[Ed. The following post was written by imafreak] 

Richard Rodriguez walked alone through the forest in the autumn, Ann Arbor night. (I figured I’d start out with some ridiculously obvious symbolism to prepare you, the reader, for the even more transparent metaphor-thingies to come.) Well, he wasn’t completely alone. A chain connected to a leather strap that Rodriguez held in his right hand, terminated in a huge Gray Wolf. One of those companions that it might just be safer to be without. With that in mind, Rodriguez had the strap of the leash in his hand, rather than around his hand. That way, if it came to a disagreement, Rodriguez wasn’t putting up his hand as collateral.

 

The full moon glance dispassionately down on Rodriguez. No pizza pie in the eye romantic Italian moon was this, though. Its jaundiced glow didn’t so much illuminate the forest setting as provide contrast between the long jagged shadows of the trees. The cumulative effect was to obscure visibility by painting imaginary black teeth on the forest floor. The tableau of visual chaos was increased by the few leaves that the trees had left lying around as a harbinger of the great fall that was approaching.

 

Rodriguez’s feet crunched on the ground (The Beast padded a silent path of barely repressed destruction) partially due to the leaves but mostly because Winter was making the first moves of her slow invasion and the grass was brittle in the chill. Here in Ann Arbor Winter doesn’t arrive one day with a beautiful blanket of snow and shimmering icicles. She starts by sneaking in at night when honest folk are abed. As Fall ages, Winter and her paramour Night chew up the sunlight day by day. Until one day you wake up and find Winter has wrapped you in her terrible, frigid bear hug of grey gloom. Once She has you (I refuse to write ‘in her icy clutches’), She stays. She is only defeated by the arrival of Spring. That yearly miracle which seems no less astonishing than the miracle celebrated with its arrival—the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

 

Despite all these gloomy images and portents of doom I’ve conjured up, Rodriguez was in fine spirits. He floated through the troubled town—a culture that perceived itself on the brink of destruction—a tiny bubble of hope. Like the thin veneer of space suit that holds the precious molecules of atmosphere from dissipating into the endless emptiness along with the body of the astronaut, Michigan’s future was concentrated in one place amidst a vacuum hungry for its destruction.

 

As Rodriguez stepped out of the forest and into a clearing he knew Michigan wasn’t… out of the woods yet (sorry?) His plan for world domination existed only in his brain. Patience was needed. The plan couldn’t just jump out of his head full formed like Athena. It needed to buil–recruit by recruit. Day by day. One game at a time. But with his first win in 2009, Rodriguez was finally beginning to give off sparks. And the next game represented a bonfire that could bring the conflagration to a national audience and drive away the night. If only briefly.

 

Just then Rodriguez realized the clearing he had entered was actually a graveyard. “Figures,” he mumbled.

 

The Beast began urinating on a gravestone. Rodriguez’s instinct was to pull The Beast away and interrupt the sacrilege. But he noticed the name on tombstone, Fielding Yost, and let the dog finish with a chuckle. The chuckle took a mischievous turn as Rodriguez decided to join in and unzipped his pants. Just then a man behind Rodriguez cleared his throat. Hastily Rodriguez adjusted himself and mumbled “what does a guy have to do to catch a break in this town?” as he turned to face his guest.

 

He was face to face with a man in a suit and strange looking overcoat with an olde tyme hat. The man’s image shimmered a little in the moonlight. With a sniff, The Beast dismissed the specter. His only interest was in flesh and blood beings that could be crushed between his jaws. He had no time for the paranormal.

 

The Ghost of Fielding Yost demanded, “who are you?”

 

“Golly, sir, I am terribly sorry. I’m Coach Rodriguez,” drawled the coach.

 

“Rodriguez? I don’t understand. Are you a red neck or are you a Mexican?”

 

“Aw shucks, Coach, closest I ever came to Mexico was catching Montezuma’s Revenge from drinking water out the crick down in the holler. I had the runs so bad my Pappy made me sleep underneath the house with the dogs.”

 

“Why did you just tell me that?”

 

“Well Coach, I guess it was my way of saying I’m not so much Mexican as I am Hispanic.”

 

As Rodriguez babbled, a large mound, nearly a small hill, shuffled toward the two figures. A wheezing, emanating from somewhere inside the mass, became audible as it grew closer.

 

“Look here Spanish you’ve got a big game coming up this weekend and I want to help you with that.”

 

“You mean to give me some kind of a distinct schematic advantage?”

 

At that a snort erupted from the mass.

 

“Charles why are you wearing that ridiculous hooded overcoat. It looks like something a Mohammaden woman would wear?”

 

The mass removed its hood revealing the face of Charlie Weis. “Fielding, I said I wanted to be called Darth Sidious.” His voice was strangely high pitched for such a large man—and grated on the nerves.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Charles.” And then back to Rodriguez, “This is how it is Spanish, when Charles was a student at Notre Dame, the other kids called him fat. Ever since he’s hated Notre Dame just as much as me.”

 

“Then one night when I was coaching the Patriots to all those Super Bowls,” continued Weis, “Thomas sand I were relaxing with some cold Zimas. Well, Thomas only had one because he’s a bit of a light weight. And me, well I was mixing mine with beef gravy so it’s difficult to figure how many I had. But Thomas suggested a plan that would help Michigan and allow me to get back at Notre Dame. All I had to do was get hired as Notre Dame’s Head Football Coach and I then I could have a nice run ruining them. I like winning Super Bowls as much as the next guy but I felt like I owed Thomas, you know, for my career.”

 

“You gentlemen ever seen the Lion King?”

 

“Zip it, Spanish!”

 

Just then, a young man in a Michigan jersey with the number 16 riding furiously on a bike careened into the light. As the bike slowed the man jumped off and released the bike to continue on and crash audibly in the darkness.

 

All three men looked quizzically at him.

 

“My car’s in the shop,” explained the young man who then noticed Rodriguez. “Commander dex of the Wolverine Liberation Army at your service, Coach.”

 

“Well gee, dex, I don’t reckon I’ve ever met a Commander before.”

 

Nervously, dex eyed The Beast. “That a lycanthrope?”

 

“Now son, what in the hell is a lycanthrope?”

 

“A werewolf” and with that dex nodded at the full moon.

 

“No son, that’s just Coach Barwis’ wolf.”

 

“Why are you here with it?”

 

“Well, Coach Barwis decided the team needed some late night mandatory, voluntary workouts. We got to do them at night, you see, to hide from the compliance people. And since I’m not allowed to be there I figured…”

 

dex’s face fell like a man too old to be crushed when he realizes his hero has feet of clay but is crushed all the more so for the knowledge. Then an avalanche of cynicism slammed down. “For real?”

 

“Shucks, no. I’m just joshing you. I’m just walking the man’s wolf. Lord amighty you MICHIGAN MEN all seem to think I just ain’t got no brains? Anways, I’m happy to see you are all in for Michigan,” he indicated the number 16 on dex’s jersey. “You a big fan of Shoelaces?”

 

“Sir, it’s a Navarre jersey, circa 2003,” dex finished proudly.

 

“Navarre, was he that lead footed QB that Carr converted from a, what was it? Tight end?” interjected Weis.

 

“John Jonathan Navarre was the best QB to ever don the Maize and Blue.”

 

“Oh, the field is crowned what will I ever do?” And with that Weis laughed. But it wasn’t the traditional belly laugh of most fat men—bowl full of jelly and all. The laugh emanated from the top of the throat, like his GI tract was crammed with food right up to his tonsils.

 

“Do you want to know what happened to the last guy that made fun of Navarre?”

 

“No dex we don’t,” interjected Yost.

 

“I gave him the barbed wire baseball bat treatment.”

 

“You didn’t dex.”

 

“I didn’t?”

 

“No dex you didn’t. Why couldn’t you just throw an empty water bottle at him like a regular blogger?”

 

“Hey, if you say I didn’t then I didn’t.”

 

“Criminy, I’m dead and all I’ve got to work with is a fat Catholic, some redneck Spaniard, and a homicidal communist!”

 

With that Rodriguez broke in chuckling, “Hey, maybe one a you can ‘splain this here rye-VUL-ree deal we got goin’ on with them BuckEyes cuz, for the life of me I just cain’t seem to get it.”

 

“Why is he here anyway?” as dex flicked his head disdainfully in Weis’ direction.

 

“He’s our insider. He’s going to throw the game for us.”

 

“If he’s an insider then why is Michigan only 2-2 against him?”

 

“Well dex, we had to sacrifice that first season to get him the big contract.”

 

Weis butted in, “I tried last season. Lord knows, I tried. I let that little bunny rabbit tailback run all over us. The one receiver route. But I don’t catch the kicks. You can’t say I didn’t try.” Weis stopped but then went off again in a huff. “Seriously, I’m the Jersey Boy Genius. Do people really believe I’m actually trying? Have you seen my offensive line play? I keep trotting out these… well let’s just say metrosexual QBs. No one, and I mean, no one likes Clausen. Although, it is fun watching him run around back there. I did win all those Super Bowls didn’t I?”

 

“Charles, calm down. We need you to survive, at least until Saturday.”

 

“Affirmative, Chief. So, what’s the plan? Want to see the Boy Wonder get sacked 12 times?”

 

“You’re the genius, Charles. I’ll leave the details to you. Just get it done this time.”

 

As Yost finished he had to raise his voice over a once low rumble that had built to a cacophony of discordant sounds. A muscle car with North Carolina plates pulled up on a heretofore unnoticed road. The car, a fossil from the vanished halcyon days of Detroit, which had evolved, until now, unnoticed to all but the most die hard car enthusiasts and those whose livelihood depended on the car industry, in the hidden laboratories of the Motor City, slowed and the passenger window rolled down. A fresh wave tortured of guitars and growling rolled over the scene.

 

“Great galloping ghosts, what is that infernal noise?” queried Yost indignantly.

 

“Pantera,” added dex, simply.

 

“Doesn’t anyone listen to Bon Jovi anymore?” whined Weis to no one.

 

dex addressed the open window. “We’re good. We got an Insider.”

 

The car roared off in a burst of consumed fossil fuels.

 

dex turned back to the 3 coaches. “It’s cool. He’s got a list that’ll keep him busy.”