By Joe Class III

The Grain Belt Tavern reeks of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. Patsy wipes down the scarred wooden bar while Darrell bounces on his barstool, arms windmilling as he builds up to his story. Wayne slams his empty Bud Light bottle down—his fifth in twenty minutes—and glares.

“Twelve eight-year-old boys tear across the soccer field like their cleats are on fire,” Darrell begins, leaping off his stool and mimicking a sprint across the barroom floor. He grabs Wayne’s shoulder for balance, then Junior’s arm, pulling them into his performance. “The coach stands on the sideline—” Darrell plants his feet wide, puffs out his belly, and hangs his thumbs from imaginary suspenders. “—belly hanging over his belt from too many post-shift Coors Lights. Poor bastard volunteered because he remembered loving soccer before life got complicated.”

Wayne shrugs off Darrell’s grip and stabs the air with his thick finger. “What’s this got to do with the kids? Get to the damn point!”

Patsy checks her Apple watch and whistles. “Holy cow, Wayne! Five beers in twenty minutes? It’s barely six o’clock!”

“Don’t start with me, Patsy!” Wayne’s voice rises above the jukebox playing in the corner.

Patsy slides a Pall Mall Light between her lips and strikes a match. The flame illuminates her weathered face. “Wayne, we go way back. Cool it, or I’m calling Earl.”

At the mention of Sheriff Twainheart, Wayne’s shoulders slump. He knows Patsy doesn’t bluff—she’s the only bartender in Washington County who’ll actually press charges.

“Please,” Wayne folds his hands in mock prayer. “Just one more.”

Patsy drops her cigarette into the amber ashtray, smoke curling toward the water-stained ceiling. She reaches into the mini-fridge, pops open another Bud Light, and slides it across the bar. “Darlene’s gonna bite your drunk ass one of these days. German Shepherds sense these things.”

Darrell spins around, nearly knocking over Junior’s beer, and pantomimes chugging from an invisible bottle. His eyes go wide as dinner plates. “That coach bought the wrong Gatorade! Not regular Gatorade—the energy drink kind! Two hundred milligrams of caffeine per bottle!” He staggers backward, clutching his chest like he’s having a heart attack from the caffeine rush.

Junior, slumped at the far end of the bar, perks up. “That there Gatteradd’s got them electro-lights, don’t it, Darrell?”

“Electrolytes, Junior. But here’s the kicker—” Darrell grins like he’s holding a royal flush, then spreads his arms wide like he’s handing out communion wafers. “The moron coach hands these out like regular sports drinks. Twelve boys chug liquid rocket fuel!”

Darrell starts bouncing around the bar like a pinball, ricocheting between stools, tapping shoulders, and grabbing elbows. He mimics a kid on a sugar rush—twitching, jerking, eyes bulging. “They’re flying around that field like Mexican jumping beans! Doing backflips! Cartwheels! One kid starts climbing the goalposts like King Kong!” He grabs the edge of the bar and pretends to scale it.

Patsy’s cigarette freezes halfway to her lips as Darrell collapses dramatically across the bar, one hand pressed to his forehead like a Victorian lady with the vapors. “That’s not funny, Darrell. What if Tyler or Cody—”

“Cody WAS one of them!” Darrell springs upright and slaps the bar so hard Patsy’s ashtray jumps. He grabs Wayne’s shoulders and shakes him. “Kid bounced off the walls until 11:30 that night! His mom looked like death the next morning, splitting headache and all!” Darrell rubs his own temples and staggers around like a zombie, eyes squinted shut in mock agony.

The bar falls silent except for the hum of the neon Budweiser sign and the distant crack of pool balls from the back room.

“What happened to the coach?” Patsy stubs out her smoke as Wayne waves his empty bottle.

“I don’t know. Fired, I guess.” Darrell finally plops back onto his barstool, exhausted from his one-person show. He wipes sweat from his forehead with a bar napkin.

A gravelly voice rises from the bar’s darkest corner. “Can’t get fired from a volunteer league.”

All heads turn toward the stranger nursing a beer in the shadows. Patsy squints through the smoke. “How would you know?”

The man steps into the light, revealing grass stains on his shirt and exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes. He raises his bottle in that universal bartender salute.

“Because I’m that coach.”

The Grain Belt Tavern erupts—Darrell doubles over laughing, Wayne shakes his head in disbelief, and Patsy slides a cold Coors Light across the bar.

“On the house, mister.”

The coach takes a long pull from his beer and chuckles softly. “It was kinda funny, actually.”

🎭 Watch Darrell turn a Missouri tavern into his personal stage as he acts out the tale of caffeinated soccer kids bouncing off goalposts. The twist? Pure gold.

Dive into Joe Class III’s world where characters leap off the page and every story feels like you’re right there in the room.

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Drop a 🚀 if you’ve got a wild small-town story that needs telling! What happens in your local tavern?