Notre Dame head football coach Brian Kelly stopped at the Gug and went to his office, took a shower, and sat on his couch, smoking a cigar and sipping his whiskey in the dark, looking out at the breaking dawn of a South Bend Sunday morning. He had no idea how long it was before he recognized the knock.
“Enter!” he huffed.
“Coach.”
Kelly could only discern the frames of Prince Shembo and Jaylon Smith from their contrast with the light behind them.
“Coach, we need to talk.”
Kelly thought about getting up, but realized he was only in a towel, so he snuffed out his cigar and downed his whiskey. “Have a seat guys. I…. I just showered.”
While Jaylon sat, Shembo stood, at parade rest, in the door. “It’s okay coach, we’re intruding on you.”
Kelly thought about that, watching the blue smoke curl from the trammeled end of his cigar, the grey piles of ash clumped in the crystal ashtray. “I make huge amounts of money off the labor of these guys and they’re intruding on me. Whatever.” He spoke, his eyes aimed at a spot on the wall equidistant from either player. “Okay, then. Why the morning meeting? Prince? Jaylon?”
Somewhat surprisingly, Jaylon Smith, the freshman spoke up first. “Coach, we think something’s wrong.”
Kelly interrupted. “I don’t. If anything, over the weeks, I’ve seen improvement. And for you two, of all players, to be here, after the games you’ve had. I mean, I appreciate wanting to get better more than anyone, but, you guys’ve been playing with the boys and killing it.”
“Coach,” said Shembo, his entire body a silhouette with eyes against the hallway light. “Coach, it’s nothing wrong with the players. It’s something wrong with Coach Diaco.”
Kelly leaned back against the couch cushion, his eyes closed so as not to betray his emotion. “That’s a serious statement, guys. Why should I think something’s there when it’s not?”
Shembo began speaking, his eyes, too, fixed and distant. “Coach, if we did not think there was something very wrong, we would not be here. I have noticed a change… this season is different… and it’s not because of no Kap… no Manti… it’s nothing to do with who isn’t here, but everything to do with who IS here.”
“In Nigeria,” Shembo kept on, “there is a story of a woman with two skins… one beautiful… one ugly.”
Kelly opened his eyes. “Enough!” He stood, startled and angry. “Go to sleep! You’re both exhausted.”
While Smith scampered from the room, Shembo stared at Kelly and slowly turned, following his younger teammate in deliberate steps.
Kelly adjusted the towel around his waist and walked to the blinds, opening them to the growing light of day. “Jesus Christ. First it was a talking fish, now it’s the ju ju man of Nigeria.”
His fingers let the rod go and it clattered on the blinds. He stepped back, considering what his players told him and pondered his next moves.
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
DIACO IS A BODYSNATCHER.
I am sure there are a few Irish fans who would snatch his body if given the chance.