Coach Randy

SAP Center – San Jose, CA
6:47pm – 3/26/26

University of Arizona Wildcats head coach Tommy Lloyd sat in a moment of focus before his Sweet Sixteen matchup with the Arkansas Razorbacks. Trusting them completely or not, Tommy had turned the players in his locker room over to his assistants. As he heard their negotiations and pep talks wrap up, it was clear that the gameplan was set and now his role as Coach in the process was to step outside and wait for the players to exit the locker room. He would show them composure. He would pass to them composure. They will return composure in the moment before entering the arena.

He stepped out. Took a breath. Then realized, “Damn Tournament starts push us back 5 more minutes, huh?” His mind, amped up on Cherry Coke and Butterfinger Bars, clicked instantaneously to the key opportunity here. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a weathered pack of Newports, and lit up a fresh smoke.

Nothing sweeter than lighting one up. Yessir. Now he reflected. As a young man, he had grown up in the west with the free range spirit of a cowboy — buy somehow became a basketball coach. But sure — he released a cloud of smoke generally-away from the smoke detector above while he let his mind wander just barely — I’m sure I’d love to go take over the ashes of down-for-good UNC. It was comical. So he laughed.

“Suck my dick, Tar Fucks,” he offered no one but meant it all the same. One more drag, wastefully flicked the burning stick around his back to lay at a rest in the corner, the smoke clouds slowly creeping up the walls to cloud the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. It was time to deliver that composure.

As the locker room door clicked open and his team started pouring out, the sound of two sneakers squeaked to a stop behind him. The flopped shoelaces clicked on the ground like a kid with a piece of used toilet paper stuck to his shoe. Lloyd heard both but responded to neither. Someone please grab this child who somehow got passed security. But a new voice elevated to be heard amongst the chorus of players and coaches.

“Well that’s some language to hear from a fellow Big Twelve Basketball Coach!”

Lloyd gave half-a-glace and missed not one beat recognizing his players.

“Oh hey man. Welcome to the game. I gotta stick with my team but I’ll see you around.”

The new voice, understanding his hook had been met with warm appreciation from a familiar professional, continued. “Yeah that’s right. Good luck. I actually uh — I actually brought you a couple of like gifts. Nothing all Sparky, right. Uh heh heh. Just some like, we have some great jams from up here in bay area and –”

Lloyd pats his final passing player on the back and follows him in a trot down the tunnel. His words echo off the concrete walls. “Fuck off, Bobandy.”

New Arizona State University basketball coach Randy Bennett watched his rival — what a fun term, he always thought — running to a game chatting with Lebron James’ kid and smiled. “Well, I guess we’re not in the Small Twelve!” His chuckle and snort felt good. Why had he been so worried about how that first meeting would go? Sure, in about any other circumstance this could be weird. But he knew Tommy from their WCC days. And he’d just taken over at ASU. Hadn’t even had the intro presser yet. Plus this game is in his backyard. He had the right to be here, he insisted with a huff.

Still. A feeling hung over him that he shouldn’t have come. While he had the right, maybe this was offensive? No. I mean, none of those players will even be on his roster next year. I’m just overthinking.

He now smelled a distinct menthol flavor in the air. Next, he was shoved to the ground from behind. The thrust pushed him into more of a long stumble than a violent fall — so thank St Mary for that! — but his bag had gotten tangled and he wasn’t sure the ASU athletic department could get him a second one if he ripped his.

Iowa State Head Coach, T.J. Otzelberger: What the fuck are you doing out here, Randy!? Take off that fucking hairpiece you fat bastard!

Bennett: Oh man, hey T.J.! You sure pack a wallop there, don’t ya!?

Otzelberger: You trying to recruit under my nose? I should kick your ass just for showing up in California when I’m here. Broke-ass ASU brings you and now you’re spying? Stay the fuck out of Iowa too!

Bennett: I live here still, actually. I do have natural ties as I am from Mesa but it’s not like we have a second home there. How funny. Of all the people with second homes in Mesa, why did we never —

Cincinnati Head Coach, Jerrod Calhoun: Oh hey there Randy. Let me help get you up there. Oh yeah, that looks like you had a bad little stumble. Oops, let make sure we get that strap all untwisted. Don’t want that rubbing and fraying now. I imagine that $200,000 buyout to St Mary’s crippled ASU’s basketball finances.

Bennett: Oh hey thanks for the help. And that’s a nice joke. I like jokes, guys. Actually, when Pacific hired Dave Smart, I did a little play on it being a Smart Move at the WCC media day.

Calhoun: Uh huh. So I’m right. There is no money in there for a second backpack, is there?.

Bennett: We’ll start fundraising. I mean, it isn’t like every school can plan to just sue their former players when they need a buck. Haha. See? I have sass too, you guys.

Calhoun: You know, Randy. I try to be nice and you won’t just fuck off. But hear this. I’m not going back to the fucking Mountain West. You can semi-retire away from expensive California but I’m fighting for my life to be here. So you better stay the fuck out of my way you fat greasy bastard.

Calhoun slaps Bennett’s protruding stomach and shoves him against the wall before walking away chuckling.

Kansas Head Coach, Bill Self: You’re the new guy? At 63 years old. And fresh off a tournament post-game presser where you just heaped all the blame for the loss on your players as you headed out the door to take the ASU job?

Bennett: Oh hi, Bill Self. A legend. Yeah — happy to be here at the Big12, I guess. And the kids and the libtard fake news media may not always like my tactics but, you know, I built the Gaels program up nicely so who is anyone to critique me, you know Coach? 

Self: Why are you looking me in the eye, Randy Bobandy? Does it I look like I have any cheeseburgers for you? I ain’t have any cheeseburgers for you to drive into that big fat cheeseburger gut of yours.

Bennett: Oh Darlene and I both try to lay off the burgers, actually. Been one of the nice things about being in the area is the wonderful restaurants and their diverse menus with —

Self: Randy, don’t try to play me like a sucka. Mufuckas with guts like are not off the cheeseburgers, I mean, if iron sharpens iron, West Coast Conference like 25 years of cheeseburgers sharpening cheeseburgers, know what I’m saying? So how about you just go pull up at the SAP Center concession stand, grab yourself a hotdog, a big bucket of fried chicken, some of those gravy fries, and about 15 beers because you smell like a drunk Baltimore taxi cab driver — and then go fuck off back to Tempe or San Francisco or wherever you’re from.

Self drives his shoulder into Bennett as he walks away.

Houston Head Coach, Kelvin Sampson: Knock knock, Randy.

Bennett: Oh finally. Now we’re having fun. Yes yes. Uhh… Who’s there, now?

Sampson: A stupid drunk nobody who took his team to the tournament eleven times in 25 years and but once made it out of the first weekend, probably because your teams are proof the field is too large with too many auto-qualifiers, and now the cheap drunk idiots at the Arizona State University booster club went with the Arizona Cardinals playbook and found you on the cheap so you think everyone needs to treat you like a real coach now. You are not a real coach. You are a big fat coagulated gravy hotdog bun bastard who has no business coaching in this conference and needs to go back to being a male prostitute hustling the streets of Saint Louis for liquor and cheeseburgers and trays of toasted ravioli.

Bennett: Okay now look! What is it!? I live in this area. I join the conference. I try to be professional and you people push me on the ground and call me names! I paid for my own ticket to this arena! Now really — what is this behavior from you men?

Sampson: Look, I really think everyone’s been pretty damn reasonable but for some reason you just will not fuck off. So how about this? Here take this money. Here’s $100 for your wrestling-arena-improvements-for-basketball fund. Then here’s another $100 to buy a damn shirt to cover up that big cheeseburger graveyard of yours. And, why not, here’s another $100 to go fuck off and get five double-cheeseburgers to drive into that gut, goddamn Coach Cheeseburger Walrus.

Sampson bends to the floor and reaches near a box. He returns holding the burning Newport. After studying it for a moment he pulls a drag that builds a bright orange flame. One more pause. Then he exhales a dense steam directly at the smoke alarm ahead. He flicks the glowing cigarette into the newcomer’s face then presses him to the floor.

The alarm sounds, security pounces, and ASU’s new head coach is detained and taken out of the arena while Sampson details the story to the officials, “Goddamn drunk male prostitute shows up all drunk and on drugs probably trying to buy more drugs for his ASU locker room or stealing rival secrets. But then he starts smoking cigars or clovers or something I don’t know I don’t touch the stuff and the next thing you know he’s on his fat ass with his big drug selling backpack and we’re all just trying to get back to honoring our profession, you see….”