Eat the rich

A meeting of all club coaches at the high school gym tonight. It’s a tedious affair about fund-raising and the desperate need to raise more money to defray the costs of running teams. El Presidente, the man who is in my sights for breeding a culture of tolerating losing, goes on and on for an hour about various events he wants to hold between now and September. First off, he wants to have a fashion show.

I can hardly stifle the laughter when he brings this up. Looking around the room, there isn’t a single coach here attractive enough to walk down a runway and turns head except me. Apart from being bad at teaching soccer, there are too many wannabe Tom Selleck moustaches and  bald patches knocking around. And that’s only the women.

Next up, he goes on about a golf day at the local club. This is more plausible because it would at least give me a chance to showcase my superior skills around the greens. When he details how much work is involved though, I just shake my head. After letting the usual suspects blather on about their own ideas, I take the floor.

‘These events are just band-aids over a gaping wound,’ I say. ‘We need to change the entire culture of the club. From now on, when players come to register we should demand to see the parents’ tax returns so that only couples with combined incomes of over $100k are allowed to sign up their kids. If we do this we can charge more and more money to join. Richer people don’t care what it costs as long as you take their children off their hands for a few hours per week and then lie to them about their kids' athletic prowess. If we exploit this vanity properly, there’s no more need for us to waste time fund-raising.’

I sit down content that yet again I’m the smartest person in this room.