Forget the Heisman House. Welcome to the Coaches' House.
Somewhere, deep in the heart of the South, lies the infamous Coaches' House - home away from home to the current football coaches of the SEC. Distant cousin to the Heisman House, but fancier and full of more booze, the Coaches' House plays host to the warlords of college football's top conference.
These are their stories. *Cue Law & Order ‘Dun-Dun'*
In the oddly-lit basement of the Coaches' House, Les Miles stalked his prey. The Mad Hatter had been hunting the ever-elusive Ol' Ball Coach for nearly 3 days and was becoming increasingly frustrated. He shook his head, remembering what he had told Will Muschamp on the Florida coach's first day in the House two years prior. ‘Don't let the age fool you,' he had said with a smirk, pointing a finger right in Muschamp's face. ‘Spurrier's a wily sum-b in Hide-and-Seek. Like a gazelle. But just remember, any time you play a real quality opponent, the match is the key.'
"The match is the key, alright," Miles muttered as he slunk behind another set of boxes. Midstride he paused. His hearing picked up on a slight shuffling. He blinked away the exhaustion he felt and peered around a box housing dusty old Mad Magazine issues, honing in on a sudden movement near boxes of bulk Kleenexes and Corn Pops to his two-o'clock.
Humming "The Eye of the Tiger," he moved in for the kill.
"It's the Eye of the Tiger, it's the thrill of the fight, so the start may not have been as significant as more as maintained a consistent edge and competitive edge in that game. Peek-a-boo!!"
"Aiiiieeeeee!!" Spurrier cried as he leapt away, but not before Miles grabbed a fistful of the Ball Coach's "I'm With Lennay -->" t-shirt and pulled him back. "Dadgummit, Les, lemme go! You win!" Ruffled, Spurrier straightened himself and gazed down at his arm. "Hey - you scratched me!"
"Tiger claws," the Mad Hatter hissed with a grin, an animalistic gleam in his eye.
"Nobody scratches the Ol'Ball Coach!"
Les turned and made for the basement's stairwell to head upstairs. As he walked, a victorious swagger in his step, he simply said, "There's been a wound. And where there was a wound there was some healing. Now there's a scar."
And that was all he needed to say.
"I'm so ready for the offseason to be over tomorrow," Gary Pinkel muttered, squeezing his stress reliever over and over again in rapid fashion as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, legs streched before him. His toes were spread wide.
"Careful you don't squeeze that thing too much, newbie," Muschamp said, only half interested, as he continued browsing the DIY bracelet section on Pinterest. "You'll wear it out."
Pinkel giggled as he looked down at the squeeze toy he had nicknamed Chase Daniel. The anime-style panda's eyes bulged to a ridiculous size with each squeeze. The Mizzou coach giggled again. "I need it, Will. The Tigers are near the bottom of the barrel. You don't understand. I mean, might as well call my team Sasha Harris and the rest of the SEC Vince Shlomi."
"Ready for Round Two, Mizzou? No biting this time."
"Damn!" Muschamp slammed his fist down on the coffee table, completely ignoring the fact that Pinkel had been talking. But everyone did that.
"What is it, Mushy?" Franklin said from the nearby recliner, the Vandy coach releasing a vicious beer belch as he glanced up from playing Animal Crossing on his DS. "Can't find the ‘Numa Numa' video on your hard drive again?"
"Oh god, please not that again," Mark Richt groaned from the kitchen. "I can only handle watching fat men dance like idiots so many times, and I get enough as it is every Margarita Monday now that Bielema has access to the House... It's like the guy never leaves."
"Do so!" Bret called down from upstairs. "I left to grab Taco Bell last night - though I'm pissed they don't carry the Volcano Taco anymore... Between that and embarrassing myself at the Media Days, this offseason has sucked..."
"Just go back to watching your YouTube videos, Bret," Franklin said, annoyance audible in his tone.
"Kay!... Hey, have you guys seen this Clowney vid-"
Richt entered the living room, tossing another Bud Select 55 to Franklin, their low-carb drink of choice. "So what's the problem, Will?"
"It's Rovell. Again. If that guy sends me one more request to play Farmville with him, I swear..."
Pinkel stopped squeezing Chase Daniel. "The ESPN reporter with the hard-on for Manziel? Didn't you-"
"The ESPN reporter with the hard on for Manziel?" Richt repeated, cutting off Pinkel. No one noticed, or cared. Pinkel went back to squeezing Chase Daniel rapidly. "Didn't you meet him when he was in Florida back in the end of July?"
Muschamp's face turned red, tossing a glare at Richt. "Yeah," he replied, somewhat sheepish. "Though I thought we agreed we weren't going to bring that up again."
"Bring what up? That things got weird between you two?" Les plopped down on the couch between Muschamp and Hugh Freeze. The latter sat licking one of the House's two ping-pong paddles as he watched MTV, eyes glazed over. "Cause that's what I heard."
"Weird how? Like freaky?" Franklin leaned forward, hands suddenly in his pockets, something no one ever found odd.
"Thanks, Les." Muschamp was hesitant in his response. "Look, it was no big deal, alright? We went and saw Despicable Me 2 one night and he spent half the movie... blowing in my ear. All soft-like, you know? And I liked it! Sue me! No big deal, get over it!" The Florida coach slammed his laptop shut and stormed off to the sound of laughter and the squeaking of a panda squeeze toy.
"I'm not quite sure how I feel about thi-...Oh. Go on..." *Squirms*
(This is not what it looks like.)
Still laughing, Richt finished off his beer. "That's crazy, Les. That's just crazy. You- you're a crazy guy, Les. Crazy guy."
The Mad Hatter nodded as if agreeing and said, "I suspect it's just the variance that's not explainable other than it's the schedule."
"What the hell does that even mean, bro?" Franklin asked, eyes narrowed on Les, hands still mysteriously in his pockets.
Les didn't respond - just winked.
"Crazy guy, man." Richt tossed his empty beer bottle across the room, where it shattered against Saban's five-foot tall cast-iron statue of a Siamese cat the Alabama coach had named Pico de Gato. "Hey! You guys want to go to that boobie club down the road? Send the offseason out tonight with a bang?"
"Bewbs? Do you even have to ask?" Franklin jumped up, resituating his pants. "I got shotgun!"
"With that throw you should take the opportunity to win that game right then before you take the opportunity if you can then to kick the field goal to win," Les said as he followed Franklin out the front door, talking mostly to himself. "Yes, indeed!"
"Not you, Gary," Richt said over his shoulder as the Mizzou coach stood to join. "You and your five-head can stay here and keep Hugh company."
Freeze mimicked chipmunk noises as he began nibbling on the paddle, still watching MTV.
Upstairs in the entertainment room on the third floor of the house, Mullen and Saban enjoyed pastimes of their own, opting for solitude on the official last night of the offseason. Who needs gameplans when you have doobies and clay?
*Hums* "I don't wanna wait, for our lives to be oveeerrrr... mmhhsomething something something what it will beeeee..."
I don't even know what to say.
On the opposite side of the ridiculously-large entertainment room, Mark Stoops, Gus Malzahn, and Butch Jones had all already passed out from heavy drinking amid playing each other for over six hours in MarioKart64. After the last of the three had passed out in pools of their own drool and regurgitated bile, Sumlin opted to blow off some steam and take the opportunity to leave his mark on the newbies early - before doing so in the regular season - by signing Johnny's name on their faces in sharpie.
"@CoachSumlin Yo @NCAA will this get me a 1/2 game suspension 2? LOL"
**Disclaimer: I never will be as good at shooping photos as cuppycup and rcb05. So shut up.**