Knights of Andreas 4.07: Coaches Anonymous

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Knights of Andreas

Part IV

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Chapter Forty-Eight – Coaches Anonymous

 

 

 

The fourth quarter begins with the Edward Jones Dome atmosphere akin to a library. Tonight’s Thursday Night Football game between the 3-6 Rams and 6-3 Knights has been ripe with turnovers, poor execution, sloppy play, and a lack of excitement.

 

From the edge of the sideline, Coach Harden crosses his arms with a stern look on his face, not hiding how disgusted he is with his team. By the mercy of how awful the Rams are, they cling to a 12-10 lead.

 

The Rams have the ball, and the usual bullshit continues. Third string quarterback Shaun Hill, making his second start of the year, looks terrible initially, then finds an open receiver on third down thanks to a coverage breakdown. Harden doesn’t know what St. Louis’ third down percentage is tonight, but it feels like they’ve converted every time.

 

The Rams reach midfield, facing third and nine. Out of pure frustration, Harden calls an all-out blitz, which Hill nearly escapes before being tripped up by Randall. In his ear, Harden hears assistants upstairs tell him two receivers were open on that play. He doesn’t care.

 

The Knights take the field pinned deep in their own territory. The offense has found ways to move the ball, mostly in the first half, but red zone ineptitude capped their production at four field goals, something Harden is getting tired of. This is two weeks in a row without finding the end zone. He knows they’re limited with Buchanan, but fuck McKenzie. He needs to make something happen.

 

The Knights get a few first downs, escaping their own red zone, but are soon forced to punt when Buchanan overthrows a covered receiver.

 

The Rams get the ball back but only manage one first down, so the Knights take over with 7:18 to go.

 

McKenzie finally starts running the ball out of the shotgun (“About time, Mac,” Harden says.) and Jameson finds open lanes for the first time tonight. The Knights move the ball and milk the clock, reaching field goal range with under four minutes left.

 

The Rams tighten up, forcing third and eight. McKenzie goes for the win, calling a shot to the end zone, but Buchanan’s pass sails over Wilkes’ head. The field goal unit comes on for a forty-yard attempt with 2:45 to go. McCabe lines up the kick and shanks it wide left.

 

McKenzie throws down his headset, bouncing off the grass awkwardly. He catches a glance of Harden, who looks beyond pissed. It’s not McKenzie’s fault McCabe missed, but he knows better than to defend himself.

 

Harden goes back to his defense in the two-minute drill, left to defend only a two-point lead. The Rams, naturally, find rhythm on offense, leaving the Knights to face, with every first down, the increasing possibility of back-to-back losses.

 

The Rams burn both remaining timeouts, reaching the Knights’ forty-three with 0:28 to go. Consecutive deflections by Rose and Flash bring up fourth and ten with 0:18 left, a potential sixty-yard kick. The Rams leave the field goal unit on the sideline, so the Knights prepare for a Hail Mary.

 

Hill takes the snap and rolls right. Everybody is covered deep. Hill runs back toward the middle, defenders closing in, and flips the ball to Tavon Austin, nine yards from a first down. Austin accelerates, running sideways, and jukes multiple defenders into open space. He spins around a few more and dives ahead, getting the first down at the thirty-yard line.

 

Harden watches in utter shock as Hill hurries everyone to the line and spikes the ball with one second left. He removes his headset, ready to yell at every human on his side of the field. The Rams line up for a forty-seven-yard kick, and Harden refrains from using a timeout, finding the concept of icing the kicker useless.

 

The kick sails high, clearly long enough, and bangs off the upright. The ball lands in the end zone, and the officials signal no good. With no flags, the game ends, and the Knights win.

 

The small amount of relief Harden feels is instantly eradicated by the team celebrating around him, as if they just won the fucking Super Bowl. Harden shakes hands with Coach Fisher and suffers through multiple post-game interviews before finally reaching the locker room.

 

He enters a jubilant atmosphere filled with lots of cameras and microphones, his first target. He shoos them away, trying to make it clear they won’t be capturing any post-game speeches tonight. The cameramen hesitate, and Harden doesn’t have any patience.

 

“OUT!” he screams. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

 

The journalists run for cover and the locker room goes dead quiet. Harden paces through the center, staring at his players menacingly.

 

“Wipe those fucking smiles off your faces. We don’t deserve victory tonight. That may well have been our worst game of the year, men. And I don’t want to hear any fucking excuses. ‘Well, we had a short week.’ ‘Well, it was two road trips in a row.’ Fuck you! You know which teams make excuses? The one who don’t win Super Bowls.”

 

He pauses, trying to see if his message is resonating. He’s not sure, so he goes ahead with his plan.

 

“So guess what? Tomorrow’s off day? Practice. Eight am.”

 

Players groan, and a few helmets hit the floor.

 

“I swear to God I hear any bitching, and I’ll make it seven. Anybody goes to the union and complains, I’ll fine your ass. Let me make myself clear: each and every one of you owes big time after the shitstorm I just watched.”

 

Harden walks off, not intending on spending any more time around anyone associated with the Knights.

 

 

 

After the bus ride to the airport, flight to Los Angeles, and drive home, Merle walks through the front door just after midnight California time. He ignores everything in the house except a dirty glass on the kitchen counter, fills it with whiskey, and heads to the porch.

 

He takes a few good swigs to get things started and fires up the radio. He wants to forget about the terrible performance in St. Louis, and the crushing loss in Seattle four days ago, but he does not want to forget football altogether.

 

“Brad Neeman here, for Firebirds Radio, and it’s the night we’ve all been waiting for, folks! The North Dakota AA State Championship Game, between our Firebirds of Devil’s Lake High School and the Blue Jays of Jamestown High School.”

 

1986. It all came together that year. Merle had a strong senior class, decent quarterback, and a defense that could execute his scheme to damn near perfection. The Firebirds annihilated most of the teams they played and entered the state championship with a 13-0 record.

 

“…He’s back to pass, the Firebirds blitz, he’s under pressure, down he goes! The Blue Jays open the game by going three and out, and this Devil’s Lake defense picks up right where it left off…”

 

“…Parker drops back, looking, looking, throws to the end zone…caught! Touchdown, Firebirds! They score first and this crowd is absolutely insane!…”

 

That was a hell of a first quarter. The Firebirds came out in control, and the Devil’s Lake fans were screaming right behind the sideline. Merle’s never experienced anything like it since.

 

“…Blue Jays still trailing, 14-7. Here’s a play-action pass, he’s under pressure, dumps it off to the running back. He is hit immediately! What a hit! Oh, folks, that was a monster tackle!...”

 

Come to think of it, that ’86 Firebirds team reminds Merle of this year’s Knights team, with a defense that beat the hell out of opponents and a quarterback who was just good enough.

 

“…So this is it! The Blue Jays need a forty-yard Hail Mary to force overtime, or this one’s a wrap. Here’s the snap, the Firebirds blitz, he’s rolling out, gets off a pass, headed toward the end zone…incomplete! Incomplete! That’s it! That’s it! It’s over! The Firebirds have won the state championship!”

 

Merle can remember every detail: walking to midfield, the quick handshake, linemen carrying him on their shoulders…then meeting Melinda on the field, hugging and kissing her. Celebrating together.

 

 

 

He’s not sure where he is or what he’s doing, and his eyes struggle adjusting to the brightness. Figures start clearing up, and daylight surrounds him on the porch.

 

“Shit, what time is it?”

 

Merle staggers up, head piercing with pain, and glances at the nearest clock: 7:28.

 

“Fuck me.”

 

It’ll take a miracle to get to MedComm by eight, and there’s no time for coffee. Only one solution, Merle hobbles to the kitchen, grabs the flask of whiskey, and downs a good shot and a half, straining every muscle in his body to prevent himself from puking.

 

He speeds down the highway, darting through as many cars as possible, trying to cut time. The headache doesn’t go away, forcing Merle to rummage through the car at stoplights, desperate for anything liquid. The only thing he finds is an empty water bottle, months (maybe years) old.

 

He gets off the highway, turns a corner, and can already see players on the field. He checks the time: 8:02.

 

He slams on the brakes in his parking spot and jogs through the main lobby, thankfully empty. He races through the locker room and onto the field, happy to see the entire team already mid-workout. A few players catch glances of him but don’t break from their sprints. As soon as McKenzie sees him, he beelines for the coach, looking frantic.

 

“Merle, what the fuck?” McKenzie says, muting his voice. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted them to do, so I went with suicides. You don’t answer your phone?”

 

Harden feels his pockets, finding only keys and a wallet. “Must have left it at home.”

 

“So we—wait, are those the same clothes you wore at the game last night?”

 

“Fuck off, Mac.”

 

McKenzie wants to say more, but he catches a whiff of a pungent odor he recognizes immediately, and lets it go.

 

Harden assumes control of the practice field and makes players continue running suicides. He is told that all players are in attendance and were on time. He can tell the players want to ask why he’s late, but he knows they won’t. It’s an unusually hot Friday for November, and Harden starts sweating as much as his players, even though he’s not running suicides.

 

Soon, the team breaks off into positional groups, working on specific drills handpicked by Harden. He references poor play from last night as each group gets going. As Harden watches over the linebackers, he eyes up tables being set up on the sideline with water coolers on top of them.

 

“Dammit, Sean, keep your goddamn hips square!” Harden yells. “Keep going, men, I’ll be right back. Briggs, take charge.”

 

The coach heads for the sideline as the linebackers keep working.

 

“Man, this is total bullshit,” Brock says.

 

“We deserve it,” Randall says. “Just keep going.”

 

“Speak for yourself.”

 

“Ok guys, stop for a second.” Everybody rests, and Randall looks toward the water coolers. “If we didn’t play so shitty last night we wouldn’t be in this—whoa, coach! Coach!”

 

Harden appears to go limp on the edge of the field and falls sideways. His body contorts awkwardly as he hits the grass, and everybody runs toward him.

 

A few players get him sitting upright, his face pale as a ghost. Others fill a cup with cold water and put it in his hands.

 

“Get back to work, you pussies,” Harden says, clearly out of breath.

 

Randall turns to a few other teammates and whispers, “Anybody else smell that?” A few players nod.

 

“Come with us, coach,” Phillips says, wading through the crowd with Dr. Evans close behind. “Let’s check you out.”

 

“I’m fine, goddamn it,” Harden says.

 

“Coach McKenzie, take over practice, please.”

 

Harden realizes Phillips isn’t backing down, and he doesn’t have the energy to spar with him, so he goes along.

 

The scene returns to relative normalcy and players resume drills. During breaks, however, conversations pop up and chatter spreads throughout the team.

 

After an hour, with Harden still inside the facility, McKenzie announces a ten-minute break, and everyone grabs a drink of water. Of the many congregations that form, one includes most of the starting defense.

 

Randall: “You guys smelled it, right?”

 

Brock: “Whiskey or bourbon, I’d say.”

 

Bishop: “So what do you guys think?”

 

Brock: “Man, if coach drank a little before practice, who cares? Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done it.”

 

Martin: “That’s shocking, coming from you.”

 

Grantzinger: “I’m actually with Brock on this one. So the coach is having a bad day. No big deal if it’s a one-time thing.”

 

Luck: “It’s not a one-time thing.”

 

Everyone freezes and faces Luck, who explains how he accidentally tasted Harden’s iced coffee a week ago, in the auditorium, and it tasted spiked with something.

 

At this point, McKenzie is close enough to hear most of the conversation. He works his way closer without being conspicuous.

 

Brock: “Okay, so it’s a two-time thing?”

 

Randall: “I’ve never noticed him like this on game day, has anyone else?”

 

Bishop: “So how regular a thing is it, then? We know—”

 

McKenzie becomes visible amongst the congregation, and everything goes quiet.

 

“I hear you talking to each other,” he says. “Now talk to me.”

 

“You first, coach,” Randall says. Everyone looks wide-eyed at Randall’s unprecedented subordination. “No disrespect, but you’ve known him longer than us, right? If there’s something we deserve to know here…”

 

McKenzie looks at the players, genuinely not sure how to respond, eventually noticing that the entire team is now listening.

 

 

 

Harden sits in a chair in the second floor hallway, just outside Schneider’s office. It’s a little before noon now, and the players are still resting through what has been a disaster of a practice day so far. Harden feels better, feels energy returning to him, but he still can’t shake the headache. He needs a cold shower and some aspirin.

 

“Merle, come in,” Phillips says, opening the doorway.

 

Harden walks in and sees a small crowd: Phillips, Schneider, Evans, McKenzie. He crosses his arms.

 

“So, what’s the deal?”

 

“You know what the deal is, Merle,” Phillips says. “Dr. Evans says you’re dehydrated, and we don’t need him to tell us your breath smells like alcohol.”

 

“I had a few drinks last night when I got home. Wasn’t exactly a comforting football game, which is why I’m trying to—”

 

“Did you have any drinks this morning?”

 

Harden pauses and looks around. “I don’t appreciate being cornered like this. If something needs to be said here, let’s get it over with.”

 

Phillips and Schneider look at McKenzie, and Harden sizes up the situation, figuring he’s told them everything.

 

“Never figured you for a rat, Mac. You told them?”

 

“He didn’t have to,” Schneider says. “With all due respect, coach, you’ve got a reputation. A reputation that has gone unchecked because it’s never caused problems. Until now. So we’re going to be proactive about this and not let it linger.”

 

“When I get stressed, I like to have a drink just as much as the next guy. You’re all overreacting. There’s no problem here.”

 

Schneider steps forward. “Acceptance is the first—”

 

“Don’t give me twelve fucking steps, goddamn it! Let me make this easy for you. I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t have a problem with booze, but I do have a problem with this bullshit distracting me from my football team. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a practice to run.”

 

Harden ignores Phillips’ beckoning and struts down the hallway. He pushes the button for the elevator, gets tired of waiting, and staggers down the stairs. He cuts through the locker room toward the field and—

 

The sight freezes him. The entire football team stands in the locker room, facing their head coach, still in pads, helmets off.

 

“What in the holy fuck is this?” Harden says.

 

“Something we have to do, coach,” Penner says. He stands at the front of the crowd next to the lead captains, Randall and Maverick, dressed in street clothes.

 

“That’s right,” Randall says. “We’re a team. That means we look out for each other, players and coaches.”

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Harden says. “You’ve all gone fucking soft. Alright then. Get ready for the worst day of your lives. Get back on that field and—”

 

“We’re not going, coach,” Randall says.

 

Harden struggles to find the words, confounded at the situation. He’s never been challenged by his players like this, not ever, not on any level.

 

“I don’t believe this,” Harden says. “I don’t know what Coach McKenzie told you—”

 

“Enough to know there’s a problem,” Randall says.

 

“It’s like you say in the film room, coach,” Flash says. “When we see a problem, we fix it. We don’t wait for it to fix itself.”

 

“Exactly, like last year,” Maverick says. “I was being selfish, putting myself first, with Everett and shit. You sat me in this locker room and set me straight, made me put the team ahead of myself. That’s what you preach to us all the time, coach, and that’s what we’re doing right now.”

 

Harden tries to think about his players, about what they’re doing, about what he should do to them—but he can only think of himself, of his life, his mistakes, his wife and daughter living a thousand miles away.

 

“We’re not backing down, coach,” Grantzinger says.

 

Phillips, Schneider, and McKenzie come in, having been alerted to the situation. Harden feels the pressure and stress from all of it hitting him at once. He backs toward a locker with a chair and slowly sinks into it. The room is quiet for a few minutes as nobody moves or speaks.

 

“Okay,” Harden eventually says in a soft, hushed tone that no one has ever heard from Merle Harden’s mouth. “Okay. One thing, non-negotiable. I’m not going to any goddamn meetings.”

 

 

 

Saturday morning, the MedComm Center opens for unusual business. Just after arriving, Phillips shoots a text to Javad: “Press conf at 11. Harden taking leave of absence.”

 

Within seconds, Javad replies: “Because?”

 

Phillips: “Personal reasons.”

 

Javad: “What kind?”

 

Phillips knew Javad would ask, and he knows his response: “Can’t say.”

 

Everything sets up on time, with the media room arranged by 10:30 and reporters allowed in shortly after. Then, right on schedule, Phillips sends Javad another message: “Alcohol trouble.”

 

The way Phillips figures, it’ll be a lot easier for fans to process the news if they gradually hear reports from multiple sources, as opposed to hearing the head coach stun them with a bombshell at the start of an impromptu press conference.

 

Just before eleven, Harden arrives, looking miles different from yesterday. His clothes look clean and he smells like deodorant, though he still looks stressed. On the edge of the stage, out of sight from the crowd, he and Phillips talk.

 

“One last request, Merle,” Phillips says. “Wayne really wants some Q&A.”

 

“No questions. I’m sorry.”

 

Harden walks toward the podium, a sheet of paper there with his statement printed on it. He presses both palms against the podium and leans forward.

 

“I’m gonna keep this short and sweet, and I won’t be taking any questions after. Effective immediately, I am taking a personal leave of absence from the team. This is due to some recent struggles I have personally had…with regard to alcohol. I think, for the best of the team, and the organization, I need to take some time to get my head straight, more or less. I don’t expect this will be a particularly long leave of absence, but in my place, Ron McKenzie will take over head coach duties, and Mike Ellerbe will assume play calling duties on the defensive side. I’ve already spoken with the players, and we’re all on the same page.”

 

He’s about to walk off, but he remembers the last sentence, one the team insisted he end with.

 

“The team will be holding another press conference in the coming days for questions. Thanks.”

 

He walks off, a barrage of inquiries shouted his way as he scurries through the door as quickly as possible. Phillips, Schneider, and McKenzie are there to greet him, warm smiles on their faces as they shake his hand firmly, like this is some sort of congratulations.

 

It should never have come to this.

 

Harden leaves for home, windows down, taking his time with the drive. His car is still messy as hell, but that will be fixed later. He gets home and walks into the usual: a quiet, cluttered, smelly house.

 

He turns on some college football for background noise and gets to work.

 

He goes through every cabinet and drawer, searches under every table and couch. One at a time, each bottle of liquor gets drained and thrown in the garbage. He thought about gathering them all together and pitching them at once, but that’s way too cheesy. Everything’s gotta go; might as well toss it right away.

 

Eventually, when most of the bottles have gone, he starts throwing out cups and glasses that have liquor in them as well. He’ll buy a new set of everything, hell with it.

 

 

 

Tuesday, players enter the MedComm Center under slightly new leadership. Coach McKenzie follows the procedures Harden has put in place, wanting things to seem as routine as possible, desperate for a normal week of practice without any issues. Unfortunately, the Knights have a tall task this Sunday: a divisional home game against the 6-3 Chiefs.

 

Despite his desire to avoid conflict, McKenzie gets his offense in the film room with one ugly item at the top of his agenda. He plays footage from the St. Louis game of Wilkes, clearly dogging it on his routes and—on a few occasions—avoiding running entirely.

 

McKenzie pauses the film and stares down his receiver.

 

“Well, D-Jam? Got anything to say for yourself?”

 

“Nope! Not a thing,” Wilkes says, slouched back in his chair, looking relaxed.

 

McKenzie studies the players around the table; he’ll need their support to win this fight, and he’ll need to win the fight to maintain the team’s trust.

 

“You don’t see a problem with taking plays off? You think that’s the way we play the game?”

 

“Man, it ain’t taking plays off if I’m not gonna get the ball anyway. What am I missing?”

 

“Hey,” Buchanan says, “if I don’t look you’re way enough, that’s on me to—”

 

“Don’t, kid,” Penner says. “Don’t fucking apologize. D-Jam, cut this shit out.”

 

“What?” D-Jam says. “What’d I do? You feed me the ball, and I’ll run whatever route you want.”

 

“D-Jam,” McKenzie says, “the goal here is to—”

 

“Show me the plays where I’m supposed to get the ball.”

 

“Like I said—”

 

“Hold up, hold up, hold up! Show me the plays where I’m supposed to get the ball!”

 

Chaos unfolds with frustration reaching peak levels, and McKenzie screams over the clamor to get everyone’s attention. When it finally quiets, Wilkes gets up from his chair and throws his playbook back on the table. McKenzie sighs, decides to bench Wilkes later, and moves on to other film.

 

So much for an easy week of practice.

 

 

 

Tuesday night, Maverick pours through tape as well as the playbook for Kansas City, even though he won’t be playing. His range of motion is almost back to normal, and the doctors say he’s weeks away, but he’s not satisfied. He can only throw a pass ten yards with weak velocity.

 

After reaching a sufficient stopping point, he heads upstairs to his room for bed. It takes a while to fall asleep. It doesn’t help that he’s been dreaming of football lately, itching to get back on the field more than ever, especially with the Knights’ thinning playoff chances. He has to get back before the team runs out of time.

 

Unable to sleep, he slides out of bed and gets ready to do some push-ups. He goes slow, trying to balance between both sides of his body but pay attention to the right side. Everything feels fine. In fact, he feels normal, strong, able. He picks up the pace, going a little lower to the floor, and his shoulder buckles.

 

“Motherfucker!”

 

He rolls over in pain, flailing around with his good arm. It touches his cell phone, and he throws it across the room.

 

 

 

Phillips stands next to Evans in his office, rubbing his temples as he looks out toward the practice field.

 

“Setback?” he asks. “What exactly does that mean at this point?”

 

“The shoulder just can’t support as much weight as it should,” Evans says. “This sort of thing is typical for AC joint separations.”

 

“That makes me feel a lot better. Did something happen during his workout?”

 

“Nothing that I oversaw.”

 

“Anything at home?”

 

“Not that he mentioned.”

 

“Terrific.”

 

Minutes later, Evans heads downstairs to give Maverick a more thorough examination, eventually deciding to put the arm in a sling.

 

“This damn thing again?” Maverick says.

 

“Only for today, just as a precaution. Twenty-four hours, you can take it off tomorrow morning.”

 

“Okay, cool.”

 

Maverick’s focus shifts to the adjacent hallway, where a few coaches are talking about an apparent incident in the film room yesterday.

 

“Hey, doc, give me a minute?”

 

“Sure.”

 

On the practice field, the team is split into offense and defense, each running plays from the playbook against the scout team. McKenzie watches his offense closely, especially his receivers. With Wilkes benched, Watson takes the number two spot, but he’ll still operate out of the slot in three-receiver sets, with Ben Larkhill playing outside in Wilkes’ place.

 

As the offense runs a few play-action plays, with Buchanan hitting most receivers, a few coaches notice Maverick walking across the field, arm in a sling again, toward the sideline where some offensive backups stand. They say hello, but he seems not to notice them. Maverick heads straight for Wilkes, who looks strangely happy for a guy who has just been benched.

 

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Maverick asks, about ten feet away.

 

“Man, not you too!”

 

Maverick gets close and shoves Wilkes hard with his left hand. “You bitch and moan in the film room because you’re not getting enough passes? You take plays off? Are you fucking serious?”

 

The commotion gets everyone’s attention, and practice halts. Wilkes backtracks, staying on his feet as Maverick keeps shoving him.

 

“Yo, Mav, leave it alone, man…”

 

“We need every win we can get and you revert back to the same old shit? Trying to tell coaches what to do?” Maverick gets a good shove in just below the neck that knocks Wilkes down, and a few players get between them.

 

“You want me to kick your ass with one fucking arm?!”

 

He raises his left arm in the air, but that’s the end of it. Multiple teammates hold him back as Wilkes scurries to his feet, visibly shaken. His point made, a red-faced Maverick walks off the field, high-fiving multiple teammates on the way.

 

 

 

Friday morning, players dress for the last full practice of the week. With most of the players ready to hit the field, McKenzie gets their attention.

 

“Okay, we’ve had a good week so far. Let’s make sure by the time we leave today, we’ve got that playbook mastered. On both sides of—”

 

He looks away, and the players turn their heads to see Coach Harden stroll back into the locker room.

 

“You all didn’t think I’d be away too long, did you?”

 

Nobody responds, but the players don’t hide their smiles.

 

“I feel good, men. I feel fresh. So, I get to yell at you with a renewed sense of energy. Let’s go.”

 

Word of Harden’s return reaches the second floor (and the media) and Phillips watches the team practice from his office. Eventually, he winds up in Schneider’s office and asks about the media’s reaction to everything.

 

“It’s been rather positive, actually,” Schneider says. “It’s not an unprecedented situation in the sports world, and we’re getting Merle the help he needs.”

 

“Agreed,” Phillips says. “I’m actually glad we got everything on the table and straightened out, so we won’t have any long-term problems.”

 

“And it’s given us a chance, albeit a brief one, to evaluate McKenzie’s leadership, just in case something else happened, and we’d need to—”

 

“Stop right there.” Phillips puts his hands on Schneider’s desk and leans in. “I will not fire Merle Harden. As long as I’m here, he’s my head coach. You want to pull another Daniel, you go ahead and fire me too.”

 

“Relax, Chance. I didn’t mean to insinuate I was considering anything. I’m not. I’m glad Merle is our head coach too, though there’s obviously something about him you see that I don’t.”

 

Phillips has an argument ready. “Last week. He sits everyone down in the auditorium, makes them watch the Super Bowl before the Seattle game. What other coach would think of something like that?”

 

“And then we went to Seattle and lost.”

 

Growing frustrated, Phillips looks around, trying to think of another angle. His eyes focus on the practice field, then back on Schneider.

 

“Take a walk with me.”

 

They head downstairs and onto the field, monitoring practice from a safe distance. They watch the defense run blitz drills against the scout offense, Harden prowling nearby and blowing his whistle after every play.

 

“Sean! I’m tired of telling you to square up, it’s no wonder you get stoned on the rush so often. Zack! Stop dragging that fucking shoulder, it’s an embarrassment to me as a coach. Anthrax! What the fuck are you putting your head down for? The game’s not being played by ants.”

 

Phillips and Schneider watch the bickering continue endlessly, and Phillips hopes Schneider sees his point: the players aren’t bothered, they’re motivated. They love Harden’s coaching style, his passion, his energy. And they feed off it.

 

Schneider eventually retreats inside, but Phillips decides to stay on the field and observe, getting a surprising amount of enjoyment (and entertainment) out of it.

 

Hours pass until the final whistle blows. Players run back toward the locker room, eventually leaving Harden and Phillips alone on the field.

 

“Hell of a practice, coach,” Phillips says.

 

“Trying to keep tabs on me?”

 

“Not exactly. In a hurry to leave?”

 

“No, why?”

 

The two take a couple spots on the bleachers with the sun setting beyond the city skyline. Harden makes a sarcastic comment about the scene being romantic, but the conversation soon turns serious, with Phillips inquiring about Harden’s history with alcohol.

 

“I managed it better last year,” Harden eventually says. “When Melinda and Trisha left, it really burned me. I got by with two things: getting to coach this team every day, and the thought that they’d come back. I knew Melinda was capable of leaving, but I never thought she’d stay gone. I thought my family would come back. And then this year…they didn’t. They didn’t. And so it’s just me.”

 

“Have you talked to them lately?” Phillips asks.

 

“Yep. They’re both doing really well, and they’re both proud of me for owning up to my mistakes, whatever that means. Maybe if we win the Super Bowl it’ll impress them enough to come home.”

 

“I’m on board with that plan.”

 

Minutes of silence pass, and the conversation appears over. Phillips decides to leave him alone and head out for the day.

 

“It’s good to have you back, Merle.”

 

They shake hands.

 

“Thanks, Chance. Good to be back.”

 

 

 

The Knights take the field against the Chiefs, and Harden roams the sidelines feeling energetic, fresh. Not quite as fresh as when he was in his thirties coaching at Devil’s Lake, but close.

 

The Knights come out dominating. The defense completely shuts Kansas City down, not allowing a first down in the first quarter. Offensively, Buchanan plays competent enough to move the chains, coupled with a strong run game from Jameson. The Knights take an early 10-0 lead and don’t look back.

 

The defense forces multiple turnovers, continuing to set the offense up in great field position, which is enough to maintain the lead.

 

The one-sided affair continues into the second half, with Merle Harden in his prime. He privately admires the defensive dominance but chastises them at every little mistake, especially when they finally yield a field goal and lose the shutout. But they never lose control. They take a 23-3 lead into the game’s final minutes, Kansas City adds a garbage time field goal, and the Knights win, 23-6.

 

For Harden, all the post-game festivities feel a little extra special today. Even the press conference is somewhat tolerable.

 

 

 

Merle gets home, planning on another nostalgic evening reliving the Devil’s Lake glory days. He walks into a clean home that finally smells good and is nearly alcohol free.

 

He’s thrown away an exuberant amount of booze over the last week, but per his arrangement with the team, that’s not the end of it. In lieu of stupid meetings and an official program, the Knights will find someone to visit Merle’s home and have weekly one-on-one visits. He doesn’t see how that’s going to help, but it’ll keep the guys upstairs happy.

 

Only one bottle of alcohol remains: a prestigious bottle of whiskey Merle once received from his father. “Save it for a special occasion,” he said. Merle always intended to save it for a Super Bowl victory, should he get one. He can’t just throw it out, can he? Then again, if he’s going to say clean as long as possible, the bottle’s gotta go, one way or the other.

 

He ignores it, filling a glass with water and ice instead. Just before he gets to the porch, he turns back, looking at the cabinet containing the whiskey…

 

He sits on the porch, glass in hand, listening to highlights of the 1989 season.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Cherry 1,302]

[ATL_Predator+ 1,196]

So our coach is an angry Jim Harbaugh and the town drunk. I love it..because Because it's Bware's character and everything

 

Great chapter Stevo, make sure in the next to break our pussy QB's spirit more and not just his body

[Maverick 791]

^your playoff hopes live or die by me. Show me the respect I deserve you insignificant piece of dirt.

 

Awesome chapter. I loved the team coming together. Quite a twist by Harden, there. Wilkes is a bitch. I loved Mav putting him in his place.

[Sarge+ 3,436]

Wow Steven. You hyped this chapter up a good bit, so I was expecting to be slightly disappointed. I wasn't.

 

This has to be in your top 3 chapters, maybe #1. It's right up there with For This We Give Thanks.

[Cherry 1,302]

Wow Steven. You hyped this chapter up a good bit, so I was expecting to be slightly disappointed. I wasn't.

 

This has to be in your top 3 chapters, maybe #1. It's right up there with For This We Give Thanks.

 

I think in terms of actual plot it was very good but at times it seemed a little bit cheesy. Regardless, it was fulfilling to see the whole thing develop.

[Sarge+ 3,436]

Well you have to remember, as always, that there are a lot of different sub-plots being hashed out at the same time. It's incredibly challenging to juggle all of them and successfully develop each one in every chapter. I can definitely forgive some cheesiness in favor of continuity and structure.

 

Edit: I got to thinking what I mean when i say "structure." I really believe transitions can make or break writing. Steven handles transitions from one plot to another seamlessly in most chapters. I thought he did an excellent job weaving us in and out of one part of the story then another without losing us. That's not an easy thing to do by any means.

Edited January 22, 2016 by Sarge

[Cherry 1,302]

Well you have to remember, as always, that there are a lot of different sub-plots being hashed out at the same time. It's incredibly challenging to juggle all of them and successfully develop each one in every chapter. I can definitely forgive some cheesiness in favor of continuity and structure.

 

Edit: I got to thinking what I mean when i say "structure." I really believe transitions can make or break writing. Steven handles transitions from one plot to another seamlessly in most chapters. I thought he did an excellent job weaving us in and out of one part of the story then another without losing us. That's not an easy thing to do by any means.

Oh I don't mean to be dissing him or anything. He's an incredible writer and I'm excited every Friday to check for KoA. As you said his transitions are damn near perfect. The biggest reason why I said it seemed a tad cheesy was how the whole intervention thing went down. That said I'm not bothered by it or anything. It'd be perfect for a movie lol.

[RazorStar 4,025]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2ImxfctL4M

 

Excellent chapter, it really makes this chapter feel like a turning point in the Knight's season. Harden starting working on his problem, D-Jam got violated by a one armed QB, and maybe Wayne is finally starting to see the light?

 

Hmm... who knows. And that's why I'm reading each week.

[Cherry 1,302]

BTW D-Jam needs assbeating

[Thanatos 2,847]

 

Everyone looks wide-eyed at Randall’s unprecedented subordination.

 

This should be "insubordination."

Also the Chiefs going for a field goal down 23-3 in the late 4th is hilarious... and so Chiefs.

 

Fantastic chapter, SteVo.

[SteVo+ 3,702]

Why is it always Thanatos who catches my typos...Thanatypos

 

Thank you guys for the praise. This has been a chapter I've been heavily anticipating since writing Part II, when I decided Daniel would be fired in favor of Harden, and it's certainly on the short list of chapters I'm most proud of as a writer. Having said that, we have at least three chapters to go in Part IV, and I hope everyone keeps reading!

[SteVo+ 3,702]

Hump Day Bump Day

[Zack_of_Steel+ 3,014]

Finally had some time to read this. Mav punking D-Jam was probably the best part. But why the fuck does Mav keep being dumb with his arm?