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Illustration for article titled A-HOLE COACH DIGEST: Mexican Bicycle Chain Edition!

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.




Sometimes, at the end of practice, we would all gather around one of the soccer goals for a game of "Asses Up". Everyone would take a penalty kick against the goalie. If you didn't score, you got into another line with all the other losers who also missed. After everyone had taken their PK, it was time to punish those who had missed. One by one, each of the guys who missed stood in the middle of the goal and bent over.....with his pants around his ankles. The guys who made their PK got to take another kick - this time to try and drill the bare ass standing between the goal posts. I remember there being at least 3-4 guys on the team that ALWAYS made their initial PK. These guys kicked the piss out of the ball with deadly accuracy. Everyone's biggest fear was having to bend over while one of these guys kicked.

Most of the time, the kickers missed the bare asses before them. Probably because they were trying too hard to aim their kick just perfectly. Sometimes, however, there would be a loud "thwack" followed by a bloodcurdling scream. One guy even had the word Brine engraved into his ass cheek after being struck. Toward the end of the season (October and November) the weather turned cold and the ball got harder. You can imagine the rest.

Our coach would stand and watch with an amused smirk on his face. Once I thought I saw a large bulge in his pants. He claimed it was loose change.


What's the matter? CAN'T TAKE MIXED SIGNALS, PUSSY?!


The bases were loaded with 2 outs and one of our better hitters ("DT") was coming up representing the go-ahead run. Just before he went on deck, DT was rummaging around in his equipment bag (there had been 2 outs for several batters before him). He lined out to end the game.

The bus ride home was solemn. When we pulled up at school but before we got off, Coach gave us a guilt-trip-laden speech about how we had let ourselves down, and how he couldn't figure out what he had done wrong that we couldn't understand that this had been a must-win game. Everyone was nervous about whether coach would go ballistic.

Finally, coach somewhat calmly says, "Get the fuck off the bus" to the team. As DT gets up and is one of the first to try to exit, Coach stands up in his face (knocking DT's cap off his head) and says [paraphrased] "Where the fuck do you think you're going?!"

DT : "I'm getting off the bus like you said."

Coach: "That's right, just get off the bus you pussy. You don't give a shit anyway."

DT: "What are you talking about?"

Coach: "Yeah, like I didn't see you looking for your keys in your bag when we had 2 outs. You gave up, didn't you?! You were already thinking about driving the fuck home, that's why you couldn't come through when we needed you!! Just get the fuck off because you don't give a shit anyway!!!"

DT: "What? I'd tell you what I was doing but you probably won't believe me."

They went back and forth for a few minutes, with coach getting more ridiculously worked up, and DT remaining fairly calm. Finally, Coach says: "Then what the fuck were you doing?!?! You can't tell me because you know you fucking quit on us, didn't you?!?! Stop acting like a fucking baby and admit that you're a quitter!!!"

DT: [calmly] "I was looking for my lucky charm, a rabbit's foot on my keychain. I was nervous so I wanted to hold it before I went on deck" [shows coach keychain with rabbit's foot].

Coach: "Just get the fuck off."

I fucking hated baseball.

I went to the world's gayest prep school and even I never had a snail race.


It was a shell practice (helmets and shoulder pads with mesh shorts), and a fast spreading gambling enterprise were "snail races" where in a huddle or in the locker room, contestants would push the tip of their flaccid (circumcised) penis into the shaft, pinch it shut, then lift the balls up and over. The race would begin by letting go of the balls, to see how fast the head could eke its way out of the shaft.

This would often go on out in the open during practice, usually just facing towards an empty sideline or in a huddle, and for money. Anyway, coach pocket Rambo stumbles upon one of these races, and blasts the bejeezus out of this poor sophomore ginger bastard with his foot. Maybe it was the sight of fire-bush that set him off, but pocket Rambo ruptured this poor asshole's testicle, sending him into a seizure from shock, then walked away.

Meanwhile, this poor ginger was on his back, shaking and seizing, holding out his dick, with the eyes rolling back of the his head. In spite of the unspeakable agony this guy was in, as one of his fellow 'contestants' ran to get the trainer (but not before declaring victory, and thereby his $40), we all couldn't help but notice that laying on his back with his eyes glazed over, holding his member and shaking, it appeared as though he was furiously masturbating in broad daylight. It's a good thing he was in shock and probably couldn't hear us, because we were on the brink of vomiting we were laughing at this freckled, masturbating bastard so hard. I remember seeing him in the halls the next few weeks with a cane and a soft cast. He was too embarrassed to admit to the rest of the school what happened, so he asked the trainer for a soft cast/ brace thing to explain away his cane. He was already a ginger, he didn't want girls to know he was down to one testie too. Nothing ever happened to coach, we went winless in our senior year including a home shutout 48-0 on Thanksgiving. In spite of pretty much encouraging substance abuse to make you bigger faster stronger, buying booze for the captains, facilitating drills that would make Kevin Everett cringe, and giving a poor Scalabrine-looking fifteen year old the Lance Armstrong treatment, he's still gainfully employed, kicking dirt in kids faces, and putting condoms on bananas.

Mexican coaches: EXTRA SPICY!


I grew up in Mexico.

This was a pretty well-liked and respected coach. But like everyone else, every once in a while he liked to go crazy. We were at soccer practice and then coach decides we weren't running fast enough. So he walks over to his car, rummages around for a bit, and brings back a bicycle chain.

He gives the chain to the fastest guy on the team — let's call him Speedy Gonzalez — who is known as a bit of a psycho. He turns to the rest of us and goes, "Here's the drill. [Speedy] is going to chase you with the chain. If he catches you, he will hit you with it. If you leave the perimeter of the field and go out of bounds, we will hold you at the end of practice and hit you twice for every time you leave the field. Speedy, if I see you taking it easy on anyone, it's suicides for you, then someone else gets the chain, when you're good and tired. Understood? Good. Now run."

Everyone just stares at him, except for Speedy, who just stares at the chain in his hand.

"Didn't you hear me?" Coach yells. "I said, RUN." And he blows his whistle. Speedy cracks the chain once and that was all it took. You've never seen kids run faster in their life.

We all got hit with the chain a few times. The most fascinating part of all of it? None of us thought this was anything especially out of the ordinary, until a few days ago, when we were reminiscing and realized what a fucked up, brutal drill the coach came up with. Chasing people with a bicycle chain? Good Lord.




I was once leafing through my wife's old high school yearbook from the late 80s and noticed that her cheerleading coach was a very old, bald guy in a three-piece-suit. I asked my wife about this and she informed me that he had a "panty inspection" before every game that involved the cheerleaders lining up and bending over in front of him so he could make sure they were wearing regulation uniform panties. You have to kind of admire the guy.


Retards can't wrestle? Sounds like someone is unfamiliar with retard strength.


Back in high school, on during the second week of practice we had a new kid join the team. We all recognized this kid as a special ed kid from the 3rd floor of the school. This kid didn't wear a helmet or anything, but he still needed to be put up with all the other retards.

Apparently someone did not notify our coach of this minor detail and upon seeing him doing jumping jacks, or any other coordinated activity, our coach would constantly berate him with F-bombs and various uses of the word retard. No one wanted to correct the coach or inform him of this kid's disability.

During a Friday practice, our coach reminded us that we had a scrimmage on Saturday morning and to be in the parking lot at 7. The retarded kid did not show up. He comes to practice the next day and asks the coach what happened to the scrimmage, the coach informed him (again, various terms of retard that may or may not have began with fuck) that he missed the bus. Turns out, the new kid was at school at 7, 7pm.

When coach found this out he laughed in the kids face and continued to call him retarded and curse him out til he cried and left, never to return again. Finally, someone told coach about his condition and he said, "retards cant wrestle anyways" This coming from the same guy who would try (and often succeed) to give everyone a bloody nose when he would demonstrate the proper way to cross-face.

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