So a certain men's volleyball team has asked me to coach them...again. I made that mistake before...twice in fact. It's not so much that my head coaching winning percentage dropped faster than a slut to his knees in a bathhouse. It's just that both times, both teams were lazier and more immature than 6 summers of 14 year old girls at volleyball camp. Even the little pre-teen girls who wanted to talk about the O.C. instead of anything involving a volleyball actually broke a sweat once in awhile.
While accepting the team captain's offer would allow many of my friends another opportunity to live their ultimate wet dream, I need to say no. Rent some porn guys. Same idea. It's not all showers and sweaty shirtless conditioning and...well, it's not ALL that. Just kidding. Or am I?
While none but one of the guys on the team know that I hold hands with boys, I have to admit they're pretty progressive in their thinking concerning the matter. Last year we needed money something bad for uniforms and hotels and vans and tourney entry fees so they embraced a certain idea. I didn't propose it although, believe, I thought about it.
The captain's girlfriend's mom (Hello, you're speaking to Adam Corrola and Dr. Drew) proposed they do a calendar. A calendar? A calendar. "The Men of ___ Volleyball." Not quite the nude European league rugby calendars...but one could hope...not me, cuz that we be inappropriate...but, um...yeah...
The guys (well 14 of 15 of them) were all about it.
"And you could...," began captain's girlfirend's mom, "sell it at the gay bars and make a small fortune."
"Hmmm...what would that get us?" asked a few of the players.
"Well, I'm no math genuis but," I offered, "a new set of uniforms, suite rooms instead of two bed closet hotel rooms, and probably a team dinner once a road trip. Possibly some new sweats."
"Let's do it."
Unfortunately none of it came to fruition. Ha, fruit-ition. Ha.
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