CK buzzed open the door and prepared himself for the worst. Everyone turned to see who it was. Who else could they have been expecting? For a moment CK clung to the possibility he wasn’t the only late comer. A quick glance showed all the normal faces had arrived ahead of him.
After a lengthy pause, Coach Diesel sang loudly in a mocking falsetto. “Well, I’m glad you saw fit to bless us with your scruffy-ass, gutter rat presence.” He reached in his pocket.
CK held his breath. He hadn’t thought it would come to this—not so early in the season.
Sure enough, Coach Diesel flipped CK one of the old Sacagawea coins he carried with him at all times. “Here’s a buck. Buy yourself a comb.”
Campbell pocketed the coin and sat.
Diesel’s coin routine had become infamous around the league. CK had half-wondered if it was legend, until now. Veteran players didn’t talk about it much, but CK had pieced the story together. No player had accumulated three coins and remained on the team. The only way to get rid of a coin was to pay it back to the team with a worthy performance. Supposedly, Diesel never asked for a coin back and never turned one away when a player dared to return it. One thing was for sure. Most players worked their butts off to get rid of a coin, and CK had just worked his butt off to get one.
“As I was saying earlier,” Coach Costa continued, “one of the reasons Henderson is leading this team is his dependability. No one here is calling that into doubt.”
CK clenched his jaw. He preferred the verbal abuse of Coach Diesel over Costa’s passive aggressiveness. CK had been a few minutes late to one meeting, and now he was being labeled as undependable?
“But?” Swisher asked.
“A fast-paced game caters to the Cowboy’s strengths. They want nothing more than to turn this into a shootout. We’ve gotta be conscious of playing all four quarters from the first snap,” Coach Costa said.
CK forgot about the verbal flogging and immersed himself in the discussion.
Diesel raised his voice. “Exactly. Their front seven can’t handle a prolonged ground assault.”
“Over the first three weeks they’ve given up a paltry 228 yards on the ground. That leads the league,” Swisher said.
“I said a prolonged ground assault. No one has run it on them more than a dozen times before giving up.”
“Because they fell behind early!”
Costa slapped the table and waited for silence. “We’ve all studied the numbers and the tape. We’re going to win this game by playing physical Aztec football. We’re going to stymy the Cowboys offense by keeping our offense on the field.”
Despite their differing approaches, CK agreed vehemently with Costa in this case. He wanted to say so, but knew he needed to remain invisible for now.
Costa jabbed his tablet and switched the display to a 3D game play simulation. “I want ten play drives. I want to own the game clock. Our call sheet reflects that.” The head coach gave his staff a minute before continuing. “Anyone got a problem with that?”
Swisher finished scanning the call sheet on his tablet and conceded. “We’ve got plays on here to stretch the field if we need to.”
“Good. Dismissed.” Costa started the game play simulation at 2x normal speed before scooting his chair back.
Normally, CK would stay to watch the 3D simulation of the game plan. Today he thought it best to pull it up later on his tablet. He made for the door as naturally as he could.
“Not you, Campbell.” Coach Costa stood, his height matching CK’s. “I want a word.”
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