DarwinismOn the philosophy of coaching a competitive sport . . . And suddenly I am the coach. Rancorous. Balding. Christian. A spool of flab hanging over the belt . . . I don’t care how young the players are: crow’s feet are mandatory during prayer. We stack hands and pray to the lord for a win. We pray again for our sins to be forgiven so that we can win. We pray again for a big fucking win. We continue to pray. “Lord,” my lips utter, “let us buttfuck our opponents harder than they’ve ever been buttfucked before. Please. Please, lord.” I am whispering now. “Let us tear their asses apart with our giant, skilled cocks.” There is a devout pause during which my pursed lips twitch and then deliver a commanding “Amen.” The players open their eyes. I look at them, at their faces, their eyes, and I decide we need to pray some more. We kneel and lock arms, cutting off the circulation of blood to our forearms and hands. The limbs swell and turn purple.