The Tackling Sled Of Death

Welcome to Asshole Coach Digest, where we regale you Deadspin folk with stories of the meanest, cruelest, most batshit insane coaches you ever had. Email me your asshole coach story here. Off we go.

"See my form when I'm banging this girl?"

Ryan:

This story is about my head college football coach, who was and probably still is the world's biggest scumbag. To describe this man, he wore the old bike coaching shorts, which were awesome in 1987, not 2003. He always had mid calf white socks, sunglasses and the world's biggest fucking mustache. He would constantly explain about how he liked to give mustache rides and made very unsavory comments about co-eds he would see around our football offices. I always thought he was a harmless scumbag, until the end of my junior year when he went from harmless to completely out of control.

At the end of every season we would have an offense vs defense keg race, we would gather as a team at one of our houses and get completely shitcanned and act like assholes until one group finished their keg and proceeded to call the other a bunch of pussies. Our head coach showed up about twenty minutes after we finished our kegs, which is not really the most professional thing to do. He is drunk himself with a woman who we know for sure is not his wife whom we have all meet before. He walks in and the room goes silent, he ends that by putting my buddy Dennis in a head lock. He releases my friend, asks for a beer and starts working the room like he is fucking Johnny Utah.

Everyone is drunk and very uneasy, so we all start to avoid him by either walking outside or upstairs. Eventually we kind of lose track of him and think for sure he had left, until one of my teammates walks into the basement bathroom to find him having sex with previously said lady. He plays it off, by shutting the door real quick and then walks out and plays dumb then promptly leaves. So the next spring and fall season, he is always talking about how we are a family and all this other bullshit, and we all know he cheated on his wife in a house full of his players. What a fucking prick.

FREE DIP!

Anonymous:

1. One day in PE, he wanted to split up the class for a game of volleyball. Rather than count off "1-2," he decided to get creative:

"Catholics and Jews, this side. Protestants and Mormons, over on this side."

2. On the way home from a football game one Friday night, one of our receivers was trying to sneak a dip of Copenhagen. Coach smells it, goes over to his seat and sees the chew. "Can't have that on the bus! Hand it over." He then proceeds to go back to his seat, pull down the window, and do the worst pump fake in the history of pump fakes,
sits down, and has himself a nice relaxing chew.

3. Basketball practice: we were doing the defensive slide drill where you're in a crouch and you shuffle along the walls of the gym, using a pivot foot to rotate. His explanation of how to do this:

"When you go to this wall, turn towards your butt. When you go to that wall, turn towards your penis."

Lick your own scabs, buddy

Adam:

Two stories:

When I was a sophomore in high school, our JV football coach was 25, a recent college dropout, back at the old high school he used to go to in order to make some cash and relive some of his glory days on the football field. He had been a kicker. But you wouldn't know it given all the steroids he did. He was INTENSE.

One game, we were up 14-0 at halftime. We gathered around the coach for some words of wisdom. He knelt down in the middle of us as we stood in a circle, and shook his head. "Do you guys love football?" He asked.

There were a few mumbled "Yeahs."

He shook his head again. He looked up at us with a bloodshot, crazed look in his eyes. "You guys gotta love football. You guys gotta dream football. You guys gotta breathe football."

At this point, he looked over at our cornerback. The cornerback's knee was skinned, glistening red and pink in the dull afternoon light. Our coach reached out.

"You gotta taste football."

And with that, in one swift, shocking motion, he wiped our cornerback's wound with his dirty fingers, brought his hand back, now covered in blood and a tiny scrap of skin, and licked it clean. "Now get back out there!!!" He shouted.

The second story is from my club lacrosse team in college.

We had this coach who was barely older than some of the seniors on the team. He looked sort of like Eminem. We had a spring break trip down to Tennessee to play the Clemson club team and the UT team, and our coach told us that the school had given us each a $60 stipend for food during the week. As he handed us the money at our hotel, he issued us a stern warning. "Now I know you guys are gonna want to go out and party, but we're here representing NYU. You have to be on your best behavior."

Later that night, we saw a bouncer pulling our coach out of a bar by his neck. He'd gotten drunk and started a fight in the bathroom. While wearing an NYU T-shirt.

The next year, we had a new coach, and come spring break, our new coach informed us of the $120 bucks the school was giving us as a stipend.

"Wow!" we said. "Double last year."

"What do you mean?" our new coach said. The athletic department insisted they gave us the same as last season.

There were 25 of us. He stole $1,500 from our stipends total. Later, we found out he'd also sold our emails to one of those party promotion websites. The spam still hasn't ended. But we never heard from him again.

The tackling sled of death

Joe:

One day we were supposed to spend the class running around the football stadium and through a section of the woods near the school. It was my first day back at school after being out sick for a few days, and so I asked one of the coaches if I could sit out. He laughed sarcastically, and directly accused me of faking. I shrugged, he gave me a disgusted look, and told me to sit down.

So fast forward to the end of the period, and the class is walking back to the school. I'm walking by myself, not paying attention to too much. From somewhere off in the distance I hear the coach yell, "All the lineman! I need all the lineman!" Still not paying attention, I continue walking toward the school, staring at the ground. After a little while, I hear a noise. I look behind me, and I see a six-wide tackling sled barrelling toward me at full speed, the coach riding on the top of it, staring at me with a Jerry-Jones-yeehawwww grin on his face. I jumped out of the way at the last second, similar to the way someone would jump out of a moving car in a movie, just as the tackling sled clipped my foot. Laying on the ground in the dirt, my little toe broken, I look up to see the tackling sled speed away, the coach atop of it laughing maniacally.

Always with the busted collarbones

Bryan:

I was on the freshman football team at a large high school in 1975. We were scrimmaging and I was the tight end. We had run a tight end reverse and the coach yelled the words that all ball carriers dread: Run it again! The defense knew what was coming. The guards pulled right and I went left to receive the hand off when I was crushed by the unblocked inside linebacker who decided to blitz. When we hit the ground, I heard my collarbone snap. The pain was the most intense I had ever felt. The quarterback came over and announced that I was hurt. The coach said, "Get up you fucking pussy! Rub a little dirt on it! Run it again!" I didn't make it out of my stance. I just laid there writhing in agony. The coach yelled for the trainer, " Hey, come get this fucking pussy off my field!"

The trainer took me to the hospital and called my parents. The coach never said another word to me.

Are coaches still like this?

Wait, this edition needs more racism

Anon:

My Sophomore high school football coach was a belligerent 65 year old white man who had very little care for choosing his words properly. We go into halftime tied in our late October against Waukegan— a team that is 99% black— and our coach starts yelling at us because he says we should be beating the crap out of this team. It's not because we're bigger, stronger, or have a better game plan, it's because "...It's 40 goddamn degrees outside, and if I know one thing, it's that black people don't like the cold." All of us are pretty shocked, but none more than John C. John is the only black kid on our team. A few seconds of silence pass by and our coach turns to John and says "John, you know that! Tell 'em!"