stenched locker room both shocked and exhausted. As an underclassman, I chose to find the furthest corner of the locker room knowing that my role, to this point, extended as far as making sure that my jersey was still tucked into my pants. It turned out to be good decision.
Like most "Thanks, Coach Dick" stories," this 0-0 halftime accomplishment was overshadowed by a man overcome with passion. Physically, he was a short, mustached fat man (approximately 5'8" 230lbs, mid to late 30s) who fit the stereotype of most high school football assistant coaches. As far as I remember, he wasn't a drunk, and in all likelihood wanted to help shape the lives of young men. However, a General Patton, he was not. He stormed into the locker room, face brighter than cherry and foaming at the corners of his mouth. Walking into the middle of the locker room, he screamed in a high pitched tone reserved for little girls and family dogs, "You've got‘em by the gonads…all you gotta do is squeeeeeze!!!" That was it. I don't remember another word. I tucked my head down into my knees and prayed that no one would see me laughing (I later found out that I wasn’t the only one). I don't remember the final score of the game, but I do know we lost. Whether or not the intensity was gone by the halftime speech can be left for the pundits to debate. But the only thing I do remember from that game is that by squeezing another man's gonads...well, thanks, Coach Dick.
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