Eichorst sent a minion to retain us. Well, me, and I elected to bring Lloyd along. I knew I was going to need back-up and probably a level head in order to get the payment that had been offered. I won't go into details, but I now understand how much fun you can have when your athletic budget is 83 million dollars. Yep, 83 mega, and that's only good enough for 7th in the Big Ten, but I digress.
We were tasked with securing a location out of the way, but in public, in Corvallis Oregon, with a candidate for the head coaching gig, so Eichorst could conduct a Skype interview with him. We were given a laptop computer with built-in web cam, externally secured and password protected. The minion said that the password word be texted to us, when the meet was a go. Lloyd guessed the password on the way out there, but that's another story.
Getting to Corvallis is hard, really hard. It reminded me of Marlowe trying to Find Kurtz in "Heart of Darkness". Maybe not quite that bad. I proposed pulling a D.B. Cooper and parachuting into the town square. Lloyd said no.
I proposed renting a helicopter in Eugene and swooping in blaring 'Ride of the Valkyries' a la "Apocalypse Now".
Again, Lloyd said no.
We flew into Minneapolis, first, then Salt Lake City, then Eugene and rented a car. I don't know why the smoke watchers think they can divine anything from trying to track private plane movements to determine where someone might be going to conduct interviews. If I was an AD and wanted to stay invisible, I'd fly commercial. From the air, the University of Oregon campus looks like a giant 'swoosh', but again, I digress.
It was raining. Big surprise. The rain gave everything that freshly scrubbed look, but was cold. Everyone had on hats and rain jackets. People in Corvallis wear rain jackets the same way people in Chicago wear North Face gear. It's like there's an ordinance or something.
I felt like I would have been quite at home wearing a trench coat and fedora, smoking, letting the rain drip off the brim of my hat. I would have stood out, unfortunately. Nobody smokes in Corvallis.
My phone buzzed and I checked the minion-sent text. It was just a number, a 541 area code. I called it. "Hello," said a quiet, measured voice on the other end.
"Hi," I said. "I'm calling to set up that meeting."
"Oh. I see," said the quiet voice. "I have a place in mind. I have to bike over, so it will take me about a half hour to get there."
"Just give me an address, and we'll find it."
The Snug Bar was our location. We could see the Trysting Tree golf course across the river. I'll give Corvallis props for creative naming.
Lloyd and I settled into a booth in the basement of a building really close to the river. So close that Lloyd was nervously checking the wall for condensation. I texted the minion to tell him that the meet was on. He texted back to let him know when the contact was in place.
Lloyd leaned forward, "You know, this is a lot of elaborate maneuvers to set up a meeting with...Scott," Lloyd caught himself.
"I know. Think about it though. Everyone back home is assuming it's going to be Tressel, who is not coaching, right now, because he got busted. If we want him, than winning truly has become the most important thing."
"Agreed," Lloyd said. "It's like DUI's. Multiply the number of times you've been busted for it by ten, and that's the number of times you've actually done it. Busted at Ohio State, busted at Youngstown State, the NCAA would love to nail Nebraska, so no thanks, Sweatervest."
"The other name that is popping like water in a skillet is Frosty," I said. "I fully expect the fair-haired, fair-complected lad from Wood River to come through that door, any second."
"Do you think he's ready to have the keys to dad's Cadillac?" Lloyd asked.
"I'm warming to the idea," I said. "He's smart, he got into Stanford and Bill Walsh thought he could handle the West-Coast offense. He handled the mental part, fine, he just didn't have the physical tools to execute it. He's played both offense and defense. He's coached both offense and defense. He's got the Osborne DNA that a lot of Huskerfans are demanding. He's only been an OC for two years, and I think that you could sit in the press box and call plays for Marcus Mariota and look pretty good doing it."
"Then why are we here, instead of up in Nike-town?" Lloyd asked.
"Maskirovka, baby," I replied. "Oregon probably wants to retain him, and would start a bidding war, if they found out. Plus the fish-wrappers would want to break the 'scoop'."
"Oh," I exclaimed. "What's your guess for the super-secret password? Any inclination?"
"The first one I'm going to try is 'NOMOBO408'."
I looked up to see an older dude, well, not that much older than me, but older, slowly approaching the booth. I tilted my head at him, questioningly. He was about six foot, lantern shaped jaw, kind of weathered. He wore water resistant track pants that had water and mud splattered on them, like he had been biking. His eyes were dark but lively. He vibed, nicest dude...ever. I was uncomfortable. I'm used to dealing with the sleazy, the criminal and the nutjobs. This was a strange experience.
"What can I do for you...sir?" I felt like I had to add the 'sir'.
"Well, I hope you are the right fellas, I'm here to talk to someone about a job."
"A job in Lincoln, Nebraska?" Lloyd asked.
"Yep. I'm Mike Riley, and I'm supposed to talk to someone about the Nebraska football job."
More to come.
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