“YOU KNOW WHY WE LOST?” a red-faced Henry accusingly asked me. This was four seasons ago, after my first game coaching the Black Bats, a soccer team of 5-year-olds, and, as matter of fact, I hadn’t a clue why we lost. But before Henry could finish, John Edwin interrupted. “What are Black Bats anyway? Do bats come in green or something?” The name, John and his teammates agreed, was to blame. I looked to the other coach, Frank Hyre, for some guidance. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing. Bewildered after the shellacking we’d just taken, Frank and I agreed to revisit the team name. We really had no choice. Shortly afterwards, the kids–with a cohesive defiance the AFL-CIO would envy–refused to practice ever again as the Black Bats. Labor dispute settled, the newly minted Blastoids were, days later, crushed by the Spiders. But that match hadn’t even ended when the team-name debate reignited in earnest. Nancy and Jack, two of the team’s stars, huddled near midfield, totally oblivious to the game going on around them. With the ball lolling by their feet, they considered the relative merits of Snakes and Killer Sharks: “It’s either just plain sharks or killer whales, you stupid idiot.” After that second consecutive high-scoring shutout, Coach Hyre and I gathered our players and reviewed the fundamentals. (Remember, we switch directions at halftime. . . . Tie your shoes in double-knots. . . . No, orange peels are not mouthguards.) The next game was our first home game, and though it would be played on the same field as the previous two, we were brimming with enthusiasm. In our league, the home team provides balls, referees, and linesmen. But it is granted a major advantage: choice of goals to defend in the first half. On a normal field, with full-grown players such matters are of minimal importance. But our enforcer was 3’4″ and 55 lbs. Besides, the field was on such a slope that downhill momentum was no doubt the league’s top scorer. Our strategy was simple: Go downhill in the first half, rack up the goals, and demoralize the Rosemont Nightmare. The Black Bats-cum-Blastoids did manage to score two goals, but the Rosemont Nightmare scored six. After the final whistle, the players stared angrily at us coaches. “Winning doesn’t matter,” we said. “That’s what losers always say,” Jack scoffed. Coach Hyre and I agreed to one last name change. We gave them until Friday to come up with their own proposals. And with the best attendance ever at a practice, we went through the candidates, most of them predictable: Tigers, Bears, Pokemons. Plenty of candidates, but no consensus. Coach Hyre and I discussed whether to throw our collective weight behind one suggestion or, acknowledging the power of reverse psychology, to oppose vigorously just one. We realized the second option risked hurt feelings, so when one of the quieter players offered the vigorous-sounding “Armadillos,” we pounced. Listening to our description of Armadillos, one might think these were the toughest, fastest, smartest animals on the planet–a bit of a stretch–and that they were virtually indestructible–closer to the truth. “The three-banded armadillo can roll itself into a ball for protection,” piped up the team brainiac. Much to our surprise and delight, eight of the nine players wanted to be Armadillos. Problem solved. Then we noticed Henry, sulking in a way that indicated trouble. “But what about Goldums?” he asked, repeating a suggestion he had made earlier. “Henry, what are Goldums?” I asked, trying to be patient. “Hmmpph,” he sighed with indignation. “Everyone knows what Goldums are!” Henry pouted for ten minutes until Coach Hyre came up with a compromise that at the time seemed like a very good idea. “I’ve got it,” he declared. “We’ll be the Golden Armadillos.” The players exchanged glances that signaled tentative approval, as if to say, “I’m in if you are.” Seizing on this momentary harmony, I contributed some nonsense about gold medals, the Olympics, world champions, and impenetrable outer shells. Done. Golden Armadillos it was. The league doesn’t keep track of wins and losses. But in our case, such a tally is easy. In the twenty-odd games since becoming the Golden Armadillos, we’ve won only twice. One of those wins came when neither Coach Hyre nor I could make it, and my younger brother filled in as coach. In the absence of a players’ strike, our team has stuck with its peculiar name. I’ve bought Golden Armadillo good-luck charms, and Coach Hyre has given out Golden Armadillo awards. But with just two wins in four seasons, I’m beginning to think we’d have better luck with a different name. Either that, or I should have my brother take over. Stephen F. Hayes December 3, 2001 – Volume 7, Number 12
