Iceberg is merely the story type... at no time in the following story do I describe any sort of large hunk of a frozen basic beverage threatening to sink ships or melt and flood the earth. That could have made an interesting twist, though...
“Coach, what happened out there?”
Neil Levine turned his head slightly towards the sound of the question, with his eyes digging in to the inquiring reporter. He always did this, in effort to show that he valued these post-game interviews. When he first arrived, he was deemed “not media-friendly,” and he’d spent the past few years trying to make up for it. Apparently, having a profanity-laced tirade and throwing a bottle of water at a reporter was not a good way to make a first impression. Then again, they’d lost that game, the first of his head-coaching career, by 25. The media should have known he’d be uptight.
Truth be told, he thought the media sessions were worthless blabbering, filled with the same questions every game. If they won, he’d tell what went right. If they lost, it was what went wrong. Couldn’t people tell what happened just by watching the games? This was another loss – their 14th, compared to 12 wins. He despised going into the media room after these games. Small and dark, filled with rows of stupid questions and pointless comments.
“Well,” Levine, the coach of the Southern Columbus University Mobbers said, “I thought we started out strong, and played well through the first half. They made some adjustments in the second half, and we failed to adjust to their adjustments.”
Damn, he’d just used “adjust” three times in a single sentence. He had a bad habit of being repetitive, and he hated reading his own quotes in print. It’s not like he had to try to make himself sound bad, certain reports tried hard enough to do that for him. Certain reporters who made it their mission to – Seemingly on cue, Ryan Richards spoke up. “The failure to adjust, who does the blame fall on for that?”
Levine recognized his nasally dominated voice. It sounded like he had a clothespin clipped on his oversized schnozz year-round. Richards had written a preseason column, pining for the excommunication of Levine as coach. He’d also grown adept at using Levine’s quotes out of context, at times making him seem more like a fire-spewing mythical beast than an ordinary basketball coach. Levine addressed the issue, keeping his eyes forward, ignoring Richards’ accustomed spot in the far-right seat on the front row.
“You know, blame is a heavy word,” Levine said, eyes focused on the clock straight across the room from him. “A loss in a basketball is a team effort. All players and coaches have a part in it.”
He’d answered this question in the same manner after nearly every loss he’d been through. Richards always tried to get him to say something that could be construed as controversial or hurtful towards someone else. On the plus side, Levine had answered this question so many times; he didn’t even have to think about what he was saying.
“We win as a team, we lose as a team,” Levine said.
“But would you say your talent level isn’t quite what it has been in years past?”
Damn that Richards! Now he was trying to get the coach to dog on his own players. He was trying to turn the Columbus Clipper into the freaking Los Angeles Times. Levine ran his hand through his short, graying hair. Blowing up at Richards right now would not accomplish anything positive - but it sure would feel good.
“Talent is a subjective term,” Levine began, his eyes back on the clock. The second-hand on the clock ran smooth – it didn’t tick. Levine pondered pointing that out randomly, as opposed to answering this question yet again. “I’ve had ‘talented’ teams that have won four games, and I’ve had teams with as much basketball talent as the primate cage at the zoo that have made the post-season. It’s how we mesh that talent that matters.”
“So the problem is with the coaching?”
That bastard! Now he was attacking the coach and his assistants, with the duties of “journalism” as his shield. Could someone else get a freaking question in? Or could he just throw his water bottle at Richards? He’d pegged him from 20 feet years ago – surely he could nail him from ten feet now. He still had some heat left in his right arm. Quote this, you rotten son of a-
“Again, this is an issue that will be addressed by our entire team; players and coaches alike,” Levine said. The room stood silent. So silent, the ticking of a clock on the wall could have been heard, if present.
“No more questions guys?” Levine asked. “Well if that’s it, I’ll let you go. I really appreciate you guys making it out.”
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