"Sam, that was a good practice. I liked your hustle out there," Rick Carlisle told his player. "I like seeing you putting in the effort towards improving your help defense." Samuel Dalembert smiled. "Thanks coach." "There's just one thing. The assistants and I agree that you could stand to lose some weight." Sam sighed. Coach Carlisle never got off his case. "Sure, coach." "Think about it, Sammy." ------------------------------- Sam was driving home from their game when he heard is phone ring. Usually, he didn't pick up while driving, but his phone was playing "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead," which was Coach's ringtone. "Sup coach, what's on your mind?" Sam started. "You're not eating anything, are you?" his coach inquired, suspicion evident in his voice. "I told you not to eat too much outside of meals." For once, Samuel was telling the truth when he responded, "No coach, I'm not eating anything." To be safe, he continued, "And the nutritionists got me eating chicken breast with pasta tonight, so you don't need to lecture me about eating too much Whataburger." "Sounds good. See you tomorrow at practice," his coach said before hanging up. Putting down the phone, Sam shook his head once before refocusing his concentration on Dallas' rush-hour traffic. ---------------------------- "Get back on D, fatty!" Carlisle yelled. "He didn't touch you, so quit whining at the ref and get your rear in gear!" Sam was just getting back across the half-court stripe when his opponents scored an easy layup. A frustrated coach Carlisle immediately called time. Sam knew he was in for an earful when he got back to the huddle. "Why can't fatty run? Can anybody tell me the reason?" Carlisle asked his players. "Is it because he's too fat? Thinking too much about chocolate cake and fried chicken? Hmmmm?" Not waiting for an answer from his embarrassed players, he pulled out a megaphone and placed the flared end right next to Sam's ear. "FATTY! FATTY! FATTY! FATTY!" he yelled before pointing the megaphone at the crowd. "ATTENTION DALLAS MAVERICKS FANS: SAMUEL DALEMBERT IS A HUGE FAT LARD." Sam wanted to run in the locker room and hide. "Thanks for the motivation, coach." --------------------------- Alone in his kitchen, Sam carefully unwrapped another Oatmeal Creme Pie. After a deprived childhood growing up impoverished in Haiti, he savored any and every morsel of food that entered his mouth. The succulent, factory-produced aroma of the foodstuff enticed his nostrils. Eagerly anticipating the first taste of the snack cake, he was just about to take a bite when there came a tapping at his kitchen window. The darkness of the night combined with the bright lights of his kitchen meant that he could see nothing outside the window. So he walked over and opened it, wondering if it was one of his many dalliances wanting a night on the town. His visitor was far from that. It was his coach. "I told you to cut down on the junk food, Sam," he said sternly, apparently unaware of the inappropriateness of his stalker-like behavior. "We need you in top shape if you want to last through the 82-game grind of an NBA season." "Coach, it's one in the morning, don't you got better stuff to do than harass your players? Like, oh, I don't know, stay home in bed with your wife?" Sam said in response, exasperated. "I don't need you babying me all the time." Carlisle didn't even seem to hear Sam's words. "Come with me to your front lawn. I have something to show you." Dreading what horrible surprise lay waiting for him, a puzzle Sam followed his coach through the back garden to his expansive front yard. He rounded the corner of his house to find a glowing orange light greeting him. His lawn was on fire. "What are you doing, you crazy psycho? You're gonna burn down the whole goddamn place!" Coach Carlisle smiled self-satisfactorily. He seemed to be extremely pleased with himself. "Read the words that I have set aflame on your lawn, and you will understand." Now Sam noticed that, indeed, the fires on his grass did form letters which spelled out words. He stood atop his SUV to get a better vantage point. "PLEASE LOSE SOME WEIGHT YOU FAT SLOB, SINCERELY, COACH C" Sam took out his phone and began to call 911. "God damn it coach." All clips property of the NBA. No copyright infringement is intended.

• published: 23 Nov 2013
• views: 299