Hate mail, laxbro style

Cabell Maddux, let’s talk.

People like you are exactly the reason I hated the laxbro culture before it was cool to hate on the laxbro culture. Years before it was cool.

Way to write down the way you really felt about a kid leaving your club lacrosse program. Clearly, you didn’t think this whole thing out and were pissed because you lost a good chunk of money.

Via deadspin, an excerpt of the email you sent to the parent:

You have taken advantage of me and madlax and now you are doing a huge diservice to your son. I am hurt and angry. You have no clue how this lacrosse world works. Wow. You have really screwed him. And by the way it is a big deal and I will let every one of his teammates know. His teammates will hate him for years for quitting and playing for a rival club. Trust me on that.

Cabell, people like you are the reason I don’t have children. I would rather shell out six grand to have it rain on my vacation in Europe than I would to have you berate my child and my own dignity because your ego is bruised and because your wallet is bruised.

People like you forgot the cardinal rule of documentation. Don’t leave a paper trail.

And people like you are why I pick up the phone to call you and tell you that you are way out of line and that you are in no way indicative of the coaching community. (In fact, you’re kind of a sorry excuse.) Unless you screen my calls and avoid me in public places, then I have to email you. And you already know how I feel about documentation.

To the parents who explained their case as to why they no longer want their son to be involved in Madlax, good for you. Now let your eighth grader go ride his bike, or play some video games or light Roman candles in the neighborhood golf course. Or whatever it is that eighth graders do these days. You know, actually *be* an eighth grader, as opposed to being a brainwashed lacrosse-only machine, who, by the time he is 20, has that empty look in his eyes each time he puts on his shoulder pads.

That look? That’s called “regret for missing out on my teenage years.”