Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Coach Daddy in the House...
Sniff-sniff. Dude. You smell.
Maybe it's not you. Maybe it's your nasty gym socks. Or your shorts. Or maybe it is you.
I never do this. I never stand here, feet away, at my own locker, and judge. But this is horrid.
I kind of feel bad for you. You're a handsome dude. Not like in a Brokeback Mountain kind of way. I'm totally straight. But a straight man can appreciate another man, right? You're not my type or anything. You're no Tim Daly. Not that he's my type either.
Why am I having this discussion with myself in the locker room while we're both in our underwear? You've never even spoken to me. You know me, though. I'm the dad who occasionally wears Star Wars boxers and uses a Teletubbies towel. (When you're a dad, you'll understand).
The bottom line is: Something reeks. And I'm past being offended. Now I'm just embarrassed for you.
You have a lot going for you. You seem to lift with your legs, not your back. You're built like a barrel. You wipe off your gym equipment. True, you lift more in one rep than I do in a set, but to each his own. You're friendly. You smile and nod when people walk by. That's good.
But this smell… Is it your shoes?
You appear single. How this must suck for you to be handsome and strong, yet smelly.
I'm not jealous. Not even that you're apparently dressed for work, and your work allows you to wear a Salty Dog T-shirt and khaki shorts. I must wear pants to my job. No matter what. All week.
I should say something to you. Man to man. You're younger than me. Maybe I can be a father figure. Or at least a favorite-uncle figure.
Well, you're packed up to go anyway; and I'd better be, too. Maybe you could tell I was having this conversation with you in my head. You didn't even turn to wave goodbye.
And it still smells in here. Did you leave your nasty socks behind?
I'm the only cat left in here, though. Don't tell me … you stuffed a putrid washcloth in my bag?
I'll find it, you wiley bastard. I'll take it right up to that manager dude who is always bopping his head to music that no one else can hear.
Damn, I can't find it. I've taken everything out except for the new Nikes I wore to my soccer match Saturday, in a torrential downpour. We won, 7-5! My shoes were drenched. I should have set them out to dry. I think they went right into the garage, and back into my bag, and … sniff-sniff.
Don't tell me you stuck your socks in my sweet kicks! I'm so gonna kick your…
Sniff-sniff. Hmm. Nothing in here. Um, just my shoes.
Hmm. I wonder if you have a blog somewhere, too.
If so, and you caught that part about Tim Daly … forget about it.
Eli Pacheco is a reformed gym rat who now can be seen doing girl pushups between holes at the local golf disc course. Don’t call a medic. When he’s not threatening wildlife with flying plastic, he’s defending his gender or a good block of cheese. He also writes the blog Coach Daddy.