Just (don't) call me coach.

The Los Angeles Lakers were once coached by an English teacher.

The New York Mets were once coached by a man wearing a fake mustache and sunglasses.

The Notre Dame Fighting Irish once hired a coach that not only had little experience, but most of the experience his resume said he had came from the depths of his own imagination.

So why can't I coach, then? I don't know about the imagination part, but I do look rather dashing at most Halloween parties, and as far as the English thing goes, I think I have proven that I can wright good.

(Oops.)

Regardless, about two weeks ago, I got the coaching bug. I had heard many times the saying "Those who can't do, teach," and I was ready to take a team, get them into shape, take them out to the field, and then prove that saying to be true.

I went to Parks and Rec for team signups, with a fake mustache in my pocket, just in case. I was also carrying a little resume I put together just for the occasion. I will not say that it was fake, but let's just say not too many people saw me sign the Emancipation Proclamation, or walk on the moon, for that matter.

Still, I wanted to coach. I wanted to take a team to success, teach them about teamwork and effort and friendship, and those precious three little sayings that sum up the beauty and grace of sports in this city: "'There is no I in 'Team”', ”It's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game,” and of course, "Why doesn't Brad Redford give us more coverage?"

I was assigned a team, the Mustangs. Ten little girls ages 10 and under, wanting to have a good time and play some soccer. Trouble was, I had signed up for cricket. Let me just say that that first practice did not go too smoothly.

No, I did not sign up for cricket, a sport I have never played, but it might as well have been, considering that by the time the first practice rolled around, I had no clue what I was doing.

Let me remind you, I am from South America, where love of soccer is right up there with breathing through your nose and walking erect when it comes to requirements to be considered human. If you profess a dislike for soccer down there, you might as well go straight to walking around with a bucket on your head, because nobody wants to know you, anyway.

I am a soccer nut, but I had never coached anybody, so not knowing what to do when coaching a bunch of little kids was humbling. I did not have the bucket with me, but it would have come in handy, because once I blew my whistle, my ineptitude was embarrassing enough to make all my players sick.

Not nearly as embarrassing, though, as what happened when my players took the field and started playing so hard that within five minutes they had left their wildly inept coach gasping for air. I could almost see it in their little faces, they were all thinking, "Man, we coulda gotten John Madden to coach us. At least he is in good shape!"

Somehow, I got through the first practice without having a heart attack and without boring all my players to death. Some little girls even started confiding in me. One of them told me that her dad is in Iraq and that he will be back to see her play a game in September.

We are going to have a special game against a team of boys just so he can see her and the team play. I'm thinking we better win that one or I might "accidentally" find a draft notice in the mail.

Still, I think there is hope for my hopeful team and their hopeless coach. We are going to have some fun, play some soccer, and at the end of the tournament, we will all chant that tune, famous at all the Moses Lake kiddie sports competitions.

"Two-four-six-eight, who do we appreciate!!! One-two-three-four, why won't Redford cover us more???"