Mwahahahahahaha. And now, it’s time for sleep I think. No more evil comments for awhile.

Coach K wakes up, in the middle of the night – sweating as if in fever, but not feverish. Excited, yes. Meditative, yes. Medicated, unfortunately no. The tv turns on (the remote is in his hand), but he can’t pay attention to the shamwow commercials anymore… something is amiss. He gets out of blue devil covers and looks out the window: all quiet, the night is late, the grass is silent (no insect rustles), the trees are sleeping, the owl is wondering what the fuck is he looking at.
Fuck you owl. That’s right. Fly away. Come back and talk when you win a National Championship. But weird, it’s light, but too early for dawn. The moon – it is bright, and full. Too full. As full as the forehead of one Mr. Sheld – oh no! Wait, no, oh yes!
The coach scrambles from the window, the curtains a flutter, running to, reaching for, attacking his dresser in desperation.
Where is it? Where is it?
The slams of drawers disturb the night. His wife is shocked from slumber, frightened by this early hour madness. But she says nothing. He has won championships. You never question the ring. Even though he gave her a tiny rock. More slams come from the dresser – the coach is frustrated. The coach is angry. He searches more quickly, more desperately.
It must be here, it must be here.

There! The letter. Sign it, where is the pen, where is the pen. Sincerely, Coach K. Yes, yes. Now mail it. Mail it.

His wife stares as he holds a paper in his hands, dancing erratically. Celebrating the blessings of the Gods, he begins his ritual. Preparations for the chosen one must be made, and quickly. He bursts from the room – too eager to bother grabbing a bathrobe, and escapes from the house. In boxers and bare of foot, he runs to the mailbox. Dancing a jig, he opens the mailbox. Holding it flat on his hands, he blows the letter into the box.
It is done. It is done.
The coach stares at the moon that gave him the blessings, smiling a grin, his eyes twinkling to match the stars.

That’s the first thing I thought. Nice timing Shelden… just like your footwork in the court

congrats to them

Where did I wish the baby any harm, and where did I make fun of Candace at all? (I did poke some fun @ Shelden, in a playful way, but that was all I did. I don’t think this is something to be cruel over, or even worth being cruel over. She’s the greatest female player on the planet, and Shelden isn’t a scrub himself. All in all, we should be happy for them. Way I look at it.)