Coach Trump's Really, Really Big Win

A health care victory parable:

The greatest coach ever, the greatest in his own mind, at least, strode the sideline like a lion, orange mane flapping in a light breeze. What passed for a signature smile, what observers might describe as a smirk, broadened as he watched the clock tick down. 

After starting the season, 0-10, the Trump Golden Grabbers appeared poised for a huge win. It was the best win in the history of organized football. Any story that said different would be “fake news.”

The Golden Grabbers held the ball, 4^th and 1, at the opponent’s 44 yard line. Coach Donald J. Trump shot a look at the scoreboard, figured there was time for one final play. He watched punter Reince Priebus take the snap and kick the ball out of the end zone. Priebus danced a jig in celebration and head for the sidelines.

Quarterback Paul Ryan, he of the steely blue eyes, focus of every American woman’s rape baby dreams, high-fived Priebus as he came off the field.

Coach Trump seemed baffled when lusty boos from the home crowd filled Donald J. Trump Stadium.

“Why don’t all the fans love me,” he asked offensive coordinator Steve Bannon, standing to his (far) right.

“Maybe they’re mad about last week,” Bannon replied. “When Ryan ran the wrong way after he picked up his own fumble and scored two points for the other team.”

“There has never been a new coach like me, none has ever turned around a bad team as quickly,” Trump whined. “I’m the greatest coach ever. 

“I inherited a mess.”

A defensive lineman, sitting on the bench nearby, couldn’t resist. “Coach,” he said, masking his disgust, “we’re 0-10. You told fans when you took over at the start of the season they’d get sick of winning.”

As if to illustrate the point, the crowd roared again. An angry cascade of boos filled the stadium and the 40-foot tall golden “T” atop the press box (now empty on Team Owner Donald J. Trump’s orders) vibrated as a result.

“You suck, you moron,” a fan of the Grabbers, seated in the first row behind the bench, was heard to shout.

“Kick a field goal, next time, dumb ass,” bellowed a disgruntled fan.

Trump winced and made a mental note. Clearing the press box of all who criticized him had been a great move. Now he needed to issue a few tweets following his big win. Maybe he could blame the 0-10 start on the previous coach, who retired after eight solid seasons. Or he might issue a series of tweets, claiming other teams kept lining up fifteen players on every play vs. his Grabbers eleven. How could he make his team great again when “so-called” referees wouldn’t call penalties they should?

On ESPN talk shows they might show film, indicating that no penalties had been called for 15 men on the field because there had never been 15 men on the field. Trump puzzled a moment, but figured he’d do what he always did. He would say he was told there were 15 opposing players on every play. 

He was only repeating what others said.

The Grabbers cheerleaders chose that moment to start the only cheer they ever performed: “Give us a T, an R…a U-M-P…What’s it spell…” For a moment, Trump’s attention wandered.

Boy, those cheerleaders. I’d like to grab one of them by…”

“Coach! Coooooooooooach,” defensive captain Mitch McConnell pleaded, interrupting his reverie. “What do we do now? What defense do we play?”

“Travel Ban Right, I guess. Why?” Trump replied. Why play defense if the game was over?

McConnell pinched his lips more tightly than ever, threw up his hands in disbelief, and wandered away.

“I never knew coaching could be so complicated,” Trump muttered to no one in particular. Ryan heard him—shot him a look of disdain—but quickly recovered, and a fake smile returned to his face.

After ten consecutive losses he had doubts about Trump’s fitness to lead. The fool had never coached before, not even a peewee squad. He had no idea what he was doing or tweeting most of the time. Worse, every time something went wrong, he blamed someone else.

And there had been a litany of disasters.

Coach Trump’s “Mexican Wall” defensive scheme, involving 11 men crowding the line of scrimmage, with no defensive backs, led to the Grabbers giving up seven touchdown passes the first week.

The day before the second game, Defensive Coordinator Mike Flynn had to be fired after it was discovered he had secretly handed over a Grabbers playbook to the Putin University Big Red squad.

Fans were still angry about cost-cutting moves. When Grabber’s linebacker John McCain suffered a spinal injury in Week Three, he had to be dragged from the field by his feet. Team Owner Trump had gotten rid of the cart used to haul injured players away—and the stretchers—and the team doctor—and the entire training staff—because he said he wanted to save money for fans.

A 35-0, Week Four loss, with daughter Ivanka calling ever play for fun, didn’t help the fans’ moods. Nor were they impressed when they visited the team store after the game. There they discovered there was only one jersey for sale, a signature Ivanka design. The team colors, gold and green, remained the same. But individual player names and numbers had vanished. Only a single choice was left, the name “Trump,” emblazoned above a big gold “1.”

The string of losses grew, but the debacle of Week Ten was by far the worst. Facing a road contest against their hated rivals, the Pyongyang Marauders, the Grabbers blew a 17-0 lead in the final quarter. The low point came when Trump called for a quick-strike pass, “Aircraft Carrier North,” but told the intended receiver to run a different route. The receiver went one way, Ryan threw it the other, the pass was picked off and run back for a touchdown, and the contest ended in a stunning 21-17 defeat.

Now, Trump seemed baffled. Here in Week Eleven he and Ryan had put up enough points for a 3-0 win. “Why are the fans booing?” Trump asked, turning to Bannon. “I bet they’re paid to boo. Nobody thought I could win. But I did. I’m the best coach ever. Bill Bellichek, Vince Lombardi and George Patton have nothing on me.”

“It’s only the end of the first quarter,” Bannon replied glumly. “We haven’t won at all. We have three quarters to go.”

After a long commercial break, the second quarter began. Trump, as already noted, had put his defense in the “Travel Ban” formation. This involved putting all eleven defenders on one side of the field to guard a receiver named Mohammed Sanu. Trump used the formation every time a Muslim player on an opposing team stepped on the gridiron. It might have worked if the enemy quarterback had been dumb enough to throw the ball only to Sanu.

Instead, he dropped back, made a quick and easy toss to a wide open receiver not named Sanu, on the other side of the field, and watched him waltz into the end zone for an 80-yard score.

Chants of, “Fire Trump!” cascaded from the stands. Trump turned and sneered at the crowd, and offered a “thumbs up.”

Sadly, fans seemed to forget: Owner Donald J. Trump had signed Coach Donald J. Trump to an ironclad, four-year, you-can’t-fire-me deal.

And Trump still loved Trump.

The Trump Grabbers take the field.