the way he looked at a player who was about to lose his starting spot.
“Thanks, Coach,” I mumbled.
“When J.J. retires, you’ll be poised to be one of the youngest sports information directors at a major football school in the country,” he said. “It’s a great position for a lot of folks.”
“Coach,” I said. “Why do I feel like you’re getting ready to fire me?”
He laughed and told me not to be ridiculous. “And besides, I can’t fire you. You don’t report to me.”
I refrained from pointing out that he could pretty much do anything he wanted—that our athletic director might technically be in charge, but everyone knew Coach held all the power around here. Instead I said, “Is there a but?”
He smiled, then paused and said, “But … is this really … your passion?”
“It’s a great job,” I said. But I knew what he was getting at. It was almost as if he had read my mind.
“No doubt. It’s a hell of a job. And for some, the perfect calling. J.J. loves juggling all the balls … He’s an administrator who loves sports. All sports … But is this really what you were born to do?”
“What do you mean? I love football,” I blurted out, realizing my error immediately. Football was such a small part of what I worked on, as Walker had fifteen other sports.
“Right,” he said. “And I know you love writing, too. But your job really isn’t about football or writing. It’s about keeping stats. Going to men’s cross country meets and women’s volleyball games. Drafting routine press releases, churning out media guides. At the end of the day, it’s a PR job, not a writing job.”
“I get to write sometimes. I loved writing this,” I said softly, gazing down at my hands.
“I know, girl. I know,” he said. “That’s my point.”
I nodded, but still couldn’t look at him.
“You should be writing,” he said.
“I do write,” I said.
“Writing full-time. You wrote more in high school and college than you do now.”
“Yeah. Silly pieces for the school newspaper,” I said, fixing my eyes directly above his head at a shelf filled with photos that had come from our department, various action shots from over the years, including one from my senior year, of Ryan James, standing on the sidelines with one finger thrust in the air, his arm around his beloved coach.
“They were professional-caliber pieces, Shea. Unlike any student work I’ve ever seen.”
I felt a chill as I dropped my eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” I said, forcing myself not to look away.
“And besides … You shouldn’t limit yourself to Walker. There’s a big world outside this place.”
It was an odd statement coming from a man whose entire life revolved around Walker, and I was unable to resist making the point, a bold one for me. “What about you? You turned down the Bills.”
As soon as the words were out, I realized that the comparison was ridiculous. He was the head football coach. He was Walker.
He shrugged and said, “I could never live in Buffalo. Too damn cold. And I love the college game.”
“Well, I love Walker,” I said.
He stared me down. Then, just when I couldn’t bear it another second, he removed a folded slip of paper from his top drawer and reached across the desk to hand it to me. I unfolded it and stared down at a 214 phone number and, below it, a name. Frank Smiley.
“You know him, right?” Coach said.
I nodded. I had only talked to Smiley a few times, in passing at press conferences, but I knew exactly who he was—the sports editor of The Dallas Post, the only major newspaper left in Texas with a legitimate sports section, covering sports like they covered hard news. Smiley was a brash curmudgeon of an old-timey reporter who openly pined for the good ol’ days. Back when guys didn’t showboat, and college athletes actually went to class and graduated after four years, and boosters didn’t buy sports cars, and networks didn’t call the shots, and money didn’t drive the conferences, and rivalries really meant something, and players stayed with a franchise for life, and coaches stayed put, too. His pressroom demeanor was legendary, as he always knew how to get a coach to really say something by asking just the right question in just the right tone. Somehow you liked the guy even when he was pissing you off, and you wanted to give him something because you couldn’t be bland around a