Smiley nodded but looked dubious. It irked me enough to say, “I’d also ask something about how often he dropped eight into coverage and went with three down linemen when we’re used to seeing him bring more pressure to passing teams.”
Smiley adjusted his cap and said, “And that answer would be …?”
“Well, my answer is that the Aggies have a very strong receiving corps. So it was a simple matter of matching coverages and having to drop out of our nickel package. That’s why you saw three down linemen more frequently today.” I stared at him. “But that’s my answer. If you want Coach Carr’s answer, I guess you need to ask him yourself. I don’t ask questions—I pass out stat sheets.” I almost softened my statement with a smile, but decided against it.
Smiley gave me a long stare, then handed me a business-size envelope with my name typed on the front. “Ms. Rigsby, here is a formal offer letter to join my staff. You don’t have the requisite experience, but you know this game and you’re a good writer. Not great, but good. I’m taking a big chance on you. Please let me know by Monday morning.”
Before I could reply, he walked briskly back to his usual folding chair in the front row, left corner, next to Kenny Stone, his longtime reporter on the Walker beat. I looked down at the envelope, shook my head, and allowed myself a small, jubilant smile. Meanwhile, Coach Carr entered the room with Rhodes and Everclear, the three of them walking stoically and in single file up to the skirted table covered with microphones. The room quieted and the cameras rolled as Coach addressed the media, making his standard post-win remarks. Our boys showed up today. I’m proud of them. The Aggies gave us a tough fight. They’re a great team. But things went our way, and I’m pleased with that. Then he opened it up for questions, and Smiley’s hand shot up. Coach called on him, and Smiley’s gruff voice fired back. “Coach. Can you tell us why we saw so many situations with three down linemen tonight?”
I was surprised to hear my question, a little less so when Coach’s answer also followed my script. I watched as Smiley furiously scribbled, then turned, looked over his shoulder at me, and gave me a covert and shocking thumbs-up. Against all odds, I was finally in the club.
Fourteen
After the game, I met up with Lucy and Neil at the Third Rail, a little hole-in-the-wall bar on North Potomac known for its amazing wings and great jukebox filled with both old and new country, everything from Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash to Taylor Swift and Sugarland. It had been our go-to spot for years, and I considered it a small miracle and one of life’s simple joys that it had never been hijacked by drunken coeds, redneck townies, or cougars on the prowl, the three groups that seemed to overrun every other halfway-decent bar or restaurant in town. Miller and I had once brainstormed theories on the subject, concluding that the Third Rail had a series of small strikes against it: bad parking, its proximity to the police station, and an Arkansas-alum owner named Chuck, who steadfastly refused to change the channel on the lone television near the bar if his team was playing. The flaws served us well, though, as even on home game weekends, the bar was never packed and always had a chill vibe. It also happened to be Coach Carr’s favorite spot, likely because Chuck and Coach were tight, and Chuck had given Coach a permanent table on reserve in the back room. Someone had even etched a ccc—for Coach Clive Carr—into the grainy wood with a pocketknife.
That night was slightly livelier than usual, a handful of twenty-somethings sprinkled in with the older regulars. Sara Evans was singing “A Little Bit Stronger” on the jukebox, the Arkansas game was just wrapping up, and there was, to my relief, no sign of Miller or his friends. In the six or so months since we broke up, I’d yet to run into him, which was a small miracle in a town this size. I bought a Blue Moon on tap, spotting Lucy and Neil in the back corner playing pool. As I approached them, I paused to watch Lucy take her turn, amused by her awkward stance, her elbows jutted out at weird angles. I had tried to offer her tips in the past, but she steadfastly refused to acknowledge basic geometry. It was almost as if she sucked on purpose, believing that prowess in both pool and darts was inversely proportional to femininity. A second later, she completely whiffed an easy shot.
“What are we playing?” I quipped, walking up behind her. “Loser takes all?”
“Lazy Shea-zy!” Lucy spun around and exclaimed, my ancient nickname earned by sitting on the couch and watching football all day long. She threw her arms around my neck and squealed that she was so happy to see me. Lucy was a complete lightweight drinker and could get buzzed from one beer, but I estimated that she was further in than that. They had definitely been here for a while. She handed me her cue and said, “Will you take over for me? I suck at this sport.”