[Ed. Another submission from imafreak]

He strode through the masses, a beacon of hope and light. They huddled, seemingly at His knees, due to His height. To the wretched and fearful Michigan fans looking up at him, he seemed wreathed in light as the sun’s rays appeared to emanate from His fleshly body. His thonged sandals shed bits of Old Testament sand with each step, reminiscent of the words of mathematical wisdom that He scattered from His tongue. His face, framed by shoulder length, unkempt brunette hair and full beard, was kindly and benevolent. Occasionally His head would bob, and the sun would peak from behind, blinding any onlooker audacious enough to look into His beatific face.

Huddled Mass: Are you Our Lord and Savior?

A spasm of concern marred His face as He picked up His pace. Hurrying up a set of steps to a door ahead, He called back “no, no, Funkymoses will do.”

One of the wretched began mouthing the word ‘Funkymoses’ over and over as if searching his memory banks. “That’s Brian Cook!”

An audible gasp ran through the crowd as they surged forward and up around the steps like a human tide rolling in. They began calling out questions and requests. “How did you invent the zone read offense?” “Look at my print out. I’ve graphically represented the final score of the Iowa game.” “I facebook friended Seantrel Henderson!” As He slipped through the door, one last question followed him into the room. “When will the OSU UFR be out?”

He absently minded mumbled “middle of next week” as he shut the door. As the portal closed, shutting off the heavenly light, a transformation came over him. Without changing size he appeared to shrink. Imperfections, such as the chai tea stain on his Olde Schoole Michigan Hockey Sweater, materialized. He became the most normal of Ann Arbor’s denizens—a hippie in desperate need of a shave and a haircut. The cloying smell of patchouli slowly invaded the room (that was a weak, cheap shot, I admit.)

Greeting him were two men seated at a table. The first, RichRod, stood up to introduce the second—a young man with a blue blazer (bearing a pseudo-British crest on the pocket) over a pastel, open collared shirt.

RICHROD: Brian, I presume you know chitown?

As the preppy reached out to shake hands, his bare ankle peeped out from the opening between his kakhis and docksiders.

RICHROD: Now all we need is…

The polite scene was shattered with the sound of crashing glass as a humanoid figure hurtled through a previously unmentioned window.

RICHROD: Commander dex. Now we can get started.

The projectile human sprang up from the ground, his long Navarre jersey falling to his thighs, on bare skin.

HUMAN PROJECTILE MAN: I’m good!

DIRTY HIPPIE: (glancing at EAST COAST PREPPY) Is he wearing pants?

HUMAN PROJECTILE MAN: I’m not going to wear pants again until there’s a playoff system in college football… Or Michigan beats OSU… OK, I’ll probably put pants back on tomorrow but for now this is how I roll.

EAST COAST PREPPY: Before we get down to business, I’m finished up a letter to the refs for this weekend’s game. “Dear Referines, please find enclosed the agreed upon sum. Make it look good. Best Regards, WLA.” Should I add anything else?

DIRTY HIPPIE: Have them call a delay of game on Penn. State for crowd noise.

EAST COAST PREPPY: It’s a home game.

DIRTY HIPPIE: Exactly.

HUMAN PROJECTILE MAN: Tell them to Get. Fucked.

RICHROD: I can still add up to 3 seconds onto the clock right?

EAST COAST PREPPY: We’re good for that and several generous spots in addition to the usual stuff.

Then came a knock and a fumbling at the door. It opened to admit a figure dressed in orange and black Stormtrooper armor and a (super ghey) necklace made of Buckeyes.

STORMTROOPER DUDE: Hey is this… (then eyes locked on RICHROD) Oh sweet little 6 pound 4 ounce baby Jesus, no… (backing away.)

EAST COAST PREPPY: $am, I think the Tressel Intervention is down the hall.

STORMTROOPER DUDE quickly backs out, eyes never leaving RICHROD, crossing himself.

RICHROD: Well, why don’t we get started before anything strange happens. I ‘spect you gents have noticed that I get worse press in this here town than a ‘coon poacher. The fancy men down in the PR department thought it would help to meet with you all in the media to be friendly like. I figured, I’d start with you bloggers to kind of warm up for them sharks that have real media jobs.

Look fellas, we’re just gettin’ things started here at Michigan. And we got ‘em started off with a bang this season. But poor lil’ Tater Tot, is more beat up’n the junker Camaro my Pa used to run shine in. And Shoelaces, well his head’s still spinning like a trailer park tornado. We jus need a lil’ time without all you jackals tryin’ to tear us apart. Is there anything you can do for me with y’all’s readers?

DIRTY HIPPIE: Well Coach, I have very little control over my readers. There are like a well-educated pack of hyenas ravenously looking for the next target to idolize or tear down. Sometimes, I can nudge them in a certain direction but in the end they’ve got to eat. I’ll see if I can’t get them off chasing some shadow conspiracy about Coach Carr and start a blog war with Deadspin. That should give you some room.

RICHROD: (turning towards EAST COAST PREPPY) I’m not quite sure what to make of your site. Are your readers communists, for real, or just homosexual felons?

EAST COAST PREPPY: Well Coach, we’re not exactly sure that we have readers.

RICHROD: I seen you guys put up about 1000 comments a day?

EAST COAST PREPPY: Those are all him (nodding his head at HUMAN PROJECTILE MAN.) But we pledge to continue serving as your propaganda mouthpiece for the greater good of the State.

RICHROD: (looking slightly puzzled) That’s great. Now, where I’m from we have what’s called a barter economy. That means I don’t ask you to do something fer me less’n I’m willing to do something fer you.

DIRTY HIPPIE: Can you retroactively bench Pat Massey?

RICHROD: No.

DIRTY HIPPIE: Clean up your grammar?

RICHROD: Well, I reckon goodt grammar depends on what part of the country the listener is at.

DIRTY HIPPIE: Stop with the Lion King jokes?

RICHROD: That I can do.

Unnoticed, one of the bedraggled masses had lifted himself up into the window broken by HUMAN PROJECTILE MAN’s entrance.

FILTHY PROLETARIOT: Can you run a play where you direct snap to Carlos Brown and he hands it to Shoelaces who pitches it to Tate who throws it back to Brow…

Quick, like striking cobra, HUMAN PROJECTILE MAN shoots across the glass strewn floor, leading with his clenched fist. The crunch of cartilage. The thud of dazed meat striking pavement. And thus ended the innovative play calling.

Before anyone could react to the brutal carnage, a fallen hero’s angelic voice suffused the room.

“Country road, take me home. To the place I be-long…”

RICHROD pulls a maize and blue phone from his pocket and answers it–closing the door to paradise.

RICHROD: Yeah. OK. How many rolls? Be there quicker than you can cash a welfare check.

Well, gents that was Coach Robinson. He needs more masking tape and glue for the defense. See y’all Saturday. And remember, hold that rope.