A Letter to Qwendy

Dear Coach:

Hi, how are you? I am not so well. You’ve kind of put me in a bit of an emotional state. And I’ve sort of lost my appetite as well. So my parents think I’m anorexic now (this is worse than last month when they thought I was bulimic). Luckily I’m used to these kinds of notions, so I just sort of brush them off. Of course, you could be doing this to help me. You, the clever medical assistant that you are, might have realized my plans to fit back into this old pair of jeans I really like (they are Mavi brand and therefore it is absolutely necessary for me to trim down those love handles) decided that since I wasn’t burning calories in game play (FUN FACT: surprisingly people don’t burn many calories while sitting!) would push my fragile emotional state far enough that the look, smell, and taste of edible substances makes me want to vomit. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this letter. I guess it really is my best interests you have at heart.

So anyways, I guess I don’t really mind sitting on the bench that badly. My hair is usually much nicer this way. But seriously, you were WAY harsh on us today. And I just wanted to be like: “Coach, that was WAY harsh.” But you scare me and would most likely beat me with your stick. Or maybe just reply in that fake, sickly sweet saccharine voice of yours that I was not being a “team player.” I used to just compare you to like a Gestapo. Like really mean and all, but just doing what you had to do. But more and more you are actually becoming Hitler-esque. I really hate making Holocaust metaphors, but in this case this works pretty well. Cuz McCabe, Becca, Sam, Kita and I are the Jews. We are the “bench players” – a subhuman race tyrannized by you. And just because you don’t make us wear little Star of Davids on our backs doesn’t mean you aren’t oppressing us. I’m not gonna lie. You totally are. Hitler was very mean to the Jews and he made them cry. Last night, I cried Coach. (I admit partly because everyone in my family got fast food and I had to eat nasty old leftovers, but that’s beside the point. I was easily broken at that point because of you). But the more alarming thing is that at least Hitler had syphilis. At least he had a minor excuse for his insanity. You have absolutely no excuse. And that makes me cry inside Coach. It really does.

On another note: seriously Coach, WTF? Sam Ratica works harder than any person on the team. She is first every freaking time we do sprints. She is nice to every girl. She doesn’t have anything but a pleasant, positive attitude. And you have the audacity to say that SHE isn’t a team player? WTF is in those pumpkin cookies you gobble down so voraciously? What kind of drugs are you seriously taking? Oh wait I forgot! It wasn’t that North Allegheny was better skilled than us, or that they worked harder, or played better, or had a better coach whose not taking drugs. It was those damn bench players fault we lost. If only those stupid bitches had just cheered more. THEN we would have won. OF COURSE!

“Oh no! Someone alert the bench players! They are not cheering again! Their faces will be so red!”

And like after that game and all, I felt pretty played. Like a little puppet that you used to just make yourself laugh and laugh and laugh. And that hurts too. Because, we really do not enjoy being screwed over again and again and again (contrary to popular opinion). Like in the future I think before people join field hockey there should be a warning sign – CAUTION: MAY CAUSE LOW SELF-ESTEEM OR EXTREME DEPRESSION, BUT PROBABLY BOTH!

Coach, I’m not gonna lie. I had a fantasy about stabbing you with my field hockey stick (and I’m pretty sure that this is justifiable homicide.) It went a little something like this:

ME: I’m not gonna take this anymore you crazy bitch! *I wave my stick around wildly before cracking it in half over the fence. My eyes are glazed over and crazed-looking*

COACH: This is not team spirit. Why is your jaw dropping to the ground?

I have to go to bed now because I
ME: My fucking jaw isn’t on the fucking ground. *I thrust the splintered edge of Cyclone into her stomach and walk away complacently*

I hope you enjoyed that little segment of writing. I guess I’m not very talented at field hockey, so maybe you can enjoy one of my other “talents.” I trust it was a nice little pleasant treat for you to mull over. I find it a quite palatable little scenario, don’t you?
have a headache from thinking about all of this again.

Hate,
Molly