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.
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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.
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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.


  1. Ha. Read the whole thing before I realized I was making a face. Only thing that smells worse than sweaty shoes is wet sweaty shoes.

    Still making that face.

  2. I know! The dude had no shame.

    P.S. Those shoes have been retired.

  3. For a while there, I thought my son's gym bag may have been in that locker room. Wet socks and shoes will get you every time.

    1. It might have been - I'm still not convinced I could have caused all that funk. Those shoes are sitting in the garage right now - I miss them.

  4. I can't help but wonder the conversation he was having in his head with you as you were having this conversation with him! I will say, though, I have a soft spot for those who wipe off their gym equipment. I figured he couldn't have left his socks anywhere after you told us that.

    1. He was probably wondering, "why is this old dude looking at me and shaking his head?" I probably gave him a complex, whether he's a bench wiper or not. That just sounds bad. Damn guy probably doesn't even have stinky feet.

  5. With two athletic boys and an athletic husband, not a lot of smells shock me anymore but one of the worst is smelly feet inside smelly socks inside smelly shoes that are wet. Even worse is when the game was coached by hubby and played by my son. Double whammy and if the older brother was there to watch, I run from my laundry room screaming.

    1. Thing is, my feet never ever even smell. Honest. I'm going to blame the acid rain.

  6. I'm not even kidding, I was starting to think: did Ashley get a guest blogger that lives near me? And was in the same locker room as my 14 year old?? Oh $hit, I hope he doesn't figure out who his mother is!
    Glad it was just YOUR nasty shoes, and not my son's nasty Everything.

    1. You live in a stink zone, too? I would have definitely blamed your kid for it. Now it's all starting to make sense. I'm just not capable of much nastiness.

      I'm sticking to this story.