C’mon, now. C’mon, let’s take care of the ball, now. Look to post up. Look for Steve in the paint—c’mon. Yes. Now, box out! Box!
“Stands” by using front legs to climb up a metal-legged chair to a forty-five-degree angle, rising several feet in the air—a good five, six feet if you count the gesticulating antennae, sniffing wildly, which pick up the scent of a potential mate.
All right, drop back—zone trap, blue! Arms out, guys—cut off the passing lanes! Freaking BOX OUT!
Come on! What’s goin’ on, now? Aren’t you guys even listening to me? Jesus!
Throws clipboard to ground, wriggles off sport coat and subtly extrudes a greenish film from his salivary glands.
They’re gonna press the inbounds pass, fellas! C’mon, now—stack up and break! Let’s go!
The ball, squirting loose, bangs into Coach Samsa’s chair, knocking him to his side and then, in the slow rocking motion of an upended dome, onto his exoskeletal back.
I can’t believe it! Did you guys come to play or just to mess around? Do we run these plays each day in practice, or am I dreaming? Actually, I’m in a freaking nightmare! I’m dying here. Time out! Someone get me a towel. Time out!
More rocking back and forth, then incessant guttural clicking until halftime.