There is a certain excitement lighting Coach Major's eyes as he seats himself and I can't help but wonder if this notorious Lynchberg Prankster has something in store for me. Of course, I order a Spanish omelette. Coach Majors decides to satiate himself with a bagel, strawberry cream cheese, and a short coffee. While he is slathering his bagel down, he gestures with his plastic knife for me to start.
JOE: Your credentials are staggering, Coach Majors. I must admit that I'm having trouble with where to begin. As I'm a big fan of the 1950’s teams, I suppose I'd like to ask about the conditions playing for General Neyland. What was that like?
CM: Well, the General really liked to kick ass. He was a pretty intense coach. I remember many of the plays he required us to perform only once, as there could only be one shot, so both he would threaten the rest of the team if we were to screw up. We all took it off the chin though. If you could shut the man up, he was a pretty decent guy. JOE: Intriguing. How long did that neck tattoo take to paint on? It was quite realistic. CM: What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have a tattoo. Don’t be making fun of my old turkey neck skin you pompous ass.
At this point, Coach Majors was grinning like a naughty school boy but some errant cream cheese had found its way to his chin. As I reached forth to gesture at it, Coach Majors flinched away violently and swiped at my proposed index finger with his plastic fork.
CM: What the hell! Are you gay? JOE: Um. No. I was trying to direct your attention to the cream cheese you got on your chin. Coach Majors glared at me dubiously before dabbing at his chin with a napkin. After inspecting it closely, he slowly nodded.
CM: Ok. Good. You sure you ain't gay? JOE: Quite sure. Even though you are a very attractive man, I have no interest in pursuing a relationship with you. CM: What the fuck. You saying you wanna pop my keester? JOE: No. No, I'm saying I don't find you attractive even though you probably are. CM: Quit saying I'm attractive. I'm losing my appetite. With a disgruntled hunch to his shoulders, he began to eat again while avoiding eye contact. After an awkward stretch of perhaps two minutes, I quietly continued.
JOE: So, the 1985 Sugar Bowl team. I hear the team has agreed to have a reunion.
CM: They ain't gay either. So don't ask me for their numbers, Nancy Boy. JOE: Wha..what? No. I'm not implying-- CM: Listen. I'm not totally stupid. I read. I know all you little rat fuck bastard journalists love to make us College Football Heroes look gay in your interviews. That shit may sell to some fat bastard from Volquest, but it ain't flying with me. Nor do I appreciate you sharks constantly swimming around outside my house trying to get a picture of me you can photoshop into looking like I'm sucking off my driver, Jorge. Got it? JOE: I'm...truly sorry if you felt I was in some way trying to suggest you were something you aren't, Coach Majors. CM: Have you ever been kicked in the balls? I have. All your types do when you present lies to the public is basically the same. A swift kick to the nads. Do you like getting kicked in the balls? Maybe I should just boot you in the junk right now so you know how it feels? Hmm? Stand up, boy. JOE: What? No. I'm not-- CM: Stand up you pussy! If you want to kick me in the balls, I should have the right to do the same. Are you afraid? JOE: Well, yes. I'm not trying to kick you in the balls Coach Majors-- CM: Well you are! Every fucking time I sit down to enjoy a light brunch with someone who wants to interview me, I might as well drop my pants and present my nuts so you can get a good running shot. JOE: Coach Majors, there is some sort of misunderstanding. I don't want...wait. Now you want me to kick you in the balls? CM: No! NO! FOR CHRIST SAKE...WHY WOULD I WANT YOU TO KICK MY BALLS? Thats the whole point, you pansy. Getting kicked in the nards ISN'T good! Capiche!? The tendons in Coach Majors's neck were standing out quite rigidly at this point, a stark contrast of white and red flaring up and down his temples which suggested that he was extremely angry. I tried to pacify him with soothing hand gestures and inflection, but this seemed to enrage him more. He stepped around the table and grabbed my hair close to the scalp before wrenching my head back so that his volcanic stare might drip down right into my face. Between clenched teeth he continued, inching his face closer and closer to mine. CM: What you journalistic fucks need to understand is that I'm not going to put up with your bullshit anymore. About an inch from my nose to his, he suddenly gave me the gap-tooth smile and let go. CM: Gotcha! I was trembling at this point and had already puked into my own mouth and swallowed. Coach Majors then staggered back, laughing hysterically as I glanced down at the spreading stain of urine dashing against the inside of my pants.
CM: You should have seen your face! You were totally like 'Oh my god! He's gonna kill me!'. Did you just piss yourself!? This is better than the time I made Phil Fulmer faint and crack his head against a kicking tee! I managed a weak smile despite the overwhelming urge to vomit again. CM: Ooooooh shit. Good times. Ok, well, thanks but I gotta jet. Need to hit the can. Hit up the gym. This bagel is going to go straight to my thighs. Ciao. I couldn't help but notice there was a subtle sway to his hips as he sauntered off.