Jett
Baron DeBurg, the general manager of the Camels, walks into the team’s weight room during a workout.
He places his index finger over his lips, telling me to be quiet as he stealthily approaches Daylen from behind.
He places a finger gun into Daylen’s back.
“Freeze. You’re under arrest. Anything you say can and will be held against you. ”
“Boobs,” Daylen answers without missing a beat.
DeBurg chuckles. “Good one, Humblecut. You should see the tits I just bought my wife.” He holds out his hands like he’s squeezing them for everyone in the gym to see. A few of the guys laugh. I’m disgusted.
Daylen turns around and gives DeBurg a bro hug. “What’s up, big guy?”
DeBurg smirks. “Not much, little guy.”
DeBurg is more than a foot shorter than Daylen and probably weighs half what Daylen weighs. They’ve been doing their annoying big guy and little guy bit for years.
Put simply, DeBurg is a prototypical nerd with his horse face, perfectly parted, gel-saturated hair, and thick, dark glasses.
I’m pretty sure if he wasn’t worth over five hundred million dollars, he’d be a fifty-year-old virgin.
He recently married a Camels cheerleader who’s half his age.
A woman who is so obviously with him for his money that it’s almost comical.
And the idiot didn’t want a pre-nup. He said it wasn’t necessary because they’re in love. What a moron.
He’s a thorn in my side and has been for the six years he’s been the GM.
He’s not bad at his job, per se, but he never played football like so many other men who hold the same position in the league.
He doesn’t always get what it’s like to play this sport.
It’s not as easy as he often likes to think it is.
He’s a pencil pusher. If something looks good on paper, he thinks it automatically applies to the field.
“How’s married life treating you?” Daylen asks him.
DeBurg winks at him. “When you’ve got a hot piece of ass like I do, it’s great. Marrying a woman half your age is the only way to go. It’s tight pussy on demand,” he adds as he thrusts his hips over and over in an obscene manner.
I want to punch him in the face.
I see Daylen’s jaw tic in obvious annoyance. I’m surprised by that. He normally joins in on Baron’s crudeness.
Daylen uncharacteristically doesn’t respond. He turns and looks at me, practically begging me to intervene.
“Daylen, do me a favor and go spot Vance,” I instruct before turning my attention to the micro-sized weasel. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit down here in the dungeon, DeBurg?”
He grins, thinking I’m pleased to see him. Idiot.
“I was hoping to have a chat with you. Will you stop by my office before you head out for the night?”
I grind my teeth together. “Sure thing. Thanks for stopping by,” I add, hoping he takes that as his cue to leave.
After DeBurg finally exits the weight room, Daylen approaches me. “Thanks, Coach.” He scratches his unruly hair. “That guy is kind of a sexist prick.”
I view him skeptically. “You’re kind of a sexist prick.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Nah, I love the superior sex.”
“Are you fucking with me, Humblecut? Last time that dipshit was down here, I heard you ask him, ‘What did Snow White say to Pinocchio when she sat on his face?’”
“Lie to me.” Daylen lets out a laugh. “That’s a funny joke. It’s not sexist. And maybe I’m maturing.”
Why is he being so…normal? I look around. “Am I on camera?”
He shakes his head. “No, sir. I’m just hitting middle age, like you.”
“Does a trip to Costco excite you?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Do you get a thrill when someone gives you a loaf of sourdough bread?”
“No.”
“Did you have a Trapper Keeper in high school?”
He chuckles. “Nope. Don’t even know what that is.”
“Then you are not yet middle-aged. Get back to me when those things change.”
He laughs overly loudly. “You’re the funniest guy I know.
” His face turns serious. “Thanks for the save. DeBurg is annoying. And for what it’s worth, I would never marry someone for superficial reasons like him, and I would never talk about my wife the way he talks about his.
” He swallows nervously. “Wives should be respected, right?”
I nod in agreement, but I’m finding his behavior to be extremely bizarre. “You alright, Humblecut? Are you sick?”
He chuckles. “No, Coach. Like everyone else, I’m just figuring out what I do and don’t want in life. I know I don’t want to be like DeBurg,” he says with what appears to be sincerity.
I slap him on the back, hopeful that maybe he is, in fact, maturing. “Glad to hear it.”
A few hours later, DeBurg walks into my office as I’m reviewing a few possible formations I’ve been considering now that we have more options on the pass plays. “I thought you were coming by,” he whines like a baby.
I exhale a long breath. “You said to stop by on my way out. I’m still here.” You fucking dipshit.
“Right.” He points to a chair. “May I sit?”
I nod. “Feel free.”
He eases down into one of the two chairs in front of my desk before leaning back and steepling his fingers. “Why do you think we’ve underachieved in the playoffs the past few years?”
“A breakdown in our defense,” I respond without hesitation. “Between injuries and a lack of personnel, we can’t seem to prevent other teams from scoring.”
He nods. “I agree. I think it’s time to make some changes in that regard.”
“We signed a few guys who will help,” I offer. “With Fudd leading the charge and a better supporting cast, I think things will be better this coming season.”
He’s silent.
“You obviously have something to say,” I grit out. “Get on with it.”
He clears his throat. He’s nervous to tell me whatever it is he’s about to reveal. I’m not going to like this.
“We’re in negotiations for a blockbuster trade with San Diego,” he announces with a shaky voice.
“Okay. Who are we giving them and who are we getting?”
He goes on to give me the names of San Diego’s three best defensive players. Three players who would immediately impact our defense in the best way possible.
I take it all in, knowing there must be a huge cost for players like them. “What would we be giving up in said trade?”
He licks his lips nervously. “McCaffrey.”
“What?” I scream as I stand. “You don’t fucking trade the best quarterback in the sport. Are you fucking nuts? Over my cold, dead body.”
His shoulders fall. “He’s on the back end of his career. We can get a lot of young talent for him now while he’s still functional.”
“Functional? He’s a first-team All-Pro quarterback.
He’s the face of the franchise. He’s the offensive leader.
He’s the reason we win games.” I point at him.
“You trade McCaffrey, my resignation will follow within the hour. I will not coach this team without Vance. For fuck’s sake, we can’t win a Super Bowl without him. ”
“Would you stake your career on that?” he immediately fires back in challenge.
“You bet your fucking ass I would, you pencil-pushing fuckwit. You hide behind your money and your desk. You don’t have the first fucking clue what it takes to win a Super Bowl.
” I press my finger to my chest. “I do. I’ve done it.
I’ve done it for the Camels as a player, and I’ll do it again as a coach, but only with Vance McCaffrey as my quarterback.
I will not coach this team with anyone else at the helm. ”
He takes a few long breaths like he’s calming himself down. “I’ll tell you what, Coach. I’ll quash the trade. You can keep McCaffrey, but if you don’t win it all this year, you’re both out.”
I plop down in my chair, completely flabbergasted by the disloyalty of the organization I’ve called home for twenty years, both as a player and as a coach.
I clench my jaw. “Just so I’m clear, there are only two options? We trade Vance, and I keep my job no matter what; or we keep Vance, and if we don’t win a Super Bowl, you’ll fire me and trade him?”
He nods. “Yes. There are only two options here. In the first scenario, you’re guaranteed job security. In the second, you’re likely gone at the end of this season.” He smiles like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he didn’t just tilt my world off axis.
I stare at him. “If we win, we’re both safe, right? He’ll play here until he chooses to retire?”
“I suppose.”
“Do I have your word on that?” I wince. “Actually, will you put that in writing? Your word means shit to me.”
He scoffs. “You can’t seriously be considering keeping him. You’ll lose your job.”
“Only if we lose. If we win, we both keep our jobs.”
He rolls his eyes. “Correct, but that’s a long shot with our current defense, and you know it.”
I hold out my hand for him to shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal. McCaffrey stays, we win it all, and he retires a Camel whenever the fuck he feels like it.”
“Jett—”
“You told me I have two options,” I bark at him. “I’m taking option two.”
I can’t believe he thought I’d save my own ass at Vance’s expense. Only a bottom dweller like him would do that.
He reluctantly shakes my hand. “Fine. You’re committing career suicide, but it’s your decision to make.”
“Yes, it is. Now get the fuck out of my office and let me do my job.”
Despite the unseasonably cold late spring night, I’m sitting at the outdoor dining table in my backyard, my happy place, with a freshly opened bottle of Cabernet, as I try to absorb the magnitude of what was said to me tonight.
Over twenty years of my life devoted to an organization that’s willing to cast me aside without a second thought. The sacrifices I’ve made for them. My marriage. My children. My happiness. And it’s not like we’ve had any losing seasons. We just haven’t won the big game during my tenure as coach.
Despite how I’m being treated, I can’t seem to focus on anyone other than Vance. He’s given everything of himself. Everything that has been asked of him. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. He has so much more to lose than I do.