WE'VE OBSERVED some stupid coaches in our time - Rich Kotite comes to mind - but Steve Cain just went to the head of the line.
He's the former coach of New Zealand's U-17 soccer team who told that country's Sunday News that he resigned last week because he had emailed a photo of his genitals to the mother of a 16-year-old player he had cut.
The 52-year-old Cain said the woman began sending him suggestive emails in 2009.
"There were suggestions about perhaps meeting and doing things sexual. I never responded," Cain told the Sunday News. "I deleted them. I was quite shocked. She kept pressing me to send her something back.
"I had to change my email address. My family has access to my account, my children check my emails for me occasionally. She was sending explicit material."
Last April, Cain said that after "a few beers and [in] a moment of madness" he emailed her a picture of his stomach, which happened to partially show his genitals.
Don't you hate when that happens?
"It was just a picture taken at sink-level in a hotel mirror," he said.
Guess he forgot he had a wife and kids while snapping that shot.
The only person dumber than Cain is Frank van Hattum, the director of New Zealand football.
Yesterday, when asked if Cain could someday return to coaching van Hattum told the Dominion Post of Wellington, New Zealand, "I don't see why not."
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!