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nobody says you’re not smart. They say other stuff, but not that.”
    On Getting Stung by a Bee
    “Okay, okay, calm down. Does your throat feel like it’s closing up?…Do you have to take a crap?…No, that don’t have anything to do with bee stings, it’s just you’re pacing back and forth, I thought maybe you had to go.”
    On How to Tell When Food’s Gone Bad
    “How the fuck should I know if it’s still good? Eat it. You get sick, it wasn’t good. You people, you think I got microscopic fucking eyes.”
    On Dealing with Bullies
    “You’re going to run into jerk-offs, but remember: It’s not the size of the asshole you worry about, it’s how much shit comes out of it.”
    On Silence
    “I just want silence…. Jesus, it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. It just means right now, I like silence more.”

Not Everyone’s Balls Should Be Busted
    “Shit, I forgot to pick you up, didn’t I?…Sorry about that. Anyway, I’m not coaching that fucking team anymore.”

    When I was ten years old, my father, against his better judgment, volunteered to coach my Little League team. Six months later, in the spring of 1991, Sam Halpern’s coaching career came to an abrupt and angry end.
    When my dad moved to Point Loma, our seaside San Diego suburb, in 1972, it was mostly a military community. He had served in the navy, and the familiar atmosphere and like-minded residents made him feel welcome. Over the years, Point Loma’s proximity to the beach made it a desirable neighborhood to the wealthy, and huge houses sprouted up all around our modest three-bedroom home. My dad was not pleased. “I refuse to become a fucking yuppie by proxy,” he announced after a young couple moved in next door, replacing one of the last of the old military officers who had once lived on our street.
    Consequently, when I was growing up, my local Little League team, Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, was filled with the children of these people my dad disliked, and for the most part, they were spoiled, disrespectful kids. I knew almost right away it probably wasn’t the best idea that my dad coach this team, but he loved baseball, and he loved me, and I think in his mind he figured that was enough.
    My dad’s only rule as a coach was that all the kids play the same amount of innings per game, no matter their skill level. “It’s Little League. You’re all terrible for the most part, and that’s okay. The only way you’re going to stink less is by playing,” he told us at our first team meeting.
    So every game, my teammates and I rotated on and off the field, each of us playing four of the six innings. Sometimes the rotations wouldn’t work out perfectly, and if someone had to sit out three of the innings instead of two, that someone would be me. “You’re actually good, and you know it. These other kids, it’s fucking waterworks when I take them out of the game,” my dad said to console me.
    “So if I cried, I could play? That’s not fair.”
    “No, if you cried, I’d still bench you, and then I’d bench you more for crying about not playing an inning in a goddamned Little League game. You’re my son, and life’s a bitch.”
    During his first couple months as head coach, my dad did not exactly become a fan favorite among my teammates and their parents, who found his even-playing-time rule incorrigible. At one point during a game, one of the kids’ parents started mouthing off at him from the stands, furious that his kid wasn’t playing more.
    “We’re losing because of you! Why would you bench the best player?! It’s moronic!” my snot-nosed teammate’s father yelled.
    “Best player? I don’t know what fucking game he’s watching,” my dad mumbled to himself.
    The parent kept at it, clearly oblivious to my dad’s growing anger and frustration. When the inning was finally over, Coach Halpern burst out of the dugout and stormed into the stands.
    “Everyone plays the same amount of innings, that’s my rule. This