Chapter 5: The Cul-De-Sac On the Road to Damascus
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At the edge of the Grove, young Dash McDaniels watched as a man in the darkness talked to his mother’s silver serving tray. He had been trying to beat the rush for the Grove and claim a prime space by the “good tree” off the Walk of Champions for the first game of the season. Deciding a confrontation with a possibly unstable individual trumped the obligation to his family’s Grove real estate standing, Dash took the tent and returned to his car to wait for a better land grab opportunity.
Sweat on a sundress. Bourbon stains on a blue blazer. Finger foods sweating on meticulously decorated tabletops. These are the staples of the first football game of the year in Oxford. It was the first working gameday for Kent Austin since he played quarterback for the Rebels under Billy Brewer. Spread in front of him was a spider web of Post-It notes (off brand, in accordance with athletic department budget rules) representing the best play for every possible contingency. He’d spent the better part of the night devising the complex scheme and was in the process of copying the manic display into a notebook to take to the coaches’ box.
“AHAH!!!” Houston squealed as he burst wild-eyed into the office. He slammed a silver platter onto the table, scattering the yellow tabs. “By God, Kenny, it’s gameday! Can you feel that? HUH! Feel the GAMEDAY!”
“Coach…Coach Nutt…my gameplan—all my night’s work was on that table.”
“Well, now MY gameplan is on that table. Heh.”
“Coach, I am as big of a believer in positive thinking and the power of metaphors as anybody…but it’s no substitute for serious planning and strategy.”
“I don’t know what the heck you just babbled,” Houston tapped his finger on the plate. “But, this here’s our plays for today’s game.”
“A silver plate?”
“Well, obviously, I can’t just carry a silver plate down on the field. I’d look ridiculous. I copied down the plays from the plate onto this here pad.”
Houston flopped a yellow legal pad covered in barely intelligible scratch in front of Austin.
“There is every play we’re gonna call today in the order we’re gonna call ‘em.”
“Coach, this…this is….who did you, where did this come from?” Austin flipped through the pages.
“Right here.” Nutt tapped the silver platter.
“The plate told you what plays to write down?”
“Heck, no. The plate don’t talk. I just wrote down what was written on the plate.”
“I do not see anything written on that plate.”
“Well, course you don’t, now. You have to use the magic Coonass thinking dust. I was up all night writing it. I think I got enough to about cover two games in there.”
“Where did these plates come from?”
“God. God Almighty and Darren McFadden.”
Austin was overwhelmed.
“Now, take them plays up to the sissy booth. I want them called exactly in that order.”
“Coach Nutt, when I was hired, I was reassured that I would have a prevailing role in calling the plays used in the offense.”
“You are calling the plays.” Nutt tapped the pad Austin was holding. “These plays.”
“Coach Nutt, I’m your offensive coordinator, and I was assured…”
“God, in the form of a magical silver plate, is my offensive coordinator.”
“You are out of your mind.”
“Hey, you remember that time I started screaming ‘I got that wood!’ at the television cameras? Ha. I’m always doing crazy stuff like that. Even I don’t know what it means, but I’ll be gosh darned if it didn’t win some football games!”
“You never did that! That was Darren McFadden!”
“Ah, what do you know? You’re just the tight ends coach.”
“Excuse me? You can’t do that…”
“Equipment manager.”
“I won three Grey Cups, I’m not going to be your equipment…”
“Grass cutter.”
“We have artificial turf, Coach.”
“By golly, you just don’t know when to shut yer hole, Jerrell Powe jersey stuffer!”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means Jerrell Powe is fat and he cannot reach around far enough to tuck in his jersey, so you’re going to shove your hands down his pants and help him.”
Silence…
"And while you’ve got hold of him, make sure he isn’t hiding any food down there. I swear, that boy is sneaking candy bars when nobody’s lookin. When you’re done with that, get your pinko, maple leaf heiny up to that sissy booth with the rest ‘a the equipment managers and call those plays into the talky ear muffs.”
The first half was almost finished and so far, the offense had gone just as he had pictured it the night before while transcribing his visions from the reflection of the silver plate. Then, he saw an unfamiliar player grouping heading onto the field. He counted once…counted again, raising each finger on his left hand while muttering under his breath. Realizing something was wrong, he signaled to the referee for a timeout and screamed into his headset.
“What the HECK was THAT, Austin?”
“It was a five receiver spread with…”
“That Rebelwash is not from the danged SCRIPT! What’s the next thing on the script?”
“It says ‘The beaver growing out of my office wall says we should make pancakes with pulled pork in them.’”
“Well, that sounds delicious, but obviously, it’s not a play. Skip to the next play. What does the next play say?”
“…wild rebel…”
“WILD REBEL! Heck yes. The script comes through again.”
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