The One And Only Part 9

"Yeah?" I said, knowing that he was referring to the Heisman Trophy.

"The other night ... You didn't mention John Huarte. No way in h.e.l.l he should have beaten out Rhome and Butkus."

"They were rewarding Coach Pa.r.s.eghian," 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 d.a.m.n close.

Over the next few months, I transformed into an a.s.sertive 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 champions.h.i.+p 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 h.e.l.lo, 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."

I headed straight for my boss's office, looked J.J. in the eye, and said, "Is the NCAA on our campus?"

He leaned back in his desk chair and said, "Why? What have you heard?"

"Nothing," I said. "But I saw that woman. She's with the NCAA, isn't she?"

J.J. nodded, looking grim.

"Are we in trouble?" I asked.

J.J. abandoned his usual punctilious ways and said, "I hope not, but that broad's definitely out to get us." He then gave me the scoop-that the NCAA had received reasonably substantial information indicating possible violations and was now conducting a preliminary investigation.

"Investigating us for what?"

J.J. shrugged. "You name it ... Recruiting allegations, drug allegations, eligibility and academic allegations."

"Where did these allegations come from? Someone in Austin, no doubt?"

"Exactly," J.J. said. "Apparently the most pressing rumor is that some shady real estate guy in Cincinnati came down to Louisville a few weeks before Signing Day and took Rhodes and his friends out on a five-star bender."

"Can a bender be five-star?" I asked.

"Good point. Maybe not. They went to steak houses and strip clubs. So what's that? Three and a half stars?"

I smiled and said, "So? Since when are steaks and strippers against the rules?"

"Well, I guess that joker went to Walker for a year or two before dropping out. And he held himself out as a d.a.m.n ..." He searched for the right word.

I offered him a quote from Jerry Maguire, one of my favorite movies. "Amba.s.sador of quan?"

J.J. laughed and said, "Yeah. And then, according to the NCAA, he showed Reggie the money."

"Do you think it's true?" I asked.

"I don't know. But I don't think it's a coincidence that the accusations are flying this year," J.J. said. "When we're going to be really good."

"Exactly." I nodded. "Have you talked to Coach?"

J.J. shook his head. "Nope. Far as I know, n.o.body has discussed it with him yet. Not in depth, anyway."

"Good. He has enough on his mind without worrying about this bulls.h.i.+t," I said, thinking that there was no way that Coach was involved in anything shady.

Eleven.

On the first weekend of August, right before practice began for the season, Lucy invited my mother and me to Lake LBJ with her, Neil, Caroline, Lawton, and Coach. The Carrs had a beautiful home there, high on a wooded bluff with gorgeous views of the blue-green water. Growing up, Lucy and I had gone there often, spending our summer days sunbathing on their private pier or tooling around in the pontoon boat or reading in the hammock on the screened-in back porch. But I hadn't gone since Mrs. Carr got sick, and I was a little surprised to get the invite this year, thinking that their family would want to be alone.

But Lucy insisted that we were family, and then referenced football, making a comment about how she couldn't speak her father's language. Twice since her birthday she had asked me to give her the rundown of our roster, especially our recruits, whom she couldn't seem to keep straight. I had offered to make her flash cards, and she said it wasn't a bad idea, marveling over how her mother had managed to memorize every player. I wanted to tell her football wasn't a ch.o.r.e, and it really wasn't that hard, but she probably felt the same about my inability to keep track of her fas.h.i.+on or foodie parlance.

In any event, my mother and I drove up Sat.u.r.day morning, giving the Carrs one night alone. When we arrived, Coach and Lawton were walking up from the water with their fis.h.i.+ng poles. Wearing matching khaki shorts, Walker T-s.h.i.+rts, and flip-flops, they looked more like father and son than they usually did, Lawton favoring Connie's side of the family with his fine bones, narrow face, and blond hair.

"Hey, girl! Hi, Marie!" Coach said. "Glad you could join us." He looked relaxed and content, which was the way he usually was up here. He often said it was his favorite place, other than our football stadium, and I remember Connie once saying that it was the only spot on Earth where he managed to spend some waking hours not thinking about football. At least as far as she knew; I had my doubts about that, although it seemed clear he wasn't troubled by the NCAA investigation, his voice chipper and light.

My mother and I said h.e.l.lo, and we gave Lawton, whom we hadn't seen since the spring game, a big hug. Then we all went inside, where Neil was putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on lunch-his trademark tomato pie, along with a Bibb lettuce and radish salad, and strawberry shortcake.

When we sat down to eat, Coach Carr said a quick prayer, which Lucy told me later was the first time he'd said grace in a long while. "Dear Lord," he began. "We thank you for our many blessings and this place that Connie so loved. We feel her presence with us today and are so grateful for the many wonderful memories we shared. Lord, please watch over us all and keep us safe in your care. Amen. Go Broncos."

When I opened my eyes, Coach Carr looked calm and strong. He glanced around the table and said, "It's true. I know she's smiling up there. So happy we're here together. And even happier because ..." I held my breath, feeling reverent. "Because she knows that I am going to kick your b.u.t.ts in Trivial Pursuit tonight. Who wants to be on my team?"

"I do," I blurted out. We had always played games at the lake-backgammon, chess, euchre, Uno, Pictionary. But Trivial Pursuit had been our favorite for two decades, and Coach Carr was right; he almost always won, regardless of his partner. I was the second best player, though, almost never missing in literature and sports.

"No way," Lucy said. "You two can't be together. It's not fair. You're both too good."

"That's what Baylor's saying about Everclear and Rhodes right about now," I said, glancing at Coach.

"Dad-blame right," he said, then gave me a high-five.

Later that night, after Lucy had put Caroline to bed, and the wine and beer and Trivial Pursuit game board came out, we drew numbers out of Coach's baseball cap to select teams. I mentally crossed my fingers, as Lucy and my mother both got threes, Neil and Lawton drew twos, and Coach and I got the ones.

"Naturally," Coach said, winking and then whispering loud enough for everyone to hear, "Number one."

Lucy rolled her eyes as Coach and I, in unison, claimed the blue wheel, closest to Walker teal.

"OmiG.o.d, you're the same person! My best friend and father are the same person," Lucy said, shaking her head.

Coach took a sip of beer and said, "Shea's a little prettier than I am."

I knew he was kidding but felt myself blush, and I only got more fl.u.s.tered when he switched seats with Lawton to be next to me. I looked down, busying myself with the cards, dividing one box into three stacks. I gave one to Lawton, another to Lucy, and kept the third, then handed Lucy the die and said, "You go first. You need every advantage."

"Ha," Lucy said, as she rolled. After a string of ridiculously easy questions that culminated in the entertainment wedge, my mother and Lucy faltered on "How many colors are there in a rainbow?" (Answer: "More than the eye can see").

Then Neil and Lawton were stymied on a World War I question about Austria.

It was our turn, and, right out of the gate, we were kicking b.u.t.t and taking names, gathering three quick wedges. There was no gloating, though, as we both became laser-focused, just the way Coach is during games, not even smiling when we threw up a total Hail Mary and nailed an answer on the leading world exporter of bananas (Ecuador).

"Y'all are so smug," Lawton said, our silence almost p.i.s.sing them off more.

"Don't hate the player," I said, smirking. "Or the Coach."

Coach Carr held up a fist and b.u.mped it against mine.

"Sickening," Lucy said, shaking her head. "And good luck getting a pink. You two are clueless when it comes to entertainment."

"We'll see about that," Coach Carr said, rolling the die and landing on pink. "When in doubt, go with Cyndi Lauper," he said to me.

I smiled as Lawton read the question: "Who once warned: 'Never eat more than you can lift'?" I knew the answer, only because I had gotten it before, years ago, and gave Coach Carr a slight brow raise along with a look that said, Bingo, baby.

"You'll never in a million years get this one," Lawton said, pa.s.sing the card around to Lucy, then Neil and my mom. They all mugged at the answer, taunting us as Coach and I pretended to brainstorm.

"Must be a really thin movie star," I said, musing aloud. "Audrey Hepburn, maybe. Princess Diana ... Farrah Fawcett?"

Coach Carr played along, murmuring, "Then again, maybe it's a heavier star? Like Nell Carter or Roseanne Barr?"

"Or maybe ... maybe it's ... a chubby puppet. Or even a Muppet! Such as Miss Piggy ..." I winked at him.

"Miss Piggy?" Coach deadpanned as I nodded. "Yes. We're going Miss Piggy."

"You. Dirty. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Lawton said, throwing down the card.

Coach and I clinked our bottles of s.h.i.+ner Bock, followed by another fist b.u.mp. Then we rolled and landed on science. Our next question: "Do porcupines m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e?"

Coach and I exchanged a look. "Let's see ... I bet boy porcupines do," he said.

I laughed. "Well, I bet the girls do, too."

"I bet you're right," Coach said, turning to my mom. "Okay. We're going with yes."

"Is that your final answer?" she said, a rookie tactic that we didn't dignify with a reply.

My mom shook her head and handed us our green wedge. "Ridiculous."

"Ridiculous that porcupines m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e? Or that we're about to win this thing," he said, glancing at his watch, "in under an hour?"

I rolled the die again, moving to history. "What did the first Spanish dog to be fitted with contact lenses not see the day after the fitting?" Lawton read.

"The car that killed 'em," Coach said. "Bam."

"Oh. It's a pity," I said.

"What's that, girl?" Coach said.

"That we still need the orange to win," I said, referring to the sports category.

"Yeah," Coach said, shaking his head. "That's going to be really, really difficult for us."

I grinned and rolled as we got two more answers, then landed on orange. Coach looked at Lawton and said, "Fire away."

Lawton read to himself, then shook his head and said, "Unbelievable."

"Read it," Coach said. "And then weep."

"Who won the Heisman Trophy in 1964?"

Coach gave me a knowing look that made me melt, then said to Lawton, "Wait. Was the question 'Who won the trophy?' Or 'Who should have won the trophy?' "

Coach nudged my leg under the table, and I got a tingly feeling inside.

"Who won it," Lawton clarified, obviously not getting our inside joke.

Coach picked up an orange wedge. "Shea? I'm drawing a blank. Do you know this one?"

"Hmm. Was it Butkus? ... Or maybe Rhome?" I mused aloud. "Or Brian Piccolo? He graduated in 'sixty-four, didn't he?"

Coach shrugged and said he couldn't for the life of him remember what happened that year.

Lawton looked hopeful until I blurted out, "Actually ... I think we'll go with John Huarte."

"Are you sure?" Lawton said, his face falling.