My Bullying Coach Dared Me to Hit Him

Sarcastic, angry maniac granted me an odd golden opportunity

“Sixty-four, bridge left, ninety-four, coyote red, twenty-two, hut, hut, hike.”

The worn, scruffed football is snapped between center Richard Fern’s legs to senior quarterback Jake Hamilton. The wiry, 6-foot-1, dirty-blonde, haired Hamilton scrambles right and gets ready to float a spiral downfield to Mikey Oleander, but — bam! — six-foot-four defensive end Casey Hill plows a vicious hit on Hamilton right as he releases a pass that wobbles and falls five yards short.

Tweet!

It’s a chilly South Dakota October afternoon at Vermillion High School’s practice field in 1982 as Coach Steve Latimer comes bolting over from the sidelines to the backfield and gets right in Hill’s face — smacks him with a crumpled-up paper — and screams, “Casey, Casey, Casey, what the fuck! Are you trying to pop off Hamilton’s head?

Respect the fucking red jersey

“If we have any chance of making it to state we are going to need that young man at quarterback. Don’t you see the fucking red jersey? Respect the fucking red jersey. The read means don’t hit him.

“And who the hell was doing the blocking in the backfield to protect our all-state quarterback. I mean not blocking him.”

“It was Butler, coach,” said Hamilton.

He wasn’t lying, the large, chiseled, transformer-like Hill literally took me with his left hand and tossed me to the ground like a rag doll.

Currently, I was lying face down more resembling Flat Stanley than a tenacious Tanager football player.

“Come here, Butler,” Lattimer hollered.

Not-so lovable coach Latimer

Latimer. I don’t think the man knew what the definition of a smile is.

He had short, straight, perfectly-parted brown hair. He was well-built and his eyebrows were always squinted close to his eyes, giving off an intense vibe — like he was always angry.

He yelled constantly in a raspy voice, never seeming happy. He was a perfectionist. And he also always had a wad of chew in his mouth.

I jogged over readying for an ass chewing. I could feel my heartbeat instantly cranking up, and the heat of my quickly reddening face.

I wanted to disappear. Now.

“Did you even try to block Hall?” he asked.

“Um, yes,” I mumbled.

The impossible proposition

“Tell you what, Butler. I’m going to give you the chance of a lifetime. No, check that, I am granting you three chances of a lifetime to hit me.”

“You won the fucking lottery, Butler. I’m a regular Genie in a motherfucking bottle granting you three wishes. Hit me, hit me, and hit me. Got it?”

“Coach … I, I, ” I stammered.

“Butler, any of your teammates would kill to hammer their coach just once.”

The rest of the team huddled in a huge semi-circle and started yelling:

“Give me a shot, Latimer”

“I wanna kick coach’s ass”

“Pretty please, coach, pick me!”

Hit me with your best shot

I realized there was no chance to escape this situation.

“Come on, give me your best shot, Butler.”

Crouching down into the much-stressed, classic three-point football stance, I squatted down on my legs, and dug my right thumb, pointer finger, and index finger into the grass.

Nervous — and not trusting what Latimer was up to — I took a deep breath, placed my mouthpiece into place, and looked up at the intimidating head coach.

A scared gladiator

Even though I was fully geared with a helmet, shoulder pads, and knee pads, I firmly believed I was either going to knock him out cold, or — worst — he was going to embarrass the living hell out of me by hitting me.

I feared the unknown. Terrified as to what was about to happen.

“Come on, Butler, we don’t have all day,” Latimer shouted.

On that cue, I popped up and jogged casually towards him at a half-speed not — sure if he really wants me to hit him.

Trash tossing

He responded by rather easily grabbing my oversized practice jersey and throwing me to the side like he throwing away a piece of trash.

“That’s all you got, Butler?” he asks with an evil smirk on his face.

Entertained and amused teammates were now hooting and hollering hysterically, cracking jokes.

I refused to glance over feeling embarrassed. On the brink of tears.

Somebody save me from this insane Dolph Lungren-like lunatic!

Mean Joe Tree

“What’d you run into a tree?” jokes one player.

“Come on, Butler! Get mean!” another teammate yells.

“Hit him with your best shot — not your worst, Butler,” another teammate says.

Assuming the position

Returning to the dreaded line of scrimmage, I once again kneeled down in the get-set, three-point stance.

The best option was to knock him on his ass, and I was determined to do it.

“I’m waiting,” Latimer said with a deadpan expression.

This time I popped up faster, and burst into a full dash at Latimer, preparing to see Latimer land on his ass. I braced for impact, but similar to what occurred minutes earlier, Latimer uses both of his large hands, grabbed my shoulder pads again, and threw me aggressively to the grass — like throwing dirty clothes in the hamper.

You got to be shitting me.

On the canvas

“Ohhhhhhhh,” yelled my teammates.

“And he’s down for the count. Ten, Nine, eight …,” another player said in his best Howard Cosell impression.

“You OK, Butler?” another player asked.

“Do we need to call your mommy? Or 911?”

‘One more shot’

Latimer stared down at me as his eyes turned redder and redder. His eyebrows are now even closer to his eyes as he squinted and commanded me, “Let’s go, Butler. One more shot. Last chance.”

Feeling more and more defeated, I again lined up, squatted a third time, and prepared to jump up and seek revenge.

Now, I’m feeling angry. He’s embarrassing me. I feel a tear start to roll down my cheek. My knees and back are sore. I just want to be home-in bed — not on a football field with this psycho.

“Come on! What the hell are you waiting for? I want to get home tonight to watch Carson. Be a man!”

One step closer to the edge

Maybe it was his irritating, raspy, condescending voice, or those annoying, angry eyebrows. Maybe it was those disgusting, ball-hugging red coach’s shorts.

Maybe it was the Carson crack or the “Be a man” comment.

Or maybe I was just tired of him picking on me. Ridiculing me. And I had enough. I was ready to crack. Or erupt.

I popped up like my pants were on fire.

Yelled “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah” and dashed like a madman towards the babbling bully. Full of vengeance. Public enemy number one.

Below the belt

This time I aimed lower. Much lower.

The groin region.

Bam!

He didn’t have time to react. I was so, he couldn’t merely grab me, and fling me aside. I made contact with his crotch — ouch! — then bounced up and popped him in the chin. Ouch!

Then he fell over backward on his back and his legs popped up in the air. I’d sleighed the beast!

“Shit!” came out of his mouth.

Oh, fuck!

Too late to apologize

Now I was really scared. Should I run? Hide? Apologize?

He slowly used his hands to push himself up. Blood was oozing off his jaw.

“Damn,” he winced.

The crowd was speechless. Quiet.

His eyes looked crazed. I couldn’t read his expression

“Damn it, Butler!” he shouted clenching both fists.

Ring of fire

“That’s the fire I’m looking for. You became a man today! You lost your virginity!

“Shit, I need some fucking ice.”

With that, the whole football team clapped in approval and chanted my name.

I felt like a hero.

“Every time you are lined up in practice or a game — look at that SOB in front of you and pretend it’s that asshole coach Latimer,” commanded the crazy coach.

“Yes, sir,” I responded.

“Now get the fuck back in there and fucking block somebody,” he yelled.

Lessons learned

Sure it worked for a while. During practice, I’d get mad thinking of this idiot coach who humiliated me and I used my pent-up aggression to block, tackle or elude another player. It didn’t earn me any extra playing time though. I was still a second-string safety and flanker.

Also, it was exhausting. Giving the proverbial 110 percent every play left me with awful aches and pulsating pains daily. Football wasn’t any fun. It never was.

I didn’t play next year. Retiring for football forever. It took me a while to grow to like watching it on television again.

Latimer years later

I reconnected with an old teammate on Facebook and he had these not-too-kind things to say about our coach:

“Latimer was a total prick. Everybody hated him. He had had a drinking problem, too. Marital issues. Divorced. He quit coaching for a while.

“I guess he remarried and straightened his life out, returned to coaching, and led the team to two state championships.

“Now, he’s a play-by-play broadcaster announcing the high-school games on the radio. Crazy, huh?”

It made me wonder why? Why was he so angry at me? Was it all the drinking? Unhappiness at home?

And I wondered if he had changed. Did his new marriage, championships, and sober life change him and make him happy? Did he find God?

Or was he still that same angry, lunatic crazy-eyed coach that bullied me and embarrassed me back in the fall of 1985?

Thanks for reading my story.

Tagging the gridiron gang: Lu Skerdoo, Scott Younkin, Scot Butwell, gaurav jain, Deborah Camp, Jan Sebastian, Evon, The Sober Vegan Yogi, Ginger Cook, Jane Kelley, Sreese, Linda Ng, Klara Jane Holloway, Gerald Sturgill

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