“Right … I mean I love how you are … as a coach … and role model … and stuff like that.”
“Right. Role models are like friends. They’re both good.”
He was definitely mocking me now, and I knew I had to save face and say something of substance. Somehow justify my drunken proclamation.
“I think you’re great,” I said, sure that my face was now crimson. “I mean everyone thinks you’re great. But I really think you’re great. And that’s all I meant …”
“I think you’re great, too, Shea,” he said. “You’re a great girl with a big heart and a good head on your shoulders. Don’t waste either, okay?”
I nodded, my heart and mind racing.
“And you have to hang in there with Smiley,” he said. “I think he might give this Texas beat to another guy … with more experience … But … I have a feeling another beat is opening up soon … So just be patient, okay?”
“I will,” I said, feeling a wave of disappointment.
“One more thing,” he said, giving me a coy smile. “On the subject of our little stiff-armed friend …”
“Yeah?” I said, knowing that he was referring to the Heisman Trophy.
“The other night … You didn’t mention John Huarte. No way in hell he should have beaten out Rhome and Butkus.”
“They were rewarding Coach Parseghian,” I said, conjuring the ’64 season that I had only read about. “For turning around Notre Dame’s program.”
“But the award shouldn’t have anything to do with coaching,” he said.
“I disagree,” I said. “The two are inextricably bound.”
Coach adamantly shook his head. “I could be wrong,” he said. “But I’m not.”
I smiled at his familiar expression, then stood to go.
“You’re wrong about Salaam, too,” he said suddenly. “He was that rare two-thousand-yard rusher. You gotta give it to him.”
“But Ki-Jana had better stats on fewer carries against Big Ten defenses,” I argued. “And McNair? C’mon. He was the best in the long run.”
“In the long run? You’re viewing it retrospectively. You can’t do that. The vote happens at the end of the regular season. Even before bowl games. You have to make these decisions on the facts that you have at the time,” Coach Carr said. “I might change some decisions if I had more time to evaluate them.”
I stared at him, unable to fathom Coach making a bad decision, at least one of any import. I said as much, adding, “Even the media thinks you’re perfect.”
“Hardly,” he said, then took a breath, as if he was about to say something serious. Instead, he shook his head and simply said, “I’m far from perfect. You know that, girl.”
I nodded, thinking that might be true, but that he came pretty damn close.
Over the next few months, I transformed into an assertive version of myself, determined to make headway in both my professional and my personal life, rather than languish in the stifling Texas heat as I typically did every summer.
When I didn’t hear back from Smiley, I dropped him an email, telling him how very much I hoped to join his staff. And I shamelessly pursued Ryan, who had reported to the Cowboys’ training camp in Oxnard, California. If anything, the long distance made me bolder, our friendly texting banter quickly turning racy. One night, he wrote to tell me that he couldn’t wait to see me again, then detailed everything that was going to happen to me when he did. I typed back that I was more excited about that than the start of the college football season. He shot a smiley face back, saying that those were some mighty big words coming from a girl like me.
He was sure right about that, as I was nothing short of obsessed with football in that final countdown to August and the official start of practice. In addition to my usual duties at Walker, which included preparing our media guide and fielding interview requests from all over the country, I spent my free time reading anything and everything I could find about the upcoming season. I memorized depth charts, devoured blogs with preseason projections, and scoured message boards with posts from other diehards. The consensus was clear: this was Walker’s year. And that was just on paper. When you took into account the emotional intangible of losing Mrs. Carr, how much the players wanted to win a championship for Coach, there was no getting around the feeling that we were a team of destiny.
Unfortunately, this also made us the team to beat. The team to come gunning for—in more ways than one, I discovered one day when I saw a strange woman emerge from the office of Ernie Galli, our compliance officer. I said hello, but she only gave me an icy gaze back, as I observed her Aqua Net helmet hair, severe suit, and hard briefcase. In short, everything about her screamed “investigator.”