Brian Kelly stood in the fading evening light and contemplated West Colfax. The smoke from his cigar swirled in lazy turns toward the canopy over his head. From inside, the funky thump of Alligator Blackbird entertained the diners behind the windows. Bob Diaco walked up and embraced the coach quickly. “I’m just gonna say this once, BK, and you’ll hear no more from me about it: this is bullshit and we gotta do to them what they did to us. I don’t know who, or how, yet, but this cannot stand, Brian. Cannot.”
Kelly grew instantly annoyed, tamped his cigar into the black soil in the planter at the end of the canopy and squired his assistant inside the restaurant. “Jesus Christ, Bobby…” Giving a quick nod to the maitre d’, the two walked upstairs, purposefully and with little to no regard for the diners who watched them go, pointing.
Inside the boardroom, at a large round table were four widely spaced place settings, half-consumed appetizers and a bottle of Inglenook Cabarnet. Kelly and Diaco sat down while Jack Swarbrick entered behind them, wiping his hands on the front of his slacks. “Sorry, gentlemen, I had to see a man about a horse.” Diaco turned to Swarbrick and the two shook hands, warmly. Swarbrick nodded his head to an empty seat.
“Brian. Bobby. No doubt you’ve heard about Vanderdoes…”
Diaco, his body halfway across the table , paused in the act of spearing a sea scallop with his fork. “I was just saying to BK that we gotta…”
Swarbrick held up his left index finger. “Bobby, thank you. I was unclear when I paused for effect. That was not an invitation to volunteer your solution, which no doubt involves one or two major violations and probably a felony or three. Am I way off here, Bobby?”
Diaco sat back in his chair, chewing the scallop and pursing his lips. “Nope. That’s about right.”
Kelly patted Diaco on the back of his hand, squeezed it and looked him directly. “We appreciate your passion, Bobby. Jack and I, though, think we need to be a bit more careful with this one. Nothing that can get back to us.” He paused and looked across the table to Swarbrick.
“Coach Kelly is, of course, correct. By letting Vanderdoes out of his NLI, we’ve been sent a clear signal. Anything we do in response has to be calculated and careful. We’re being watched. We need to put distance between us and whatever happens.” Swarbrick paused as two waitresses brought their entrees in, placing ribeyes and filets next to dishes of Potatoes LaSalle, gorgonzola mac and cheese, chevre whipped potatoes, and grilled asparagus. “Gentlemen, please help yourselves. There’s no need to wait on our guest. I’m sure he’ll be able to fend for himself.” Pausing, Swarbrick looked to the door, which drew the attention of Kelly and Diaco. They all saw the looming shadow and the almost imperceptible quivering of the hall lighting.
Louis Nix III filled the door and, it felt, the room itself, as he entered. His enormous smile seemed to leap from his face, barely constrained by the frame of his cheeks. He inhaled dramatically through his huge, flaring nostrils. “Smells good, Coach, but I gotta ask what three high-class white people like you need from a handsome black man like me on a Saturday night in the Bend?”
Swarbrick, Kelly, and Diaco all stood to embrace Nix and make a place for him. “Louis,” said Kelly, plating a rib-eye and spooning mac and cheese alongside it, “thank you for coming.” Coach snapped his finger at the waitress who trailed along in Nix’s wake. “Bring Louis a sweet tea. Thank you.” He placed the plate in front of Louis.
When she was gone, Swarbrick moved to the door, closing it behind her. “Before we eat, Big Lou, we need to take your temperature about something.”
Nix already had a mouthful of food, so he indicated with his eyes for the AD to continue.
“Louis,” Kelly jumped in. “We’re not taking this Vanderdoes situation lying down.”
Nix furrowed his face and clanged his silverware against his plate. “Man, fuck that. Why y’all gotta waste my time, my Saturday time, on that fool? I’m tellin’ y’all, we don’t need anyone here who doesn’t wanna be here, all in, a’ight?”
Swarbrick smiled. “We appreciate that, Louis. But what we don’t intend to simply circle the wagons. We need a message sent, Louis. A message for future recruits. A message for the NCAA.”
“Go ahead.”
“We need you on YouTube and Twitter. General stuff, of course, nothing that can be construed as impermissible contact, okay? But you gotta hit it hard that ND is not just Tight End U. It’s D-Line U, too, okay?”
Nix held his spoon up, admiring his own reflection. “Now, I know y’all didn’t bring me here, to feed me steaks, just to tell me to tweet some rah-rah shit.”
Kelly and Swarbrick looked at each other, then at Diaco. “You’re right, Louis,” Kelly began, “you’re absolutely right. We need something more. We’re putting you on a plane to California tonight, Louis. One of our people will pick you up at the airport. From there, you will decide how to deal with our friends McClure and Osterhout. And you’ll be back Monday afternoon.”
Nix looked at Swarbrick, then Kelly. Then, he looked at Diaco, who nodded. “It’s the way it has to be, Lou. Kid had an NLI and they kept recruiting him.”
“You know that for certain?” Nix asked.
“As ESPN would say, we have our…’sources’,” said Kelly. “This is solid.”
The enormous tackle stood, letting his napkin drop to the table. “I got it. Monday afternoon?”
“Monday afternoon,” Kelly nodded.
As Nix left the room, Diaco looked to his bosses. “This is the right move, BK. You gotta draw a line some times. Otherwise, when’s it gonna end?”
Swarbrick looked down at his watch, slowly chewing a bite of filet. “It ends at kick-off against Temple. Jesus, I hate this offseason.”
Hating Hurricanes Since 1990.
Bayou Irish is a Jersey boy and Double Domer who fell under New Orleans' spell in 1995. He's been through Katrina and fourteen years in the Coast Guard, so we cut him some slack, mostly in the form of HLS-subsidized sazeracs. But, when he's not face down on the bar and communing with the ghosts of Faulkner and Capote at the Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone, he's our man in SEC-land, doing his best to convince everyone around him that Graduation Success Rate is a better indicator of success than the number of MNC's won in the last five years.
- Finding Flaws in a Diamond: Clemson’s Rushing Offense - December 17, 2018
- Why Nobody Will Cotton to Notre Dame - December 3, 2018
- Irish Finish Regular Season Perfect 12-0 - November 26, 2018
*starts thunderous slow clap*
“Jesus, I hate this offseason.” — tempted to make this the new tagline for HLS.
“That was not an invitation to volunteer your solution, which no doubt involves one or two major violations and probably a felony or three.”
I lol’d