Coach, the Short Story

Craig T. Nelson is an actor in his 60s best known for playing the title role of Coach Hayden Fox on an ABC sitcom that peaked in popularity in the early '90s. (He was the embattled dad in the movie Poltergeist, too.) What follows is an account of what happened on his trip to the Atlantic coast of Florida to take in the Daytona 500, a major NASCAR race.

Inside an Applebee's, Craig sits in a booth, alone and solemn, gazing absently at a menu. Suddenly a clamor arises in the pocket of his khaki pants. It's his cell phone, blaring the theme song from Coach—a marching band anthem that flourishes with all the gusto of a John Phillip Sousa arrangement. Craig urgently digs for the cell phone, brings it into the light. Meanwhile, a burly and excitable man in his late 20s overhears the music from his perch at the bar. He sits bolt upright, swivels around, and turns his focus toward Craig. The fight song ceases abruptly, though—an indication that Craig has received a text message rather than a call. He frowns as he reads the text.

“It's over, Craig. Move out by end of month. Goodbye. --Diane.”

His shoulders slink. He groans weakly. On the brink of catatonic despair, he slips the device back into his pocket and stares at the empty seat in front of him.

The young man at the bar approaches, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging in increments with each step he takes in his leather sandals. His t-shirt bares Greek letters; stitching beneath that reads “2001 Pledge.” He grins broadly, tucks his hands behind his head and squeezes the bill of his backward-turned cap. When he gets within an arm's reach of the table, Craig finally notices him.

“Coooaaach!” the young man bellows.

A willowy waitress with a golden ponytail strides over, shaking her head.

“Inside voice, Mike. Please. Tone it down.”

Craig smirks wistfully, a bit revived but still weary.

“It's all right, miss,” he says. “I guess the fanfare is nice sometimes.”

She peers at Craig quizzically. After a moment, she nods with vague recognition.

“Oh—my goodness. I do know you—from television. Yes. A sitcom. What was the name of that program?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike informs her.

“Yup. That's the one,” Craig says, chuckling.

“Well, I've never waited on a celebrity before. How neat! I'll be back to take your order in a minute, sir.”

She walks away, flashing her teeth. Mike lingers, awestruck and vibrating with cheer. Craig extends an open hand to his admirer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mike.”

Startled by the greeting, Mike gulps anxiously, convulses out of his stupor, and shakes hands. He nods reverently.

“Coach,” he says in a dignified manner.

“Have a seat.”

Mike exerts a quick gasp and then obliges. He slides into the booth and faces his idol.

“You know,” Craig says, “I hate to be needy, but it really is refreshing for an actor to find someone who really likes his work. The years I spent playing Hayden Fox were some of the best of my life—professionally, personally, financially...you name it. Sure, we were never quite as popular as Full House or Seinfeld, but do you know which show had the sixth-highest ratings in prime-time from '92 'til '94?”

“Coach!”

“Bingo! Holy smokes. You really know your Coach facts.”

The waitress returns, poised to jot down Craig's order. As she addresses Mike, she motions toward the bar.

“I think your beer is getting warm...”

“No, it's all right,” Craig insists. “Mike, care to join me for dinner? It's on me, bud.”

Overcome with gratitude, Mike pumps his fist and nods effusively.

“Coach!”

“That's the spirit,” Craig says, squinting at the menu. “I'll have a T-bone steak, rare, with a baked potato on the side. And for my new friend...”

Mike bows his head and gestures to Craig; he defers.

“Coach?”

“You want me to order for you? Sure. Mike will have the same. And a few rounds of beer for the both of us.”

The waitress says she'll be back soon with their meals and departs.

Craig leans forward, raises an eyebrow.

“I ordered the T-bone 'cause that was my nickname when I was about your age. Craig 'T-bone' Nelson.”

The gag is slow to register for Mike. A few seconds pass by, but then, with feigned understanding, he lets out a boisterous laugh. He tilts his head to the side and points to Craig.

“Coooaaach.”

Craig rollicks in his seat, snickering.

“Oh man, sharing some laughs with one of my biggest fans...This is just what I needed.” He reaches into his back pocket and makes a grand presentation of two tickets. “Do you like NASCAR, Mike?”

He nods repeatedly.

“I suddenly have an extra ticket for the Daytona 500 tomorrow. Tell you what: You can be my guest, but only if you pass the quiz. Ready?”

Puzzled but willing, Mike nods again.

“Okay. First question: What is the greatest TV show of all time?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike hollers.

“What was the profession of the character I played?”

“Coach.”

“And, last but not least, who's your favorite character?”

“Coach!”

“Really? Wow. Most people say 'Dauber,'” Craig says. He offers a high-five and is left hanging for less than a millisecond. “Congratulations, Mike, you passed with flying colors. Let's celebrate with some shots of Jameson.” He turns his head and says, “Excuse me—waitress!”

###

At the big race the next day, Craig and Mike are clapping elatedly, standing on their seats with the utmost expectancy. The surrounding spectators are no less enthralled. Craig nudges Mike.

“The last lap. I've got five-grand riding on Jimmie Johnson and he's making a late-charge on that bozo Jeff Gordon. Oh man, Mike—the racing, the gambling—it doesn't get much better than this.”

Mike nods in agreement. They watch the drivers round the final turn. Johnson is trailing Gordon by less than a car-length.

“You can do it, Jimmie!” Craig shouts.

Perhaps mystically spurred on by the Coach's encouragement, Jimmie Johnson indeed does it; he takes the checkered flag by a narrow margin. Bursting with triumph and passion, Craig and Mike hug each other. Craig pulls away and grabs a hold of Mike's chubby cheeks.

“Guess who just got five-thousand dollars richer?”

“Coooaaach!”

“You said it, Mike! Now we gotta celebrate.”

 I swear to God if you buy More Stories, and Additional Stories it will be the greatest decision of your life. Better than having a kid--which, let's face it, Tom and Judy, was really more of an accident.

We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-B)

Telling quote #1: “We are the innovators/ They are the imitators.”--My Morning Jacket, “Wordless Chorus”

Telling quote #2: “Question: Which bear is the best bear?”--Jim Halpert, impersonating and mocking his loony co-worker Dwight Schrute on The Office.

The four of us rode our bikes to the Ferg household on the southern edge of town. In reference to Mariokart, we hollered jokes about shooting red shells and dropping banana peels along the way. We were poised to play a friendly game of poker. I was the last to arrive at our destination and blamed my shoddy performance on a lack of Star power-ups, which I am wont to do.

We helped ourselves to bottled waters in the basement. Mr. Ferg came downstairs to greet us. Everyone said hello and in no time I was asking him questions about music. He gave me answers on Gram Parsons as well as the various lineups of the Byrds. Mr. Ferg is a great guitar player. He's in his mid-50s. We're friends with his two sons. When his workweek is through, he plays gigs with three different bands and covers songs by CCR, Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Buck Owens (to name a few) and performs originals like “Shit My Pants Polka” and “I Can't Sing Like Johnny Cash.”

My friend Wesley Tables got my attention.

“You should ask Mr. Ferg your big question.”

It was a reference to side-A of this essay. I had finished it the day before. I shrugged, nodded, and took a seat on a bar-stool with intent to pose my question to Mr. Ferg.

“OK. In terms of a rock band having a whole lot of impact on the world at large, the Beatles have got to be #1, right? They're British, of course. Who do you think is the most influential and significant American band? That's the big question.”

His prominent brow crinkled, owing to wariness more so than intrigue.

“I just don't think there's a real answer to that question, Nick. No other band left their mark in history quite like the Beatles—American, British...Irish, who cares? I don't see why there has to be a competition for second place. What does it matter? Now, a lot of people thought the Byrds were sort of like the American version of the Beatles, and there's some truth to that, but I have to say that my ultimate answer is that I don't have an answer for you.”

It should not be overlooked that my friends were overjoyed by this response. Dick Willy chimed in.

“That's a great answer, Mr. Ferg,” he said. “And you still don't know whether to count Nine Inch Nails as a band or a solo artist, Olig,” he added.

That was true, at the time. I pondered for a beat without hanging my head in dejection, which was a challenge. Tad Lightly spoke up.

“I'd go with Three Dog Night.”

Mr. Ferg snorted before he took a sip of beer. He shook his head.

“Three Dog Night,” he repeated—somehow marveling and dismayed at the same time.

Mr. Ferg and I agreed on something, at least. The problem with Three Dog Night and so many other popular American bands from the '70s is that they all tend to blend together in a hearty but generic stew of that musical era. To me, Steve Miller Band, Kansas, T-Rex, Grand Funk Railroad, Boston, and Three Dog Night all seem akin to sports teams that made the playoffs only to get knocked out in the first round. All of these bands made achievements, but the true champions of their era will be discussed later. Hopefully this is the last time anyone likens the dudes from Cheap Trick to the Yao/ McGrady-led Houston Rockets, circa '05.

In the basement of the Ferg household, I realized I wasn't making much progress. Basically, I had journeyed to consult the sage, only to be told that my pressing question didn't really merit an answer. I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and contemplate as much as I could as the chips and cards were distributed for the poker game.

Later on in the night, the answer to a minor issue came to me. Belatedly, I thought of a reply to one of Dick Willy's many qualms with my latest essay. What I said seemed especially mistimed because I interrupted a chat that was mostly about Gilligan's Island.

“Nine Inch Nails are a band, to answer your question," I said. "But they're a band with an identity crisis. Trent Reznor isn't a solo artist and Nine Inch Nails are a band in pretty much the same way that 'bra' should be plural and 'panties' should be singular—even though they're not termed that way. By a loophole of logic, Nine Inch Nails are more like the bra, plural, than the panties, singular. Got it?”

I felt satisfied and went all in with my dwindled stack of chips. My nines were drawing dead before the final, “river” card was flipped. After that, the upshot of my explanation was that I had to explain myself further. I felt accustomed to doing that sort of thing.

***

The point being: I really didn't get anywhere the night the big question was brought up. Sure, Nine Inch Nails may count as an American rock band, but they're definitely not the most historically relevant. The same goes for so many other bands because my point of comparison is unfair in nature. I have come to realize that Mr. Ferg is probably onto something...but that doesn't mean I won't try to meddle with the ludicrous notion of determining America's most comparable answer to the Beatles.

I get the maddening nature of it all, though. We're a country founded on the belief in the triumph of the individual, whereas the British put a higher regard into the collectivist spirit. Americans tend to feel like they have a band, but the British typically feel like they're in a band. Americans are more likely than other nationalities to lend prestige to one while lessening the contributions of others, and rock 'n' roll is but a microcosm of this truth. This is why so many Americans know something about Albert Einstein and Babe Ruth but have little to add about the Manhattan Project and the '27 Yankees. This why the president has more power than congress, whereas the British Parliament has more power than the Prime Minister and royalty. Great Britain and America were fundamentally molded into those paradigms, and the iconic music created in both countries has reflected that.

In recognition of this cultural chasm, I am hereby waving the surrender flag in regard to my original question. The ideal way to cope with all the flack I've been handed for raising such an absurd question (not to mention the dumb consternation the whole thing has caused me) is to strike up a compromise and admit that I too can't really provide a satisfactory answer. Instead, I have to offer an abrupt crossover into baseball lore. I'm going to compose a starting-lineup card of America's premier rock bands.

Baseball is, after all, a truly American sport; it has been deemed our national pastime, ad nauseam. It's also not as popular as football—whether it be American football or the painfully dull version of the game that Brits embrace. Just as American bands don't provoke as many “wows” from the casual fan, the same could be said about baseball in comparison to football.

Elvis is our quarterback and Creedence Clearwater Revival is our center-fielder--am I right?

As for the problem of equating plural entities (bands) to singular entities (individual players), refer to the Nine Inch Nails conundrum earlier in this essay.

Some significant bands must be left out of the starting line-up; they'll have to ride the pine in the dugout, chew and spit wads of snuff, and tell dirty jokes between innings. R.E.M. are critically beloved and forefathers of indie/ alternative rock, but their magnitude is just not on par with the bands in the starting line-up. Apologies for the snub, Michael Stipe, but you sang it best: “Everybody Hurts.” Lynyrd Skynyrd are quite popular, especially to southerners, but they're really more of a Confederate band. Benched! Van Halen meant an awful lot, but they lose points for interchanging lead-singers and thereby cheapening the value of their group by employing the likes of Van Hagar and later Van Gary Cherone. Journey is denied mostly because their most memorable music video—the one that featured them earnestly playing air-instruments in a back alley—cannot be appreciated by a self-respecting listener who has no sense of ironic detachment. The Eagles have a top-selling greatest hits album working in their favor, but too many fans of rock-music share the Dude Lebowski's conviction that they really sucked. Guns 'n' Roses disbanded an album or two before cementing a superlative legacy, and then their lead singer devolved into a pop-culture joke. Metallica doesn't quite mean as much to American heavy metal as KISS does (who hit the scene first), but I will concede that that was a very tough call to make...

For what it's worth, naturally.

And so, with "fuck yous" to further ados: Here is my starting line-up of the most iconic American rock bands.

1.The Ramones, RF. They played much faster than any other band in the line-up, and lead-off hitters are known for having great speed. The Ramones only required 2 minutes to blast eardrums with 3-chord ugly-bliss. They played at a frenzied pace and always hustled. They could easily stretch a bloop-single into a double. My friend Ziggy has to lend a great and insightful quote about why the Ramones are so crucial, and here it is: “Like most Americans, they're dumb and they don't care. They founded American punk.” Listen to Ziggy.

2.The Beach Boys, 2B. “They're probably the most suitable rock-critic answer to the question,” Ziggy opined, and, considering that Rolling Stone deemed Pet Sounds the second-greatest album of all time (behind only the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper), it's hard to disagree with him. Their early stuff seems so unduly fixated on the appeal of surfing and So-Cal babes, and I have to scoff at the likelihood of legendary Brits like Mick or Paul or Plant ever bringing their talents to a county fair in my hometown of Fond du Lac, WI—as Mike Love has done with his touring semblance of the Beach Boys—but that only serves to demonstrate the fact that our bands are less in-demand than their counterparts across the Atlantic. But within the confines of the debate, that hardly matters. “Good Vibrations,” “God Only Knows,” “Sloop John B.,” “Barbara Ann,” “Help Me Rhonda,” and a host of other melodic triumphs stand as proof that while the Beach Boys didn't slug very many out of the park, they still tallied singles with the greatest of ease.

More Stories, and Additional Stories. Oh, man, it's way better than the worst thing that ever happened to you. Eat your heart out, creepy scout master!