If you register for free, you will be able to post threads, vote on polls and lots more. If you have problems with the registration or logging in, please contact the administrator.
The screen door rattled like an angry hive of bees as Hank Spankem barged through it on his way to work. His wife, Mary-Bob threw the cat after him but only managed to hurl it a foot or so. Hank turned around and glared at her.
“Be outta here afore I git home!”
Mary-Bob sat on the porch and sobbed.
“Hanky, ah don’t wanna go to Washington. Ah don’t know why you want to coach soccer. It’s a game for girls!”
Hank chewed hard, and spat out a hunk of dribbly tobacco onto the floor.
“Git your hairy ass outta here afore sundown Mary-Bob, there’s no money in college basketball. Ah’ve tekken the job and ain’t no-one can stop me.”
Mary-Bob cried into the rickety floor, her tears dribbling through the cracks.
“If you ain’t gonna leave, ah suggest you git packin’. We leave at the weekend. Tell Billy-Louise to round up the piggies. We’s movin’ and that’s that.”
Hank barged open the gate and waddled out. His 18 stone, 6’4” frame stomped away as he began his walk to Appalachia State College Hillbilly Campus.
Hank was born in 1950 in Redneck County, Kentucky to a Horse Whisperer and a Horse Fondler. He left home at 3 to seek his fortune, but returned shortly afterwards for dinner.
His adult life led him to the field of College Basketball coaching. He coached the Appalachia State Chipmunks to 4 succesive last place finishes, but won the award for most shouty coach 9 years running, for his yelling and hollering.
Hank was an abrasive sort of man, always ready with an opinion, but the money had run out.
DC United, playing in the MLS had just won the title, despite finishing only 3rd in the Eastern Conference. The manager had been sacked for not being vocal enough, and Hank, the most shouty man in the East had been offered the position. He knew nothing about Soccer, and would be provided with an array of coaches. He was to instill a sense of fire in the bellies of the players.
Hank didn't wear standard hick regalia, instead preferring to wear a diamond encrusted stetson, a white suit encrusted with cubic zirconium and shiny plastic and velvet cowboy boots. He always carried a cigar in his top pocket which he used to poke people with.
His face was fat, round and sunburnt. His teeth were white and his hands always dirty. He defied the redneck stereotype as he had no neck in the first place, his head seemingly perched atop his rotund body.
He lived with his wife in a large-ish shack. Mary-Bob was 48 and smelled of raw chicken. Their son, Billy-Louise hadn't been seen for 4 years but was believed to have married a pig and was living in a barn at the end of the garden.
Hank sat himself down on the couch, reached for a chicken and bit into it. The chicken squawked in agony.
He turned around in his chair and hollered,
"Mary-Bob, this chicky ain't cooked!"
She came storming out of the kitchen.
"That's cos ah aint cooked no chicken Hank, ah've made fritters, and they're on the table."
Hank muttered under his breath and waddled over to the table, flicked on the T.V and watched the report on the local news on the Appalachia State Chipmunks 187-3 loss to Penn State in the basketball.
Still, at least he had a new life lined up in soccerball, or soccer or whatever it was called. It was quite popular somewhere called Europe. Hank looked at his map. He couldn't see Europe anywhere in the continental United States.
"Probably near goddamn Mexico" he muttered, taking another bite out of the frightened chicken.
"God damn Mary-Bob, why am ah eatin' this confounded chicken?"
"'Cos you're a good-for-nothin' sonofa..."
Hank cut her off with a wave and focused on the television and the weather in Washington. It was sure gonna be an adventure. He was all packed up and ready to go. Mary-Bob, for all her complaining had packed her 3 best shoes, the ones that had the least holes in them. Somewhere under that grotty facade she was happy, and as for Billy-Louise he couldn't give two hoots... he'd probably show up soon wanting money.
Hank lay back in his chair, and with a contented sigh, spat a huge wodge of tobacco out of his mouth and watched it soar into the kitchen.
As per Hank's contract with DC United, there was no limousine pickup to ferry himself and his family to the bright lights of Washington. He had personally insisted on a battered old Ford pickup, driven by a man who wished to be known as "Gramps".
Hank sat in the back trailer, spitting tobacco at anyone who looked Canadian, while his wife sat up front having an intimate discussion with Gramps. Billy-Louise was around somewhere, but Hank hadn't been paying attention.
The battered old pickup dropped them off at DC United's stadium, where they were greeted by the board of directors.
"Good Morning Mr and Mrs Spankem", a man named Brad intimated. "If you'd like to come up to finalise the contract deal, that would be a-ok." His thumbs went up and he grinned.
Hank's eyes narrowed.
"Are you one of them Mexicans?". He asked, cigar prodding at Brad.
"No..." replied Brad, "I'm Iowa born and bred."
Brad's day peaked there and then as he recieved a face full of sodden tobacco.
Later that afternoon...
Hank sat at the table facing the press. Brad had cleaned up and was a suitable distance away. The captain of DC United Alecko Eskandarian in turn sat beside him. A lot of men with perfect smiles sat the other side of Hank, who was drumming his dirty fingers on the table, chewing noisily.
Brad stood up, delived some waffle and announced Hank as the new manager of DC United. He explained the lack of a soccer background, but re-inforced the point about getting the players more fired up. There was light applause. A petite reporter from Reuters stood up and asked what Hank knew about soccerball.
"Are you Canadian or Mexican?" Hank leered.
She nodded in the negative.
"Good... cos ah ain't talkin to none of them." He spat tobacco into a new personalised spitoon. He continued...
"What I know about ballsoccer... soccer... ball ball whatever the hell it's called is irrelevant." He eyeballed the crowd.
"All ah know is that ah'm gonna git y'all a winning team the Spankem way."
He paused.
"Ah'm the greatest Basketball coach there ever was y'all hear me? It ain't all that different. You gotta get a ball into a net. How hard can it be? I ain't no redneck... ah know y'all think ah'm a good for nothin sonofa... but ah'll prove y'all wrong, y'all hear me you lily livered buncha good fer nuthin cowpokes."
He stood up and put on his jacket. His 6'4" frame marched out of the room, leaving a room full of very confused reporters, and a more confused board of directors, wondering what in hell they had let themselves in for.
Hank marched out of the building, hopped in the back of the pickup, growled at Gramps to take him to the training ground. He was going to assess his new group of proteges, and assess them good. He was going to educate them the Spankem way.
Hank Spankem's Soccerball Adventure 
Linear Mode
