Alright, boys, today is the last game of the year. And I know this season has had its ups and downs. Mostly downs… okay, exclusively downs… but that doesn't matter now. All I want you to do is go out there and try your best not to suck.

I’ve got a lot of money riding on this peewee soccer game, so I need you to stop doing your usual crap and focus. That means no stopping the game to pick dandelions, no wandering off the field because you heard an ice cream truck, and no protracted arguments with each other about which cloud looks the most like a butt. And the only thing I want you to kick is the goddamn ball. Preferably into the net a couple of times.

I know your coach said it doesn’t matter if you win or lose. Let me just say that that is a crock of shit. Your coach has obviously never been up to his asshole in debt for betting on collegiate air hockey. If he were, he’d know that winning or losing very much matters, especially when you're drunk and watching ESPN The Ocho.

The league might not keep score, but I do. And, more importantly, so does my bookie. His name is Big Johnny. He’s the large, surly guy in the tracksuit holding the crowbar. I'm sure you've noticed him lurking ominously at the park's edge, leering at me with murderous intent. Do not wave at him. He might take it as a sign of aggression.

So just go out there and leave it all on the field. And by “leave it on the field,” I mean hit that goddamned over. Three goals, just three goals. That's all I need. Otherwise, it's adios via con Dios for your old man’s kneecaps.

And remember, there is no “I” in “team.” But there are a couple in “pick six,” and there's even more in “amputating my fingers one by one.” So no passing. Only shooting.

I don’t want to hear any excuses from you, Hayden. I’ve got six grand riding on this game that I do not have. So none of this “I’m thirsty” or “I’m tired” or “I’m bleeding profusely.” If you cock this up, it’s me who’s gonna do all the profuse bleeding.

Stop crying, Jayden. You’re a man. A nine-year-old man, but a man nevertheless. Do you think a man like Duke Wayne ever cried? Or Clint Eastwood? Or Fred Flintstone? Of course not. Unless he lost a bet, then he might’ve let out a couple of tears while a caveman version of Big Johnny beat him with a crowbar-shaped triceratops bone.

But hey, it's not all doom and gloom and pulverized tibias. If you guys somehow squeeze a W out of this turd of a season, I'll hit the money line. That means one of you is probably gonna get to go to college instead of my original plan, which was selling Cayden to Big Johnny’s shady Russian associate, Boris. He's the other large, surly guy in the tracksuit holding a scalpel. I don’t want to say what Boris does, but it rhymes with Mack Blarket Horgan Oarvesting.

Anyway, have a good game… or else.