Breath, Baby. Breath. My horoscope said this morning: "Breathing is the most important thing you will ever do." The instruction on the weight machines say:"Breath normally while lifting weights." Like that's possible. I must admit, I was overzealous at the gym today, and breathing was difficult. I was a hot, sweaty, masculine mess. My quads were burning. My calves, on fire. The blood rushed to my man muscles, and it was making me just a bit queasy. There is one machine that requires I rest on my back with my legs in the air, which is good, because I may have just passed out if I'd been in any other position. By the time I was ready to hit the showers, to be honest, I wasn't feeling very well. So when the troll-like Elfin Man cornered me in the locker room and exposed his stumpy nubs for genitals in the center of his fuzzy, rolly poley elf-like body, it was all I could do to say to myself, "Breath! Just breathe, Tim! Breath!" Jock straps were not made for men like this, and this was not a necessary fact at 7 in the morning. I was getting out of the shower when he came around the corner from the sink area. He'd just finished shaving his cheeks and white cream was still stuck in his beard. Strolling along, butt-naked, as if no one cares. He did not make eye contact with me--thank God--but he did look at my naked, exposed self. While I have nothing to be ashamed of, I felt more vulnerable than Kathy Lee Gifford in a Lifetime Original. The last thing I want to do is fuel this man's masturbatory fantasies. He's probably a high school history teacher in the throws of a mid-life crisis, just coming out of a twenty-year marriage. While never romantic, the relationship was probably never rocky enough to end. Then when his wife hits menopause, in a hormonal flare-up, she says, "I want a divorce." He says, "Okay," packs his duffel bag and rents a weekly studio in Homestead Village on Briarwood. It's not much, but you know, at least it's clean. And it's got a dinette. Then, between the alimony payments, lawyer fees and the cost of his weekly studio, everything starts to add up. Lucky for him, the men's track coach up and died of a heart attack while jogging through Gwinnett County two months ago, and Elfin Man--second runner-up in Region 1 AAA shot-put while in high school--knows a thing or two about track. He wouldn't mind a little extra face time with the boys anyway. This is how coaches of the lesser sports are made: a mid-life crisis combined with a need for money, a bit of knowledge and you have a coach. In high school, my swimming coach was a Team Mom who couldn't get enough, and she treated each of us like we were her own kids-not what coaches are supposed to do. Anyway, Elfin Man is now the head track coach, making an extra $500 a month, just enough to efficiently cover his efficiency. Although, Elfin Man is a bit nervous about coaching the young bucks, so he turns to Coach. The big, swelling man Coach who eats, breaths and lives football. Coach was probably well on his way to the Heisman, and eventually the Pros, that is, until an accident brought him to his knees. That was 19 years ago. Nineteen years ago when Coach was known as T. For tight end. Back then, he was a tight end. Decorating the Senior Class Homecoming float with his girlfriend Sue Ella Ramey, who was also captain of the cheerleading squad, a 2"x4" stud was tragically, and accidentally, knocked loose by Parade Chair Ricky Sprinkle who was attempting to affix a disco ball. The rigid lumber fell with great force, knocking T in the head while he was atop a ladder. Although it's not the head injury that caused the damage, but the fall. You see T fell, and weighing in at 243 pounds, he fell with great force. But it wasn't so much the 8-foot fall that did him in, as it was landing on the pitchfork Jimmy Sprinkle had left prongs-up on the ground. Now you may wonder what a pitchfork was doing at a parade float with a disco ball, but Jimmy Sprinkle had over-engineered a theme that no one else could understand. Something about building bridges between the country and city. Sue Ella Ramey didn't understand it either, but she saw what Jimmy Sprinkle did for the Spring Semi-Formal with a little crepe paper and bunting, and she wasn't about stand in the way. And so, there they were: T, wailing around on the ground with a pitchfork in his leg wondering if he would ever be employable; Jimmy Sprinkle holding a disco ball wondering if his life was over; and Sue Ella Ramey wondering how she would get a date to the post-game dance with such little notice. Anticipating his new career coaching track, Elfin man approached Coach. "Coach," Elfin Man says. "You gotta minute?" "What is it, Coach?" Coach replies. "I was wondering. You know, I've, well, it's been a while, you know. Since I've been involved in, you know, athletics." "You're scared." "Oh, no, don't get me wrong. I'm sure it'll all come back. I mean, it's like ridin' a bike. I was just wondering. You've been doing this for years. You got--you got any pointers?" "Coach," Coach said, looking down into Elfin Man's beady eyes. "Let's go for a walk." Elfin Man followed Coach as he hobbled towards the track. Ever since the pitchfork accident he's had a hobble. The final school bell had rung hours ago, and the only students left on campus were the debate team and the detention students. There was an awkward silence that falls on a school once the kids have gone. "Its gonna rain," Coach said. "My leg's stiffening." The pitchfork incident left Coach susceptible to low pressure systems. Elfin Man walked silently. He wondered at the big powerful muscles beneath Coach's polo shirt, the same way in which he wonders about me. "Coach, I'd do it all over again." "Huh?" said Elfin Man. "If I could go back, nineteen years ago when Jimmy Sprinkle knocked me on to that pitchfork, I'd do it again. I'd do it all over again. I guaran-damn-tee it. I may not have that damn Heisman, and don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter. I may not have that Heisman. But had I not fallen off that ladder, I sure as hell wouldn't have had the opportunity to touch so many fine young boys. Young boys, developing into fine young men. At the cusp of manhood looking to you for guidance. I'd do it all over again." The thought thrills Elfin Man. They reached the shot-put range. "How far do you throw?" Coach asked. Elfin Man laughed, "Oh, well, in my day, ya know. I was second runner-up. My personal record was 23-feet, 4-inches." Coach handed Elfin Man the shot-put. "I said, 'How far can you throw.'" "You mean now?" "Yes, know." "Well," Elfin man laughed. "I can't possibly, Coach. It's been years." "Then how the hell do you expect a team to follow your lead?" Coach turned and started back to the locker room. A bolt of lighting shot from the sky; Coach winced. At that moment, Elfin Man knew he was going to have to get into shape. So you can understand why I'm a bit upset as I stand there dripping in full glory with Elfin Man standing in MY locker room gawking at MY masculinity. The historical consequences all add up. If Jimmy Sprinkle had created a different parade float concept. If the Coach formerly known as T had been resting for his game instead of helping Sue Ella Ramey with the Homecoming Float. If Elfin Man's wife had just remembered to breath, damn it, breath during her hormonal flares, they would still be married. And Elfin Man would be completely content with his rolly-poly body, completely unaware of just how unhappy he is. And Elfin Man would not be standing in MY gym. He would not be leering at MY lean, buff masculinity. And that, would make me breath easy.