Jerry the Bum

I know what you‘re thinking. How did Jerry end up on the streets? I‘m glad you asked. Pull up a crate and I‘ll tell you. My story begins way back in 1998. It was a much simpler time back then. The Taco Bell Chihuahua had stolen the nations‘ heart, the airwaves were saturated with trivial scandals, and Anthrax was still just a band.

I had a great job at a new energy company called Enron. I didn‘t get paid that much, but at least it was good honest work. While I eeked out just a modest salary I could take solace in the fact that I had a loving fiancée named Kathleen.

Even though I had a supportive woman and a fulfilling career, I still wasn‘t completely happy. Something was missing from my life, so I decided it was time to shake things up. Doing community service seemed like a great way to fill the void in my life. I went to the YMCA to sign up as a coach. I played many sports as a child and thought it would be fun to be the guy doing the yell, instead of being the guys getting yelled at.

The two sports in season were baseball and basketball. Since I could not imagine having fun at a baseball game without large quantities of beer, I decided to go with basketball, for the well-being of the children. I picked up my roster, called all of my players, and scheduled our first practice. The practice went smoothly, except for the fact that I had four players named Mike. It took me five minutes to figure out that this was way too confusing and something had to be done. I either needed to find a kid named Ike to complete a sweet starting line-up or I needed to change some names. I gathered up the Mikes and went down the line pointing at them: “All right from now on you‘ll be Mike, you‘re going to be Michael, you‘re Mikey, and… I‘m going to call you Enrique. I‘m sorry, but your parents should‘ve been more creative. ”

After a couple of practices I felt confident that my team was capable of winning a lot of games. I had been handed ten individual sixth graders and I had sculpted them into a team. I went into our first game confident we had a shot of being one of the better teams in our age group. However those optimistic aspirations were soon dashed, upon showing up to the courts for our first game. After staring up into the eyes of some of the players on the other teams, one thought kept popping into my head: “Man these guys sure are tall for sixth graders. ”

The tallest guy on my team was the same size as the shortest guy on all of the other teams. In the background I heard blaring out of a boom box an old school rap song by Skeelo. “I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. ”Amen, Skeelo, amen.

After making some inquires I found out that there had been a draft. The other coaches actually scouted and picked specific players. I was unaware of the whole draft and got stuck with a team of leftovers. Once the game began I came to the realization that I had grossly overestimated the playing ability of my team. In comparison with our opponents, my kids had the basketball skills of… well, how can I put this delicately? My kids had the basketball skills of a retarded chimp with three fingers.

Then to add insult to injury, we got stuck with the black jerseys. It was Phoenix, outdoors, the middle of summer, and my kids were running around in the black jerseys. It was brutal. I actually had one kid evaporate. So, I had four kids on the court and they gave me a technical foul. I was the only coach given a technical foul for the laws of nature.

Despite having the shortest and worst team, the aspect of coaching I hated the most was by far dealing with the parents. The parents took the games just a tad too seriously. Mom and dad were thinking they were watching a little mini-NBA, when in reality their kids wouldn‘t even get drafted by the Washington Generals. After watching my team play, officials from the Special Olympics changed their motto from “Everyone‘s a Winner,” to “You Know What? Maybe Everyone‘s Not a Winner. Have You Seen that Basketball Team from Phoenix, Coached by that Jerry Guy, I Mean Have You Seen them? They Suck. ”I wrote a letter to the Special Olympics requesting they go back to their old motto because I thought the new one was cruel, bad for the kids‘ self-esteem and not very catchy. I never heard back from them.

Anyway, back to the parents. They had no concept of the lack of athletic ability and basketball knowledge of their children. The parents were yelling stuff like, “Double-down! ”

“Pick and roll! ”

“Watch the backdoor! ”

The kids would just look up into the stands confused. They had no idea what their parents were talking about. I was their coach, so I tried to yell useful instructions like, “Dribble! ”

“Get your finger out of there, that‘s bad! ”

“When I said I wanted more ball movement, that‘s not what I meant. Put those away! ”

So we played our first game and of course we lost. Since the idea of needing a team name didn‘t dawn on me till after the game, we had to hurry up and pick one. The other team needed to know whom they appreciated. I told their sweaty little faces that they could pick any name they wanted. They get a little control and have some input. Someone yelled out, “Let‘s be the Panthers. ”

Everyone thought about it and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, the Panthers. ”

But then one of the kids, I think it was one of the kids formerly known as Mike saw the color of our jerseys and chimed in with, “Let‘s be the Black Panthers! ”

“No guys, I don‘t think that would be a good idea… ”

“But coach, you said we could be anything we want to be. ”

“And we want to be the Black Panthers,” they whined in full tantrum mode.

“Okay! Fine we‘ll be the Black Panthers. ”

So there I was the leader of the Black Panthers. We might not have been a good team, but we sure had good attendance. Our unique named grabbed the attention of several people and organizations, interested in what we were up to. Most of the people left irritated when they found out that our only goal was to try to win basketball games. We had Louis Farakhan show up to one of our games, the FBI, and Klansmen. Some of the original Black Panthers showed up. Because of their advanced age they have changed their name to the Enlarged Prostate Panthers.

I think our team name and the extra energy from the people in the crowd actually started to affect my players. I had one kid come up to me and ask, “Hey coach, what color is that net up there?”

I looked up. “That net would be white. ”

“Hmmmm… . ain‘t that a bitch! The thing that we are shooting for and is our goal and the thing that is always above us, that just happens to be white. Could that be just another conspiracy to keep us down?”

“Why are you talking like that?You‘re a red-headed kid with freckles. ”

When you coach a team that has Klansmen and the FBI showing up to your games, you‘ve got to expect some calls from concerned parents. I did receive several calls concerning the team name, however the majority was about the team‘s lackluster performances. After seven games we still hadn‘t recorded a victory. We almost got a win, but right before the referee was going to award us a victory due to forfeit, our opponents had to show up. Damn them! Several of the parents let me know that they don‘t like to take time out of their lives to yell, scream, and scare the hell out of their children, doing severe psychological damage if they‘re just going to lose anyway.

With just two games left and needing a strategy to motivate my team to at least one victory, I saw my opportunity. The other team had two girls. Being a twelve-year-old boy once, I knew how much animosity was reserved for the fairer sex. Comparing a boy‘s athletic skill to that of a girl was one of the worst insults you could deliver. I tailored my pre-game speech to point out the embarrassment they would feel if they lost to girls. At the climax of my riveting speech I informed my team if they lost this game I was going to make them all wear dresses their last game.

After the game was over, the fathers of my players beat the hell out of me. It turns out that fathers don‘t like the idea of a man wanting their boys to dress up in girl clothes. After receiving my pummeling I was informed that I was being replaced as the coach. They wouldn‘t even let me say good-bye to my players. I got a little choked up that I‘d never again see the kids that meant so much to me, like the kid with the runny nose or the kid who always cried when they called a foul on him. I left the court with a broken heart, a bruised ego, and I‘m pretty sure a concussion because I couldn‘t even remember my own name or more importantly where I parked.

A week after my unexpected termination as coach, my body and spirit had healed. Even though the season didn‘t go as I expected it to, the kids seemed to have fun and that‘s really the most important part. I looked at the season as a success, except for the fact that the team was an utter failure, but besides that… big,big success. A week after the Black Panthers played their last game, which I heard they lost (big shocker there) I was arrested. While at the police station I learned that the parents of my team had informed the police of my plan to make their kids wear “inappropriate sexual attire. ” I was brought up on charges of sexual misconduct with multiple minors, or as the police phrased it, being a dirty no good pet-er-ass. After talking to all of the kids from my team and hearing my explanation, the police dropped the charges and I was eventually let go.

Wanting to put the unpleasantness of the police station behind me, I looked forward to starting a new week of work on Monday. Getting immersed in work was just what I needed to get my life back to normal. However, my bosses at Enron felt the exact opposite. They thought what I needed was a lot less work, well, to be more accurate, no work at all. Over the weekend the company heard about my arrest and even though I was released, they thought it was best to let me go. My boss told me that a person charged with any form of sexual misconduct could no longer be a part of the Enron family. Apparently the number one goal of the company was to avoid scandal and bad press at all cost.

After getting fired I became quite distraught. Not only was I losing my job, but I was also losing the financial security that one can only attain at a large stable company. In this time of crisis I turned back to the wise words of my high school guidance counselor. Ms. Information told me one day, “When you start to lose, it‘s time to grab that sweet, sweet booze. ”

I believe it was in week three of my bender when my fiancée, Kathleen told me the engagement was off and to get the hell out of her house. It turns out that an out of work alcoholic, who was also an accused sex offender isn‘t good “husband material. ” Having Kathleen toss me out, ripped out my heart and left a huge void in my life. Luckily I was able to fill that empty space with more alcohol. I quickly learned that being a full time drunk with no fixed address were not qualities employers look for in an employee. I tried living a normal life anyway and ended up with no money, a broken heart, and a severe drinking problem. Life on the streets seemed pretty good to me.

That‘s my story, but it‘s not complete yet. After wallowing in self-pity and my own and other peoples filth for a couple of years my pride resurfaced. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps; well, actually my boots were stolen months ago. In actuality I pulled myself up by the straps of my newspaper loafers. It dawned on me that this is America. When something goes wrong Americans just don‘t piss and moan and give up. No sir, Americans piss and moan and then sue someone.

I pin pointed the cause of my problems. It was obviously the fault of the YMCA that my life went to hell. However, it wouldn‘t be right to sue the YMCA, it‘s a non-profit organization; there‘s no money there. I needed to find someone who had money and I could connect to the YMCA. I toyed with the idea of going after the Christian religion, but decided against it. Historically it is wise to avoid the wrath of Christians. If I were to sue the Christian religion and win millions, I don‘t think they would be willing to put their bitterness aside and forgive me.

After I dismissed several other possibilities, it finally came to me. I‘ll sue the Village People. Think about it, the most famous song by the Village People is singing the praises of the YMCA. The YMCA ruined my life. I believe that a lawsuit brought up on the grounds of whatever the legal term for lying is, against the Village People could be my ticket off the streets. The Village People have money and juries have awarded millions of dollars for far more ridiculous reasons. All I need to do is find a sleazy enough lawyer to take my case and find a jury of twelve people dumb enough to think I have a case. Since I live in America, these things should be as challenging to find as finding two needles in a needle factory.

After the lawsuit is over I expect to be a very wealthy man. Jerry the bum will be replaced by Jerry the filthy millionaire. God bless America and our legal system.