It Just Means More
Inside the WHAC conference room, if testosterone had a smell, this room smelled like colors—almost physical, curling through the air like smoke. The air buzzed like a hornet swarming when Klatt and Herbstreit entered the room from opposite doors. For Herbstreit, it was just another routine production meeting. It just means more thought Joel.
Herbstreit paused mid-step, his gaze evaluating Klatt and then dismissing him as any kind of threat.
His dog, the untrained Peter, trotted through the room, exasperating his ESPN minders as they chased after him. Peter sniffed chairs and corners like he owned the place.
“Why are they here? And why did they send their sideline guy?” A bewildered Kirk muttered to Chris Fowler.
Fowler sniffed the air and said, “I’m not sure why they’re here, maybe it’s a joint meeting for Ryan (Day). You know him. That’s Joel Klatt. He’s supposed to be Fox’s version of you—he’s not a sideline guy.”
Kirk snorted through his nose at the absurdity of the comparison.
Joel, overhearing, turned to Kirk with a low menacing tone. “I’m not a sideline guy, Kirk. What I am is an angry young man, standing right here with my toes hanging over the edge—and I’m ready to break you and your woke-ass network.”
Herbstreit felt off balance, leaning, leaning hard like a pilot in a steep turn, even though he was flying straight and level but his inner ears were betraying him. Was he having a panic attack? “Oh shit… oh shit…” He repeated his mantra under his breath: “Airspeed is life. Airspeed is life.”
Then Coach Day confidently stepped into the room, his commanding physical presence signaling that the meeting was about to start, whether ESPN, Fox, or anyone else was ready. He was a stickler for schedules and had no patience for the fracas brewing between Herbie and Joel—or the scheduling snafu that had landed them all in the same room.
Peter, oblivious to Day’s authority, stopped and sniffed at Coach’s pants leg for a very long time before moving on.
Joel found himself staring at Day’s freshly dyed jet-black beard. It reminded him of a line from a literature class back at Colorado: “Blacker than the deep night Lady Macbeth once invoked.”
At the Drop of Hat
The meeting had barely started when Peter wandered to the center of the conference room, lifted his leg, and absolutely voided his bladder on the Buckeye logo.
“Your dog,” Day snapped, glaring at the growing puddle “is pissing all over my carpet.”
“Peter! No! For fuck’s sake! Someone help me!” Kirk screamed at the hapless ESPN staffers, his voice rising in panic, his face turning crimson with embarrassment.
Laughing, Joel leaned back with a casual air. “Looks like Peter’s making himself right at home. Fitting, isn’t it?”
Joel then added with a deadpan expression, “You know, this reminds me of Saban during the Texas-Michigan game. Didn’t Nick step in a pile of dog shit on your set? What a shit-show,” he said, making air quotes with his strong, lean fingers. “I heard he almost quit after that? Can’t say I blame him, that dog is a menace.”
Herbstreit’s face flushed as quiet murmurs rippled through the room. Everyone knew Peter was Kirk’s Achilles’ heel—the mannerless, dookie-spreading dog had become a running inside joke in media circles. Joel’s jab landed perfectly, leaving the room buzzing with barely suppressed laughter.
The tension in the room shifted as all eyes locked on Joel and Kirk’s matching limited-edition, flat-billed seven paneled Richardson ball caps—repping the original Varsity Club, the legendary Ohio State bar and restaurant.
Joel tipped the brim of his hat downward towards the shorter man, his grin sharp. “Like my hat, Kirk?”
Still reeling from Peter’s accident, Kirk’s expression darkened. “You fucking clown. Where the hell did you get that hat?”
“The Varsity Club, duh,” Joel replied, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. “People there don’t like you, by the way.”
Kirk’s fists clenched, his face taut with puzzled irritation. “That hat was supposed to be in the Varsity’s display case. I signed it for the owners!”
Joel’s grin widened. “Oh, they didn’t just give it to me,” he said, his tone dripping with casual confidence. “I bought it. Had a little chat with Tracy—you know her, right? She said you’re a big deal around there. Weird, how she really talked you up.” He paused, letting the moment linger. “Then I asked about the hat. She said I could have it.”
The skin around Herbstreit’s eyes tightened. Tracy (née Dunlaw) Vance wasn’t just any hostess at The Varsity—she was practically Columbus royalty. She was the second cousin to Vice President J.D. Vance, her word carried weight. Her Instagram reel showcasing Herbstreit’s placing the hat in the bar’s display case had gone viral. The idea that she had handed it to Klatt had to be bullshit.
Joel’s easy grin widened. “Slow your roll big guy, I bought it. Tracy was easily ‘persuaded’ to give “It” up.”
Without warning, Joel stepped closer, closing the gap between them. He reached out, his hand landing deliberately on Kirk’s girth, giving his tummy a slow, deliberate rub.
“At least I don’t need a hat to hide my hairline—or my belly, big ‘un.”
Kirk flinched, his frame stiffening. “Nice fucking try, dickhead. You’ll never be like me.”
Joel pulled his hat lower, shadows falling over his grinning face. “Funny. I think the hat looks better on me. Tracy thought so too.”
Herbie, known to cry at the drop of a hat, was visibly shaken. Tears began to slowly stream down his cherub cheeks as he struggled to regain his composure.
Gus Johnson finally stepped between them, gripping Joel’s shoulder. “Not here, man. Not like this,” he rumbled with theatrical authority, rolling his R’s like he was calling a goal-line stand.
Joel shrugged, pulling the hat off his head. With a flick of his wrist, he dropped the hat into Peter’s piss puddle. “There you go, you big baby—I didn’t want the hat anyway.”
The Call to Warde
Back in the car, Ray-Ban Wayfarers on, chewing a fresh dose of Jawliner gum, Joel leaned back and dialed a number. Gus, sitting across from him, stared for a moment, the puzzle pieces clicking into place. When he finally realized what was happening, a grin spread ear to ear.
“Warde Manuel.” A voice said over the phone.
Joel grinned. “Warde, that was fantastic. I had the money shot, and I took it.”
“Any fallout?” Manuel asked.
Joel gazed at the passing Columbus skyline. “None. It went exactly as planned. Well, Herbstreit cried again, so there was a nice little bonus. It’s all shifting. Greg Sankey? He’s still stuck in 2010. And ESPN? They don’t even know they’ve lost yet.”
Warde chuckled, his tone as always was so molasses calm and deliberate. “Good. Let them keep thinking they’re kings. By the time they realize what’s happening, we’ll already have carjacked their arrogant ass.”
Capers lives off-grid near Paint Rock Alabama. This is his fourth book. When he is not writing he is training for ultra marathon trail races. A book cover reveal is scheduled in the near future.
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