Plan X

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally persuaded that coaching the Lakers for Game 3 myself was going to be the best course of action, I figured I had better do it disguised as Phil Jackson as not to send the wrong message to the Celtics, Lakers and fans.

The team was already warming up when I arrived. And taking a page from Bobby Knight’s playbook, I took my giant yellow ‘Lakers are #1’ foam hand and hurled it violently against the wall.

The players stopped and stared at me, bewildered.

But even before the unattended ball stopped bouncing off the court, my unrequited rage had impelled me to yet another act of wanton destruction: with a short running start, I kicked an empty Gatorade bottle three or four yards.

Masking my cry from the sudden pain in my toe with that of a furious scream, I bared my teeth at them, hissing and spitting.

“Are you okay coach?” asked one player.

“Weren’t you taller yesterday?” asked another.

“Shut up!” I bellowed, grabbing a gym towel at the ends with my fists.

While unsuccessfully trying to tear it in half for a few seconds, the entire team has assembled in a semicircle. I finally toss the intact towel to a largish guy in a Lakers uniform who promptly tears the towel in half.

Pacing, I glower wild-eyed up at their kneecaps.

“I don’t know what’s more disgusting,” I begin. “That pisspoor excuse for basketball I saw Sunday, or how alarmingly few of you are wearing underwear right now!"

“But coach,” says a Laker. “We came back 30 points in ten minutes, and almost-“

“Almost what?” I demand.

The players head fell forward, silenced.

“That’s what I thought," I says.

Standing on a chair, I arch an accusing finger up at all of them. "And that whole time five or six of of you were out on the court, dozens of you lazy jerks were lounging on the bench with towels around your necks!”

“Were only allowed this many on the floor coach,” says my new towel-tearer, holding up five fingers.

“Say’s who?”

“The referees.”

My eyebrow arches high. “And which side is the referee on?”

The players look at each other.

“Well it ain’t yours!”

Pleased with having driven my point home with such dramatic flair, I relax a little. “How many of these games do we have left?”

“At least four, coach.”

“Four!? Ah crap. And we have to win them all?”

“If we lose two more, that’s the end of the season.”

"Wait. We can lose one?"

"Yes."

“That’s a relief,” I says exhaling. “Alright. We’re going to go with Plan X.”

“Plan X?”

“For this first game, we’re only going to use white guys that aren’t Hungarian or Ukrainian, and names that amount to 66 points or less on an official Scrabble board. You other guys lay low and rest up for the last four games."

“How are we going to win this game?”

“We're not … And it’ll lull them into a false sense of security. Then bam, we win the next four games in a row.”

Towel-tearer raises his hand, and I acknowledge him.

"What if," he asks timidly, "we can get our usual run in the fourth quarter?"

"Fourth quarter? Jesus how long are these games? I'm going to miss L.A Law!"