by Emily Giffin
“Rumors from rednecks at your local bar or rumors from the inside down there at Walker?”
“Um. Both, I guess,” I hedged.
“And? You didn’t think that was something to discuss with your editor?” Smiley was now shouting, and I could see beads of sweat on his upper lip.
“I guess I should have,” I said, looking down at my lap.
Smiley nodded, now pacing. He was hot. Hotter than I’d ever seen him. “Yes. You should have. Your ass should have been all over that story. And you better hope that we run something on it before anyone else does!”
“Yes, sir,” I said, deflated, and a little worried about my job. “I mean—I have, sort of, stayed on top of it …”
“And? What’s the status?”
“Well … I’m not sure exactly.”
“You’re not sure?” he said, rolling up one sleeve. “That’s your definition of ‘staying on top of it’?”
“Not ordinarily. No, sir. You’re right—”
Smiley cut me off. “Who have you talked to? What sources have you lined up?”
“Well. I’ve, um,” I stuttered. “I’ve talked to our enforcement guy. Ernie Galli.”
“Our?” Smiley roared, rolling up his other sleeve.
“Walker’s,” I said, correcting myself. “I meant Walker’s …”
“Look, Shea. We need a story,” he fumed. “Because this is a story. You have twenty-four hours to get me something. Got it?”
I nodded briskly and said I’d get right on it, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to report bad news about my school. I walked out of his office, remembering something Coach Carr said to me a long time ago. It was in the context of another school, a different set of problems, but I never forgot it. “When the local media turns its guns on you,” he had said, “you’re toast.”
Some of my earliest and most vivid college football memories have nothing to do with loving Walker or hating Texas but with being mesmerized by the scandal of the highest order at SMU, my introduction to the corruption in the sport I loved. I was still in diapers when Eric Dickerson and Craig James, a.k.a. the Pony Express, galloped onto the scene, becoming one of the most prolific backfields in history. And I certainly was too young to remember Ron Meyer, with his long sideburns and slick suits, in anything other than old footage. But by the time Lucy and I were in the first grade, I was paying attention, and it was absolutely clear to me that the Mustangs were in trouble. Big trouble. It was all grown-ups seemed to talk about, whether at neighborhood block parties, or the country club, or church. I didn’t fully grasp the ins and outs of NCAA rules and regulations, but I knew they were big-time cheaters. During one of Coach Carr’s first tutorials on the subject, he likened SMU’s brazen rule breaking to Lawton playing banker in Monopoly and stealing the orange five-hundred-dollar bills, willy-nilly. He explained that there were wealthy boosters involved, the kind who swaggered around in mink cowboy hats, bragging about Saturday’s game as if they had played in it themselves, and giving players loads of cash to play for their school. I heard the outlandish stories about the cars and jewelry, livestock and houses, that these men, known as the Naughty Nine, bought for players and their families. Coach shook his head and said things about SMU such as “They’re the best team money can buy” and “They have no shame.”
Then, just three days after my seventh birthday, on February 25, 1987, the hammer fell. I was home sick from school, or at least I was pretending to be sick so I could watch the televised press conference. David Berst, the director of enforcement of the NCAA, announced that SMU was guilty under the “repeat violator” provision and would get the most severe punishment allowed. The death penalty. No scholarships, no practice, no games for a whole year. The entire program shut down. Even though everyone knew they were guilty as hell, it was still shocking. So shocking that Berst himself fainted right on television.
Later that night, I heard Coach Carr tell my dad, who was in town visiting me, “We shouldn’t be so surprised. Everyone knows … we do execute people in this state. If you ask me, it’s a lot easier to follow the rules.” My dad, of course, replied something along the lines of “Yeah. If you’re going to cheat, you better be damn good at it.”
Now fast-forward twenty-six years, and Walker was in possible trouble. Not of the SMU magnitude, but trouble nonetheless. And in an unsettling twist of fate, I was no longer watching it on television. Rather, it was my job to report it. My job to write a story that could, potentially, damage Walker football. I told myself that it would all be fine. Because Coach Carr was still the good man he’d always been.
That evening, after talking to J.J. and Galli, I went over to Ryan’s and told him about the NCAA story Smiley was making me write.
“Do you think there is any truth to it?” I asked him, after filling him in on everything.
“Probably,” Ryan said, hitting a golf ball across a putting green in his basement. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, taken aback by his answer.
“I mean … if you’re consistently winning at this level, you’re probably cheating along the line somewhere,” Ryan said. “And even if you’re losing, and you’re trying to win, you’re probably still cheating. At least on the margins.”
“Coach Carr does not cheat,” I said. A statement of absolute fact.
Ryan gave me an infuriating smirk, then knocked the ball into the hole. “Okay, then.”
“He doesn’t,” I said, a little pissed off.
He shrugged, then squared his shoulders for another shot. “I know you think he’s the second coming of Christ, but the man isn’t perfect. He may not be bankrolling his players, but I’m pretty sure he looks the other way now and then. He has to.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Sure he does! He’s the CEO of a major corporation and his employees are a bunch of dumb kids. He has to look the other way. It’s a matter of survival.”
“Give me one example,” I said. “Of Coach looking the other way.”
“Okay. Do you remember Cedric Washington’s Cadillac Escalade?” Ryan asked.
“Yes. No. Not really. But whatever. Go on,” I said. Cedric had been a wide receiver during our era, a year behind Ryan, and almost as heralded, leaving school a year early to enter the draft.
“Ever wonder how he got a truck that nice? With tinted windows, spinning rims, that booming bass sound system playing Dr. Dre all over town?”
“No,” I said. “Never gave it a thought.”
“Well, you’re the only one … There’s no way Cedric could afford a truck like that. C’mon. He was from the projects.”
“Okay,” I said, giving Ryan a blank stare.
“Okay? Well. Someone gave him that thing. And it wasn’t anyone in his family. And guess what? Coach looked the other way. He ignored it. Willed it to go away. And it did.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. That’s what winners do. They make things go down like they want them to go down.”
“Is that what you do, Ryan?” I said. I was pissed and felt myself start to lash out at him. “You’re a big-time quarterback. Do you cheat?”
He leaned his putter against the wall and cracked his knuckles. “No. I don’t, actually.”
“So if you could steal another team’s signals and not get caught …?”
“You mean like Tom Brady filming the Jets?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“Or Greg Brady stealing the playbook?” He laughed. “Did you ever see that episode?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Of course. I’ve seen every Brady Bunch episode. And it was Jerry Rogers who tried to steal the playbook from Greg. Greg would never do something like that. Now answer the question.”
“I did answer it. I said no. I don’t cheat because I don’t need to cheat. I’m that good. But if I had to …”
“Have you ever cheated on a girlfriend?” I pressed, now looking for any excuse to be mad at him.
He
cracked the knuckles on his other hand and looked me right in the eye. “Never,” he said.
It seemed impossible, given the opportunities he must have had over the years, but he didn’t flinch or even blink.
“Okay,” I said, deciding to believe him.
“Look, Shea. All I’m saying is—sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.” He picked up his club and knocked in another easy putt.
The next morning, and another few phone calls later, including one to the NCAA, I emailed Smiley my measly three-hundred-word story, relieved that there were no smoking guns, only a couple of quotes, including one from a not very credible UT insider. In other words, it was the best I could have hoped for when I started poking around.
NCAA PROBES BRONCOS
BY SHEA RIGSBY
Walker University’s football program is officially under NCAA investigation, having received a notice of inquiry in late July, says a source with knowledge of the case. The specific nature of the alleged violations was not disclosed, but one source, speaking on the condition of anonymity, described the transgressions as “mostly minor but potentially more major and wide-ranging in nature,” including concerns about several past and current players’ eligibility and academic misconduct, as well as “extra benefits and possible recruiting violations.” Another source close to the University of Texas athletic department specifically named Walker freshman running back Reggie Rhodes, claiming he was “inappropriately entertained by a Walker booster.”
According to the NCAA’s legislative database, this is the first investigation during Coach Clive Carr’s tenure at Walker, a school known for its squeaky-clean reputation. NCAA senior spokeswoman Emma Potts said: “We can’t comment on current, pending, or potential investigations.”
According to Scott Galovan, Walker’s senior vice president for public affairs, the school is cooperating and collaborating with the NCAA as part of the ongoing inquiry but, as a private university, is not subject to Freedom of Information requests to reveal the notice of inquiry. The notice is sent to schools as formal notification that an investigation is being conducted. If violations become substantiated, the next step in the NCAA process would be a notice of allegations, which would spell out detailed violations.
Walker University athletics director Stuart Sherrill issued the following statement: “The focus of our coaches and student athletes is solely on preparing for LSU this Saturday. As such, I have instructed Coach Carr, his staff, and our student athletes to refrain from commenting on or answering questions regarding the status of this investigation.”
Within seconds of filing my story, my phone lit up with Smiley’s name. “A school known for being squeaky clean? Oh, really, now?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Well. It is.”
“That’s your opinion, Ms. Rigsby.”
I resisted the temptation to argue that it was actually closer to fact than opinion, sort of like saying: Most people describe the sky as blue.
“Except for that bit of covert propaganda, it’s fine,” Smiley said. “We’ll run it tomorrow.”
That evening after practice, I stopped Coach on his way back to his office and asked if he had a minute.
“For you? Sure,” he said, adjusting his cap with an easy half smile.
I smiled back at him and said, “You feeling good about LSU?”
“Yeah. I am. But don’t print that.”
“Obviously. I’m not that much of a rookie.” Then I took a deep breath and said, “But … I just wanted you to know that we … I have to run another story tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said.
“Yeah. About the investigation.”
He stared at me for a second, then gave me a brisk nod. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know how much you hate distractions.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I don’t listen to what people say and write about this program. There are fifty-two thousand people yelling at me in this stadium every time we play. I learned a long time ago to tune out the noise.”
I nodded and said, “I hope you can tune it out. I hope Reggie can tune it out, too. He’s named in the story.”
“I hope you can tune it out, girl. Don’t let this get you down.”
We were in that golden hour of dusk, the setting sun reflecting in his eyes, and he shifted his gaze to something in the distance.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I just hate having to write a story like this.”
“It’s your job,” he said. “You don’t have a choice.”
I nodded, hoping for more, perhaps an adamant denial of any wrongdoing. I got something almost as good, as I watched him switch gears into his philosophical coaching mode.
“It’s like this,” he said, and I prepared myself for a good nugget. “You know in your heart when you’re doing the right thing and when you’re not. And you just have to do everything you can to stay the course.”
“Right,” I said.
“Keep your eyes on the prize.”
Twenty-one
The story ran the next morning, and by noon I had over fifty texts and emails, most from alarmed friends and former colleagues. They were surprised by the story, but more surprised that my name was attached to it. A lot of people asked if I was okay. No death threats yet, I told them, although the hate mail was beginning to trickle in from a few Walker crazies.
That night, my mother came over in a panic and demanded to know what was going on, why I hadn’t told her anything, and whether Coach was mad at me.
“No, he’s not mad at me,” I said.
“Is he okay?”
“Yes, Mom. He’s fine. He’s a head coach. He’s just focusing on our next game. One day at a time.”
“Well, is it true?” she said.
To anyone else, I would have said a flat no. That the reports came from jealous boosters at a rival school. A bitter transfer. Someone with a beef or a chip on his shoulder. But there was something about my mother, always so extreme in her views, that made me say, “Probably some parts of it. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be an official notice and a full-blown investigation.”
She shook her head and said, “No way. I don’t believe it.”
At that moment, I heard and saw myself in her, my blind allegiance to Coach Carr and anything related to Walker, and it made me a little sick.
“It’s not that black and white,” I said. “This isn’t SMU in the eighties. But, yeah, we probably looked the other way …”
My mother shook her head adamantly. “Cheating is black and white,” she said. I could tell she was talking about my father, and I marveled at how she always forgot that she was once a cheater, too. That that’s how it all began. How I came to be. “Bottom line, Coach Carr would never knowingly cheat,” she finished.
With this, I had to agree—and did, aloud.
“Do you know, in all those years of marriage, he was always true to Connie? Always. Do you know how few coaches at his level can say that? Connie told me stories you wouldn’t believe … Brazen, rampant serial cheating by so many coaches. I think they’re worse than investment bankers.”
My heart skipped at the mention of Connie and Coach and their marriage. I loved the affirmation of his strong character, but my heart filled with something else, too. Maybe guilt, maybe a dash of envy. Which in turn confused me and made me feel even more guilty.
“So they were really happy, huh?” I said, lowering my eyes.
“Yes,” she said, but then hesitated as if considering whether to say more. “They had a very happy marriage, but it wasn’t easy … It’s tough being married to a coach. She was lonely a lot. Sometimes she said she felt like a single mother. Especially around the holidays. She loved him so much, but …” Her voice trailed off.
“But what?” I said.
“But I think she had to give up a lot of her own dreams to be with Clive.”
“What dreams did she have?” I said.
“Connie could have been on Broa
dway. She really could have. With her looks and that voice … she could have been a star …”
I nodded, remembering how beautiful her voice was. How she used to play the piano and sing during more intimate family gatherings. “Did she want that?” I said, unable to picture her in anything other than a supporting role.
“Oh, I think so, yes. When your dad left us and moved back to New York, she made a comment that always stuck with me. She said she was jealous of him … Not that he had left his family, but that he was getting out of Walker. Out of Texas. Connie was more layered than most people knew … She followed all the Southern conventions and was always the perfect wife and mother … But deep down, she was a dreamer. A head-in-the-clouds dreamer … She chose Coach over all of that and never looked back. But …” My mother paused, as if to fight a wave of emotion.
“But what?” I said gently, feeling so sorry for her, unable to imagine losing my own best friend.
“But I think she was waiting for her turn. Someday. There was so much that she wanted to do when Clive retired … See the world. Live abroad. She talked about Vienna a lot. She loved Vienna.”
“Why Vienna?” I asked.
“She lived there for a few years growing up, when her father was in the service …” My mother’s frown turned to a faint smile. “Can you imagine Coach in Vienna?”
“Do they get ESPN there?” I said, smiling back at her.
“Exactly,” she said.
My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a text from Coach: Shea, Don’t sweat this story. Stay the course. Onward.
“What is it?” my mom said as I stared down at my phone.
“Nothing,” I said. “But I do have to go pack now. I have an early flight to Baton Rouge.”
“What’s in Baton Rouge?” my mom said, looking confused.
“Um. LSU,” I said. “We have a football game to play. Remember?”
Then, as I shooed my mother out of my apartment, I wrote back: Thanks, Coach. Onward.
The next day we hit LSU right in the gut. Three yards and a cloud of dust all day long. But the 27–3 victory in the blazing hot sun seemed only to add fuel to the media fire, and I could sense that every major paper, sports website, and blog was poised to run some variation of my story, rather than the highlights of our domination over the Tigers. Still, the win felt good, better than most, and I could see in Coach’s eyes a renewed determination to make this our year. Despite the investigation, and maybe because of the investigation, this really could be our season to remember. After all, winning was the ultimate fuck you—everyone in sports knew that much.