That’s Not What We Meant by “Private” Coach

Some people take things too literally. You know, the kind of person who doesn’t get deadpan humor, is offended by Mel Brooks because they think he’s anti-Semitic, or regularly shows up five minutes after the joke boat leaves port.

Every now and then in the sports world, we come across such individuals. Take, for example, a tennis coach across the pond, who allegedly knows how to put the “private” into “private coach” in that very taboo way. 

Claire Lyte, the 29-year-old coach in question, mixed up her prepositions a couple of years ago. She apparently couldn’t discern between playing for the other team (which is fine) and playing with the other team (which is not fine, not when the “team” is a 13-year-old girl).

Several years ago, Mom came home to find her daughter and Lyte, a former pro and Lawn Tennis Association coach, in bed doing things best left to an episode of The “L” Word.  In one of the best “Ma, what were you thinking?” examples ev-ah, Mom opted not to run to the police just yet because she was—wait for it—worried about the effects it would have on the girl’s tennis career.

The case is in court now, with the requisite she-said, she-said from both sides. Lyte says the tabloid- and Gossip on Sports-foddah is a lie made up by the girl’s mother because the tennis pupil wasn’t career-pro caliber. The girl, whom Lyte claims was infatuated with her, insists that Coach L threatened her to keep quiet or get booted from the tennis academy.

But if you’re waiting for the other pair of underwear to fall, today’s your lucky day. It seems Lyte donned the girl’s pink panties on one occasion. Faster than you can say, “Give the woman a shovel so she can finish digging that hole,” Lyte responded that she neglected to spot the name tag on the undies.

I do that all the time! I am forever putting on other people’s underwear by mistake. I mean, who hasn’t slipped on the wrong thong or boy shorts or (for you fellas) boxers or briefs? It’s like when you’re sitting down at dinner and you look up at a bunch of strangers and say, “Wait, you’re not my family. I can tell by your name tags.” Or all those times you’ve turned down the bedsheets with a pause before saying, “I’m pretty sure you’re not my husband. Can I see your name tag, just to make certain?”

We advise Ms. Lyte to head over to the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale in December, where she can buy some pink underwear to call her own.