Chapter Thirty: Play It Safe or Risk It All?
Whatever the whiskey bottle had meant—test, taunt, or both — I had bigger fish to fry. Or Broncos, to be exact. But before even that, I had a message to deliver.
“I wanted you guys to hear it from me, first.” I met the eyes of every member of the defense — my defense — as I delivered the statement.
The impromptu huddle had started as a send-off — but with the other conference championship scores now confirmed on the stadium board, it quickly turned to the future. Both Appalachian State and TCU had won their respective conferences, meaning we were officially eliminated from playoff contention. And I felt in my bones, it was the right moment. I explained to them that regardless of what happens on the field, I had interviews scheduled the following week.
“I’m not going to lie to you guys, if I get an offer, I’m taking it. I wanted you guys to hear it from me first.”
The whole unit nodded in acknowledgement, understanding the weight of the situation. They had all seen the tension rising throughout the season, starting with the Oregon game, and surely had noticed that neither Coach Smith nor myself had spoken since arriving at Allegiant Stadium hours before.
“If this is the last ride, Coach, then we’re going to do our damndest to send you out on top,” declared Manu Hasty, rising from the huddle to stand beside me.
“Coach Mando on 3!” He yelled, before his count was layered with the voice of the entire defense shouting in unison.
As we broke the huddle and returned to warm ups, Coach Smith met my eyes across the field.
I held his gaze, he quickly turned away.
The masterclass the defense put on the field against the Boise State Broncos was only overshadowed by a lone mistake, a 75-yard jolt of lightning from Jordan Washington that produced over half of the Broncos’ yardage on the afternoon. My stomach dropped when I saw Washington springing up the sideline, memories of BYU’s second half surge earlier this season rushing to the forefront. But when Sailasa Vadrawale snagged my defense’s third interception of the game, I knew the night was ours.
But as exciting as the whirlwind of emotions on the field at Allegiant was, the reality lay in wait at the hotel.
While the team poured into the Vegas night to celebrate the achievement, I returned to the hotel to pack and prepare for the trip to Reno and an interview with Stephanie Rempe.
Jessica and I were in the middle of a FaceTime call, going over our final itineraries and planning when we would meet in Reno —her and the kids flying out from Corvallis mid-day and planning on meeting me for dinner that night, while I was catching the first flight and would be in Reno before breakfast — when there was a knock at the door. Not the heavy, demanding knock from the night before, but a quick and polite rasp on the door. Not a demand, but a request to be answered.
“Hold on one sec, babe,” I told Jessica, muting the mic as I stood to answer the door.
Manu Hasty was on the other side, changed out of his gear, wearing the kind of outfit that said Sin City was waiting.
“Mind if I come in? I won’t take much of your time, Coach,” Hasty asked, almost seeming embarrassed at the impromptu visit.
I nodded permission and stepped aside as he entered the room.
“I know you aren’t coming out to celebrate with us, totally understand it. I just wanted to thank you. For the opportunity,” he started, the words coming out quicker than he likely had anticipated as he noticeably forced himself to slow down with a deep breath.
“I guess I am just curious, what’s next? For me, I mean.”
Unlike many of the players we’d poached in the portal, Manu was only a sophomore this season. He’d have at least his junior, if not his senior season remaining to play and was suddenly left without the key coach who had recruited and coached him to what many expected to be an award winning season.
“I can’t tell you that, Manu,” I said with a sigh. “I’d love to take you with me, wherever I go, but I’m also not going to sit here and try to poach the very players that helped me build something great here in Corvallis.”
The words hung in the air as Manu took a seat on the loveseat, the same spot where Coach Smith had begun questioning me less than 24-hours before.
“I want to stay here and continue building this program, leave a legacy, everything we talked about this season, Coach,” he began, softly at first, but with building confidence as the belief shone through in his voice.
“But on the same token, what if this is the peak? Coming up just short, being good, but not great. ‘Cause I’ll be honest, Coach. Without your voice in the locker room, it feels like that’s the message. Good enough to matter. And ultimately, I want to win a championship. I want to prove to Vanderbilt and the SEC they were wrong to let me leave.”
“Ultimately, that is up to you, Manu.”
“I can’t predict the future, but you have to do what you think is best. It would be hypocritical of me to sit here and say you need to stay and be loyal, as I’m preparing to interview for a new job tomorrow,” I added, sweeping my hand across the room to where my laptop and bags were packed and ready.
“I think staying behind and continuing to build something, to keep setting the standard even if you’re doing it alone, is admirable. But I wouldn’t second guess your character if you decided to see what the portal would offer you either.”
“Just promise me one thing, make sure whatever decision you make, you own it.”
Manu nodded, deep in thought and contemplation, as he rose to dap me up for the goodbye.
“Hey,” I added, holding him in the quick embrace a moment longer.
“These are problems for tomorrow. Tonight? Tear Sin City up for me.”
The next day was a rush of plane rides, Uber trips, and a whirlwind tour of the Nevada Wolfpack campus in Reno. AD Rempe and I talked at great length about her belief that my passion and intensity was exactly what the Wolfpack needed to become relevant again in a ‘wide open’ Mountain West Conference with the departure of Boise State.
It wasn’t perfect. The Mountain West was certainly a step-down in prestige from the Pac-12, and Nevada equally a step-down from Oregon State. But I would have full control of the roster, the staff, who was targeted in the portal. But the real selling point?
The blank white board in the head coach’s office. No mandate, no second-guessing. My canvas to turn my vision, into a reality. Free-reign to turn my standard into the only standard in the building. No one above me preaching a separate mantra, no one with ulterior motives, no one to question my passion, or my character.
I didn’t agree to sign in the meeting with Rempe, having already learned the painful lesson of discussing things with Jessica beforehand, but told Rempe that I was more than interested.
When I walked out of Legacy Hall, I thoroughly believed that I would be announcing my decision to pack my bags for Nevada shortly, precisely after one quick conversation with Jessica over dinner, planned for Ramsey’s Kitchen courtesy of the University of Nevada.
I had my phone on do-not-disturb the entire 3-hour meeting with Rempe and was quickly bombarded with a swarm of missed calls and messages from Harvey, the last of which simply said “call.me.”
Harvey answered before the first ring had even reached its midway point, getting directly to the point.
“Did you tell them you were signing?”
“Huh? Harvey slow down, what’s going on?”
“Did you?” Less frantic than before, but clearly needing an urgent answer.
“No, I wanted to discuss it with Jessica first. But I did tell her I was strongly considering it.”
The sharp exhale told me that was the answer Harvey wanted to hear before he continued.
“Alright, good. That’s good. Listen, I’ve gotten five phone calls in the last four hours inquiring about your availability, Mando. Five.”
Hawaii had called about their open defensive coordinator position, so had North Texas. But the biggest name?
“Alright, Harvey. Now I know you’re fucking with me. Steve Sarkisian at Michigan isn’t calling to see if I’ll head to Ann Arbor. Seriously.”
“I joke about a lot of things, Mando, but I never, ever joke about business. Wink is out the door apparently and you’re on Sark’s short list. There are others, it’s not a free offer. But they want to bring you in and see what you’re made of. And that’s not it.
“Two more head coaching offers too. Sam Houston is one — not sure how you feel about that.”
Sam Houston went 2-10 last season and while they had some talent on the roster, it would be an even bigger rebuild than Nevada, by a long shot.
“Eh, if it’s between Sam Houston and Nevada, I’m taking Nevada, Harvey.”
“You didn’t hear the other one though. Maryland.”
It wasn’t as big of a shock as Michigan was, but the gravity behind it was. Head coach. In the Big Ten. At Maryland University.
“Mando, you there? Hello!?”
“Shit, sorry Harvey. Zoned out for a minute. When do they want me to fly out?”
“Tomorrow. They’re trying to move quickly apparently. They didn’t say where Locksley is going, but with Cignetti announcing his retirement this morning, that is my bet.”
Tomorrow? I’d barely processed that Maryland was even interested and now suddenly, Harvey was already pushing for an answer. Tomorrow would be too soon to usher Jessica and the kids cross-country. She’d already had a helluva time getting AJ to sit still for the 3 hours plane ride to Reno, let alone a five-hour flight with connections in between.
“When do you need an answer Harvey? ‘Cause I don’t know how thrilled Jessica will be.”
“Two hours ago, Mando. I told you, they’re moving quick.”
I told Harvey to give me ten minutes, and I’d have him an answer.
Turns out, I wouldn’t even need that.
“Why are you asking me, schedule the interview Flyboy!” Apparently, Jessica was not concerned about the trip cross country, although she quickly clarified she didn’t think the kids would make the trip.
“If they can wait a day, I could see if we could fly the kids to my parent’s house in Colorado Springs for a few days, then fly to College Park together. But if they’re that pressed for time, Mando, I can just visit later.”
“It’s a sudden move, babe, are you sure? It isn’t even warm in College Park.”
“Mando, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. Take the interview. We’ll manage.
“It’s at least warmer than goddamn Montana.”
A quick call to Harvey to confirm the interest and by the time I’d arrived at Ramsey’s to meet the family, Maryland had sent an itinerary with athletic director Jim Smith calling me personally to finalize the trip.
“Just you, no family?” Smith inquired, a hint of curiosity in his voice on the phone.
“They just flew to Reno this morning, it would be a bit much for the kids to fly cross-country the next day.”
The short laugh on the end confirmed he’d heard what he’d wanted, “Just wanted to make sure we were getting the family guy we’d heard about. We’ll fly just you this time and if all works out, the whole family is coming for the introductory press conference, sound good?”
The tour of Maryland’s facilities reminded me of a less-grand South Carolina. It wasn’t an SEC program, but even with a mid-tier Big Ten program like Maryland, you could see the pedigree. They weren’t just in the Big Ten to survive, they had the tools to thrive.
“We just need the right man, with the right vision,” confirmed Smith as we sat down watching film and discussing coach philosophy.
“I went back and watched tape from you at Havre, at Montana State, and now at Oregon State. The talent level has changed, but your intensity never has. You can see it in the sidelines, feel it when you speak. Every interview with that Ricky guy for the Dam Daily, you refuse to sacrifice the belief that hard work pays off, that if you set a standard, you can become the standard.
“That’s what we need here in Maryland.”
That night, nearly 3,000 miles apart, Jessica and I were back to our ritual — each with a slice of cheesecake, each on FaceTime, her back home in Corvallis by the time I'd landed in College Park. We'd agreed long ago that no matter the distance, traditions are what kept us grounded.
“Okay, run me through the scenarios again. In your own words, not theirs,” Jessica implored.
“Alright, here it goes. Defensive coordinator at Michigan is the premier job, but it’s going to take time to even make it through the interview process. By that point, Nevada, Sam Houston, or Maryland are going to be gone. Then if I don’t get Michigan, I’m back in Oregon State. And even if I do get the job, what keeps the perception from being I’m just riding on Sark’s coattails?
Option two, Nevada. Lesser program, lesser expectations. Room to grow and to build. But in a weak Mountain West, the conference will be winnable. Games against upper-tier opponents won’t. At least at first. But it’s a place that a bad season or two to start isn’t going to get me fired. And it’s warm,” I added with a wink, showing I still remembered her request. Jessica didn’t think it was amusing, given me a heavy eye roll before gesturing with a cheesecake covered fork to keep the analysis rolling.
“Sam Houston is in the same boat, with lesser prestige,” I continued, “Again, winnable conference, and a place that I won’t get fired for my first bad season. But an even steeper climb to national contention than Nevada.
“And finally, there’s Maryland. The wildcard. On one hand, elite conference and the resources to match. They obviously aren’t Ohio State or Michigan, but their facilities dwarf Oregon State’s. Same with their NIL and coaching budget. But with that, comes more expectations. They aren’t going to want to sit around and get the piss batted out of them by the big boys. They want to be taken seriously, at least that’s the vibe I got. And if I go to Maryland and struggle? Then all the momentum I’ve built between Montana State and Oregon State, with top-tier defenses, comes crashing down. Suddenly I’m a cautionary tale of the guy with a limited resume, not Zach Orr who took the hype and ran with it.”
She took her time chewing her next bite theatrically, maximizing the suspense as I annoyingly stared at the laptop screen.
“Okay. So, Michigan DC is a no-go, cause it’s a high likelihood you don’t make the Final Cut and end up holding the bag at Oregon State and Coach Dickhead.
Nevada is the safe route. Sam Houston is even safer. But neither are exciting.
Then there’s Maryland. Big risk, big reward.”
She let the words hang in the air, before adding with a playful smirk: “Hm. Reminds me of someone I know.
“So, what’s it going to be, Flyboy. And don’t look at me, I’m ride or die. I’d prefer warm, but there’s always time for that later. And like I said, Maryland is at least warmer than Montana.
“So no deferring to me this time. I saved your bacon with the South Carolina excuse, not this time. All you. Let me know what you decide in the morning,” she added with a kiss goodbye to the webcam screen as we exchanged “I love you.”
This was it. I won’t call it the biggest decision of my life; that credit goes to getting sober and asking Jessica to marry me, but it was definitely the biggest choice of my professional career to that point.
Take the safe route, or bet on myself again and hope I come up aces?
No matter the decision, the clock was ticking, and time was almost out.
It was now or never.
No Father's Son
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redsox907
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No Father's Son
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Soapy
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Go Terps
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djp73
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Caesar
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He gone to Maryland
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redsox907
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No Father's Son
Chapter Thirty-One: On the Move Again
By the time the sun came up over College Park the next morning, I already had my answer.
“Thank you again for the opportunity, I can’t wait to get to work,” I affirmed into the phone an hour later, on my way to the airport to head back to Corvallis.
“We’re excited to bring you aboard, Coach Leon. We expect great things,” the other voice confirmed, “We’ll get in touch with Harvey Ross to get the contract hammered out, including your relocation package.”
“One last thing, are you going to coach Oregon State through their bowl game?”
It was a question I hadn’t considered throughout the whirlwind weekend that started with the confrontation with Coach Smith in Vegas, followed by a quick trip to Reno and then College Park for interviews. After the explosive confrontation between Smith and me, the idea that he would want me on the sideline for the Alamo Bowl against Kansas State was laughable.
But then again, it may not be his choice. AD Scott Barnes wasn’t privy to the tension between Smith and me, and may want me on the sideline. It was a question I didn’t have the answer to.
Perhaps sensing my uncertainty regarding the question, the voice on the other line quickly dismissed the question’s importance, “If you need to talk to Coach Smith and Scott Barnes first, totally get it. Just wanted to know if we needed to start getting a hotel arranged for you now, or later. Just let me know soon as you know, and we’ll plan from there?
“Talk soon, Coach. And again, welcome aboard.”
I’d told Jessica and the kids about my decision that morning as I packed up my things in the hotel room, getting ready to board a flight back home. Or at least, home for now.
By the time I’d reached the airport, Harvey was in the loop as well with the contract details already faxed over from the athletic director. I barely heard my phone ringing over the hustle and bustle of the airport, but caught Harvey’s call at the last minute, answering just before it sent to voicemail.
“Oh good, I thought you’d already boarded the plane. You got time to talk, or you want to wait until you get home so Jessica is in the loop?” questioned Harvey as I moved to a quieter part of the terminal.
“Hit me now, Harvey.” I didn’t have a fixed dollar amount in my head, in fact it had been one of the last things on my mind. I’d assumed it would be more than I was currently making in Corvallis, and when the AD mentioned a relocation package, that was enough incentive for me.
“Two million and some change starting salary over the next four years, with increasing incentives based on bowl eligibility, championship appearances…”
Harvey continued, but I had ceased paying attention. Two. Million. Dollars.
“Mando? You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry Harvey. The number kind of put me into shock,” I answered, still trying to wrap my head around the millions.
“Yeah, it’s not the huge numbers you see thrown around for the guys in the SEC, but if you hit the incentives for bowl eligibility, it’ll be as much as DeShaun Foster down in UCLA is earning.
“Oh, and you get a $50K relocation bonus to help get the family moved out, not including housing you in a hotel while you and Jessica find a place.”
“I don’t know what I’m more in awe about,” exclaimed Jessica that night when I was back in Corvallis, “the relocation bonus, or the total salary. I knew you were going to get a raise, but the sheer amount?”
She whistled for emphasis.
“I know, I was in shock too. Probably looked lost sitting in the College Park Airport with my jaw on the floor.”
“So, have you told Jonathan yet?” The question was innocent, the weight behind it wasn’t. I hadn’t spoken to Coach Smith since the altercation in the hotel, which Jessica knew.
“No, I’m going to talk to him and Scott Barnes in person tomorrow. It’s better that way,” I added, beginning to unpack my bag.
“I’ve got a message to deliver to Coach Smith anyway.” I continued, pulling the bottle of 18-year-old Macallan out of my bag. I’d told Jessica about Coach Smith bringing, and leaving, the bottle of whiskey in the hotel room. I hadn’t told her that I’d kept it.
I set the bottle on the counter with a deliberate thud, causing Jessica to turn from the sink where she was finishing up the dishes from dinner. The kids were already in bed, the main reason I’d waited until now to pull the bottle of whiskey out of my bag, not wanting them to see it. Even so, the mood in the room immediately shifted, as Jessica’s breath hitched quickly, perfectly in tune with her eyebrows raising and her eyes quickly cutting to me.
“Relax,” I quickly added, hands up and palms out defensively, “It’s part of the message for Smith. To show him I’m a better man than he thought I was. There isn’t a drop missing that he didn’t drink personally, scouts honor.” I raised my left hand in a mock salute.
The gesture wasn’t lost on Jessica. The left-hand was where I’d been shot at a liquor store years ago, evidence I knew where a path paved with liquor would lead.
She nodded, still rattled, but with understanding. “Next time, warn a girl first, Flyboy,” she sighed, playfully swatting the hand down as she pulled me close.
“So, when do you think you’ll have to leave again?” she whispered into my neck.
“If he doesn’t want me to coach the bowl game, which he won’t unless he’s trying to press me, I’m assuming by the end of the week. I’ll have to start getting my staff together, picking up where they left off on recruiting, all of it.”
She sighed deeply, understanding that it meant by the end of the week I’d be gone while she finalized the last of the details to get moved.
“I can try and stall it, stay and help you pack up and get things situated,” I affirmed, sensing her understanding of the situation.
“We’ll get done what we can when you’re here, and I’ll do what we need while you’re gone. Maybe, I’ll leave the house hunting up to you this time,” she teased, turning away while leading me down the hall.
“But that can wait until tomorrow, tonight? We need to celebrate. And besides, if I’m going to go weeks without you, I’m getting mine now,” she added with a playful smile, dropping her dress to the floor as she disappeared down the hallway.
When I arrived at the Valley Football Center Wednesday morning, I didn’t waste any time walking straight into Coach Smith’s office.
He had his back turned to the door, watching film on Kansas State on the far wall, lost in preparing the game. He certainly didn’t hear me walk into his office, or if he did, he didn’t bother to acknowledge me.
But when I slammed the bottle of Macallan on his desk, probably harder than necessary, the sound of glass meeting mahogany jolted him upright as he spun around.
Before he had a chance to speak up, I was already speaking.
“Bold calling me a drunk, when you were already three-sheets to the wind and still downed another half-pint before you stormed out of my room like a toddler,” I scolded, waving my hand at the bottle now firmly planted atop his game plans for the Alamo Bowl.
He started to speak up, to defend himself, but I quickly cut him off. I was on a roll now.
“Save it, I don’t give a fuck. You can take your bruised ego and fuck all the way off. I took the job. But, I would like to coach my defense for the Alamo bowl-“
“That’s my defense, not yours,” Coach Smith quickly interjected, recovering from the shock at my aggressive approach.
“I’ll be sure to let Scott know you’re keeping me out of the bowl game, not the other way around, when I tell him I’m gone,” I shot back, turning to make my way down the hall to the athletic director’s office. Later that same morning, after my final confrontation with Smith, I told Scott Barnes the news; he didn’t even question the bowl game, just thanked me for the two spectacular seasons and wished me the best.
“You can at least tell me where you’re going,” he yelled after me, trying to catch me before I left his view. “And why is there a spoon taped to this whiskey bottle?”
“I'm going to Maryland," I tossed over my shoulder, already in the hallway. Then, stopping in the doorframe just long enough to answer his last question: "And the spoon is so you can eat my ass, lil bitch.”
By the time the sun came up over College Park the next morning, I already had my answer.
“Thank you again for the opportunity, I can’t wait to get to work,” I affirmed into the phone an hour later, on my way to the airport to head back to Corvallis.
“We’re excited to bring you aboard, Coach Leon. We expect great things,” the other voice confirmed, “We’ll get in touch with Harvey Ross to get the contract hammered out, including your relocation package.”
“One last thing, are you going to coach Oregon State through their bowl game?”
It was a question I hadn’t considered throughout the whirlwind weekend that started with the confrontation with Coach Smith in Vegas, followed by a quick trip to Reno and then College Park for interviews. After the explosive confrontation between Smith and me, the idea that he would want me on the sideline for the Alamo Bowl against Kansas State was laughable.
But then again, it may not be his choice. AD Scott Barnes wasn’t privy to the tension between Smith and me, and may want me on the sideline. It was a question I didn’t have the answer to.
Perhaps sensing my uncertainty regarding the question, the voice on the other line quickly dismissed the question’s importance, “If you need to talk to Coach Smith and Scott Barnes first, totally get it. Just wanted to know if we needed to start getting a hotel arranged for you now, or later. Just let me know soon as you know, and we’ll plan from there?
“Talk soon, Coach. And again, welcome aboard.”
I’d told Jessica and the kids about my decision that morning as I packed up my things in the hotel room, getting ready to board a flight back home. Or at least, home for now.
By the time I’d reached the airport, Harvey was in the loop as well with the contract details already faxed over from the athletic director. I barely heard my phone ringing over the hustle and bustle of the airport, but caught Harvey’s call at the last minute, answering just before it sent to voicemail.
“Oh good, I thought you’d already boarded the plane. You got time to talk, or you want to wait until you get home so Jessica is in the loop?” questioned Harvey as I moved to a quieter part of the terminal.
“Hit me now, Harvey.” I didn’t have a fixed dollar amount in my head, in fact it had been one of the last things on my mind. I’d assumed it would be more than I was currently making in Corvallis, and when the AD mentioned a relocation package, that was enough incentive for me.
“Two million and some change starting salary over the next four years, with increasing incentives based on bowl eligibility, championship appearances…”
Harvey continued, but I had ceased paying attention. Two. Million. Dollars.
“Mando? You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry Harvey. The number kind of put me into shock,” I answered, still trying to wrap my head around the millions.
“Yeah, it’s not the huge numbers you see thrown around for the guys in the SEC, but if you hit the incentives for bowl eligibility, it’ll be as much as DeShaun Foster down in UCLA is earning.
“Oh, and you get a $50K relocation bonus to help get the family moved out, not including housing you in a hotel while you and Jessica find a place.”
“I don’t know what I’m more in awe about,” exclaimed Jessica that night when I was back in Corvallis, “the relocation bonus, or the total salary. I knew you were going to get a raise, but the sheer amount?”
She whistled for emphasis.
“I know, I was in shock too. Probably looked lost sitting in the College Park Airport with my jaw on the floor.”
“So, have you told Jonathan yet?” The question was innocent, the weight behind it wasn’t. I hadn’t spoken to Coach Smith since the altercation in the hotel, which Jessica knew.
“No, I’m going to talk to him and Scott Barnes in person tomorrow. It’s better that way,” I added, beginning to unpack my bag.
“I’ve got a message to deliver to Coach Smith anyway.” I continued, pulling the bottle of 18-year-old Macallan out of my bag. I’d told Jessica about Coach Smith bringing, and leaving, the bottle of whiskey in the hotel room. I hadn’t told her that I’d kept it.
I set the bottle on the counter with a deliberate thud, causing Jessica to turn from the sink where she was finishing up the dishes from dinner. The kids were already in bed, the main reason I’d waited until now to pull the bottle of whiskey out of my bag, not wanting them to see it. Even so, the mood in the room immediately shifted, as Jessica’s breath hitched quickly, perfectly in tune with her eyebrows raising and her eyes quickly cutting to me.
“Relax,” I quickly added, hands up and palms out defensively, “It’s part of the message for Smith. To show him I’m a better man than he thought I was. There isn’t a drop missing that he didn’t drink personally, scouts honor.” I raised my left hand in a mock salute.
The gesture wasn’t lost on Jessica. The left-hand was where I’d been shot at a liquor store years ago, evidence I knew where a path paved with liquor would lead.
She nodded, still rattled, but with understanding. “Next time, warn a girl first, Flyboy,” she sighed, playfully swatting the hand down as she pulled me close.
“So, when do you think you’ll have to leave again?” she whispered into my neck.
“If he doesn’t want me to coach the bowl game, which he won’t unless he’s trying to press me, I’m assuming by the end of the week. I’ll have to start getting my staff together, picking up where they left off on recruiting, all of it.”
She sighed deeply, understanding that it meant by the end of the week I’d be gone while she finalized the last of the details to get moved.
“I can try and stall it, stay and help you pack up and get things situated,” I affirmed, sensing her understanding of the situation.
“We’ll get done what we can when you’re here, and I’ll do what we need while you’re gone. Maybe, I’ll leave the house hunting up to you this time,” she teased, turning away while leading me down the hall.
“But that can wait until tomorrow, tonight? We need to celebrate. And besides, if I’m going to go weeks without you, I’m getting mine now,” she added with a playful smile, dropping her dress to the floor as she disappeared down the hallway.
When I arrived at the Valley Football Center Wednesday morning, I didn’t waste any time walking straight into Coach Smith’s office.
He had his back turned to the door, watching film on Kansas State on the far wall, lost in preparing the game. He certainly didn’t hear me walk into his office, or if he did, he didn’t bother to acknowledge me.
But when I slammed the bottle of Macallan on his desk, probably harder than necessary, the sound of glass meeting mahogany jolted him upright as he spun around.
Before he had a chance to speak up, I was already speaking.
“Bold calling me a drunk, when you were already three-sheets to the wind and still downed another half-pint before you stormed out of my room like a toddler,” I scolded, waving my hand at the bottle now firmly planted atop his game plans for the Alamo Bowl.
He started to speak up, to defend himself, but I quickly cut him off. I was on a roll now.
“Save it, I don’t give a fuck. You can take your bruised ego and fuck all the way off. I took the job. But, I would like to coach my defense for the Alamo bowl-“
“That’s my defense, not yours,” Coach Smith quickly interjected, recovering from the shock at my aggressive approach.
“I’ll be sure to let Scott know you’re keeping me out of the bowl game, not the other way around, when I tell him I’m gone,” I shot back, turning to make my way down the hall to the athletic director’s office. Later that same morning, after my final confrontation with Smith, I told Scott Barnes the news; he didn’t even question the bowl game, just thanked me for the two spectacular seasons and wished me the best.
“You can at least tell me where you’re going,” he yelled after me, trying to catch me before I left his view. “And why is there a spoon taped to this whiskey bottle?”
“I'm going to Maryland," I tossed over my shoulder, already in the hallway. Then, stopping in the doorframe just long enough to answer his last question: "And the spoon is so you can eat my ass, lil bitch.”
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djp73
- Posts: 11664
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
No Father's Son
Not the spoon lmao