Call me 'Coach'

I had fun toniight. The Verbal Abuse (rechristened twice: as Verbal Degredation and as Verbal Domination) went pretty well. Both of the scenes that I was involved in were well received, particularly the second. In the second scene, I played the part of the Coach/Manager/Owner of a baseball team, chastising an upstart pitcher.

Let me see if I can dig up the script...

Got it.

**The American Pasttime**

SCENE: An office in Tampa, Florida. COACH is sitting at a desk. Enter
PITCHER.

Pitcher: You wanted to see me, Sir?
Coach: I did. I did. Sit down.
Pitcher: So, what's up?
Coach: In the game today, fifth inning. That kid from Panama was up at
bat. Remember that?
Pitcher: Yeah. Yeah, I do.
Coach: What was the signal you received from your catcher?
Pitcher: (Pause) Throw a cutter.
Coach: But you didn't throw a cutter did you.
Pitcher: I... No... I didn't.
Coach: And you threw your catcher off. And everybody in the infield
picked up on that. We had three errors after that pitch.
Pitcher: I'm sorry, coach. I made a mistake there.
Coach: No. No. That wasn't a mistake. A mistake is when my dog pisses
on the rug. That's a mistake. 'Cause he's a dog. He doesn't know any
better. But here's what my dog doesn't do. I tell him 'sit' and his butt
hits the floor. I tell him 'down' and his belly is right down there with
his butt. What he doesn't do is go fetch my slippers when I tell him to
sit. He doesn't disobey me. 'Cause he knows I own him. And if he
disobeys me, I'm gonna take him and have him gassed. You follow me, boy?
Pitcher: Uh, yeah, I...
Coach: Let me make something clear. I own you. I own your ass. You
belong to me. Just like my dog. I can go to that phone and make a call,
and tomorrow you'll be pitching for some fucking farm team in Dubuque. I
can make a call and you'll never pitch for any baseball team
again. You'll be running some fuckin loser sports bar in Dubuque. I own
you, boy. You understand me?
Pitcher: I understand.
Coach: Stand up.
(Pitcher stands.)
(Coach moves chair away from pitcher.)
(Pause.)
Coach: (loudly) Sit!
(Pitcher just looks at coach.)
Coach: (louder) Sit!!
(Pitcher squats on the floor.)
Coach: Your butt didn't hit the floor there. I want your butt on the floor.
(Pitcher squats so his butt is on the floor.)
Coach: Down.
(Pitcher repositions himself so that he is on his belly.)
Coach: This is what I want from you. When I tell you to do something,
you do it. If you do otherwise, you disobey me. And if you disobey me,
I'm gonna have you gassed. I'm gonna put you down.
(Coach stands directly in front of Pitcher.)
Coach: Clean up my shoes.
Pitcher: What, Sir?
Coach: I want you to clean my shoes. With your mouth. Just like my dog does.
Pitcher: Sir, I...
Coach: Like my dog. I own my dog. I own you. My dog cleans my
shoes. You clean my shoes.
(Pitcher begins licking Coach's shoes.)
Coach: With enthusiasm. Like you're having a good time.
(Pitcher applies himself.)
Coach: (After enjoying having Pitcher clean his shoes for some moments)
*sniff* *sniff* You smell something?
Pitcher: Smell something? No, Sir?
Coach: I do. I smell something. Know what I smell?
Pitcher: What's that, Sir?
Coach: I smell dog piss. You pissed on the rug, didn't you?
Pitcher: (not understanding) No, Sir. No, I didn't...
Coach: Are you contradicting me? I smell dog piss. You're down there
cleaning my shoes like a dog. That must mean you pissed on the
rug. Who's a bad dog?
Pitcher: I... I didn't...
Coach: Who's a bad dog?
Pitcher: (pause) I am.
Coach: Let me hear you say it.
Pitcher: I'm a bad dog. I'm a bad dog and I pissed on the floor.
(Coach takes newspaper from desk.)
Coach: Sit.
(Pitcher repositions himself so he is in a squatting position on the floor.)
(Coach rolls up newspaper, pauses, looking down at pitcher. Coach swats
pitcher hard in the face.)
Coach: (Pause) On your feet.
(Pitcher rises)
Coach: You carried this team last year. You were the backbone. I expect nothing
less of you this year. You have the makings of a world class player. Practice
is at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Go get some rest.

(Exit pitcher.)

* * * * *

After the Program, I felt pumped and excited in the way I usually do after a good scene. I'm glad I was able to block out the room full of onlookers, and just concentrate on the bottom, who was wonderful.

Sadly, Does Windows didn't make the scene. And didn't call. Points off there.

Alas, the evening didn't quite end successfully. I went around the corner to the Village Den to have dinner. In came two guys I know from GMSMA, with a third in tow. The third guy... well, maybe I've been in the 'Helping Professions' too long, but from the moment I looked at him, I saw 'client.' And boy was I ever right. The enormous suitcase he was carrying was something of a dead giveaway. I was invited to join there table. He monopolized the conversation, was confabulating left and right ("I'm a sociologist! I'm a model!"), and ended up making a plea for someplace to stay. Uh uh. Sorry.

But, that meant that I didn't have my Time Alone, such a critical component of my Top aftercare. Always.

Oh. There was this passel of really hot men at GMSMA tonight. A few real stunners. Whom I've never seen before. (Let's be clear: there are never not representation of the hot among us of one stripe or another at GMSMA meetings, but tonight was fresh meat, which is always welcome.)

Anyway. Off to bed.

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