“FigTHING Irish?” Bobby Diaco held the concessions cup in his hand and rotated it around, the horribly misspelled word coming into view again and again.
“Ain’t nothin’ but a fig thing, Baaaaaaby!” Tony Alford grabbed the cup from Diaco’s hand and jammed it into the ice machine. Atop the Guglielmo Athletic Complex, on the small lawn Brian Kelly had installed for the very purpose, the Notre Dame head coach and his assistants grilled steaks and reclined into the over-stuffed blue and gold cushions over the wicker lounge chairs.
Brian Kelly, cigar in his mouth, grilling tongs in one hand and Sam Adams in the other raised the bottle and started speaking. “That was a nice win, gentlemen. To winning.”
“To winning,” the coaches repeated and drank.
“BK?” Chuck Martin asked. “You really think? Did you get a look at The Brick after the game?”
Diaco walked over and threw his arm around Martin. “What’d ya mean ‘you really think?’ That look on Jack’s face had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with that giant nut he owes BK now every year. Salud, BK.”
Again, the men raised their drinks and toasted. Kelly pushed at the edge of the sizzling steaks, turned the corn cobs and the baking potatoes. He wore a smile on his face as he thought about having achieved, in one day, the announcement of his contract extension, an opening day win and his two-hundredth victory as a head coach.
Almost on cue, Jack Swarbrick stepped onto the lawn as he silently exited the private elevator. Noticing the men starting to stand up, he waved them off. “Sit. Sit, boys. Brian, come walk with me, please.”
Kelly rolled his eyes to Tony Alford and handed him the tongs. “Jesus, Jack, you wanna go up in my tree fort extra privacy?”
Swarbrick walked past Kelly and away from the group, his voice, as was becoming his habit, a low semi-whisper.
“Brian, don’t let this contract thing set the wrong impression. We’re more than happy with many of the aspects of yesterday’s performance, but…”
Kelly interrupted him, putting his hand on Swarbrick’s shoulder, smiling wickedly. “But you and I know that if the New Orleans Saints call me, I get to go, is that it?”
Swarbrick recoiled and straightened his mussed collar. “Payton’s going nowhere and you’d never get along with Loomis, Brian.”
Kelly took a swig from his beer. “Again, Jack, what the fuck? Why did you come up here with an ass tighter than someone interviewing to be the head of ResLife? I know you didn’t get 59-9, but we weren’t exactly playing Central Fucking Michigan.”
Swarbrick shot back, hissing now. “And you have no idea the fucking pressure on me, Brian. We’ve got Gameday and all that clap-trap on Saturday, and I’m still dealing with the SEC. Clemson beating Georgia was nice, but it would have been better had TCU beaten LSU and oh! If Rice could have…”
Kelly drank again and laughed. “If Rice had won, Jack, everyone would have said A&M was still pretty much a Big 12 team.”
Swarbrick paused. “Maybe. Maybe. And we got to play a lot of our freshmen yesterday.”
Kelly joined Swarbrick at the lawn’s edge, along the topiary that hid the place from view from campus. “Jack, I know that you’re dealing with shit that I don’t even want to get paid to deal with, but would you relax and enjoy the moment for a second.” Almost on cue, a coed in yoga pants walked between buildings.
“I don’t get paid to live in the moment, Brian. My today was planned three years ago. The only reason we’re having this conversation is because I need things to happen today and Saturday that will impact where we’ll be in three years.”
Kelly glanced behind him, pleased to see Denbrock and Alford who were joking over their food. “Jack, we should have put more points on the board, but Davaris came up lame on a touchdown pass and we couldn’t kick a field goal to save our lives.”
Swarbrick nodded. “Beat Michigan, Brian.”
Kelly patted Swarbrick’s shoulder. “Fuck Michigan, Jack.” He turned and began walking back to his men, singing. “Ain’t nothin’ but a fig thing, Jackyyyy.”
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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
