View from the bleachers may be a distorted one

Your child should be playing more.

The coach, for whatever reason, doesn't like the kid. That much is obvious. So, there's your child, stuck on the bench, and there you are, stuck in the stands with nobody to cheer for. You tell other parents your thoughts. You tend to hang around the ones who agree with you and stay away from those who don't.

Your kid has to be in the game. For the team, of course. And because a scout could be there. And because the reporters need to see them. And because if your child doesn't play, how will they earn that scholarship?

The more you think about it, the more you realize how much of a bum the coach is. Remember that time they held the runner at third with two outs? I mean, who makes that mistake? Then there was the time they called for a bunt, when everybody knew a hit-and-run to the right side was what was needed.

Your child should be playing more. In fact, they should be starting. Why can't the coach see this?

How biased is this person against your child, anyway? It's all politics, you realize. The coach doesn't care about winning. Really, how many coaches do? They're only in it for the money.

That's when it hits you: Nothing is going to change unless the coach goes. And you know how to make this happen. You'll get even. You'll make that clown pay for keeping your child from realizing your dreams ... er, make that your child's dreams. This coach is a menace to your kid, the team and the community.

You call a reporter. You don't give your name. You say it's nothing personal, but something must be done. The reporter wants details, and you have plenty. You talk about the blown calls and how the coach is playing the wrong people. The reporter doesn't get it, though. They want more.

What should you do now?

Your mind freezes for a second, but then you get a vision. It's of your child, sitting on the bench eating sunflower seeds and thinking about spring break and trips to the mall. Doesn't that coach know what a competitor your kid is?

"Well," you say to the reporter, "there was that one time ... "

And just like that, you have lied. You have planted a seed you know will grow into the biggest scandal the school has seen. There is no way the coach will survive.

Serves them right, though. You tell a few of the other parents what you've heard. They seem stunned. They all thought the coach was a decent person. You tell them you're only the messenger. Within days, a reporter is snooping around and asking questions. You find this amusing.

At the school, the coach feels the heat. Administrators don't know what to do. A few school board members call for the coach's job. They say something should be done before things get out of hand. The next day, the coach, who swears he did nothing wrong, resigns.

You feel gratification. When you tell your child the news, they are in their bedroom listening to Fatboy Slim and eating pretzels. "Cool," they say.

The next day, you can't contain your excitement. You get to your child's game early, just so you can look at the lineup card. But when you do, you can't find the name you're looking for. And just like that, the coach -- the one you thought had resigned -- comes up to you and says, "Hey." What in the world is going on?

A few seconds later, you feel a hand on your shoulder.

It's the principal. They'd like to have some words with you. Turns out, the rumors about the coach were false, you're told. The alibi checked out and several people vouched for the coach's character. "Oh, that's great," you say. But the principal tells you there's one other thing.

You get a chill.

"You know," the principal says, "the reporter working on this story has caller I.D."

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