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[A man sits eating a cold pizza alone in his garage in a golf cart. An oil painting of Woody Hayes hangs on one wall. From time to time, in between bites, the man looks up at the portrait, and then back down to his pizza. Four empty beer cans linger at his feet. He drinks from another in the dark. His phone rings.]

URBAN MEYER: Huhhnnggrrgghh.

JIM HASLAM: Urban! This is Jimmy Haslam.

UM: Who?

JH: Jimmy. I own the Browns.

UM: Someone owns the Browns. Huh. I thought they were, like, free-range. Feral. Something like that.

JH: Wanted to talk to you about someone. Pick your brain a little.

[Urban reaches into his shirt, pulls out slice of six week old pizza]

UM: Sure.

JH: I was wonderin' what you thought of Greg Schiano.

UM: Uh---

[his burner phone in his pocket buzzes. URBAN MEYER rubs his eyes. The number ID reads: B. BELICHICK]


UM: --yeah, he's...he's great.

JH: That's what Bill said. Just loved him.

UM: Everyone does.

JH: You think what happened in Tampa says anything about his NFL future? I need your complete honesty here.

UM: Oh, no. No one's ever been successful in Tampa.

JH: Well, except for Tony Dungy and Jon Gruden, Coach.

UM: Megachurches and Hooters. That's all Tampa is, and that's all Dungy and Gruden need. In that order. Schiano's more of a, um...Quicken Loans kind of man?

JH: What do you mean by that?

UM: It's a coaching term. He's a man's coach, Jim.

JH: Bill said that too.

UM: Yup. A coach with balls. And a dick. He's got all three of those, I think. That's what you want if you want a coach who's a man.

JH: You're getting me excited, Urban.

UM: You should be. I know a lot of things about Greg Schiano, but I know this more than anything else: He. Is. A. Football.


UM: Coach.

JH: Well, I'm sold.

UM: So am I.

JH: What are you buyin'?

UM: Whatever you're sellin', buddy.

JH: Well here it is.

UM: Well there you go.

JH: Just puttin' it out there.

UM: And I'm pickin' it up.

JH: But you're dishin' it out, son.

UM: And I'm shakin' and bakin' the whole way.

JH: We're cookin' now!

UM: If you can't take the heat get INTO this kitchen.

JH: Sounds like I got me a new chef.

UM: Bort bort bort, buddy.

JH: Gonna go to Tampa to plate this up.

UM: Bon appetit, big fella.

[JH hangs up. Urban slumps into his seat, sighs. His phone buzzes.]


UM: Yeah, I did, just like you said to do with NFL people. Threw in some friendly gibberish, too. He loved it.


UM: They're gonna interview him ASAP. Hey, why are you doing this? He's awful.


UM: Well, sure.

[Urban resumes eating pizza in a dark garage, and doesn't wonder once why Bill Belichick can hear him talking out loud in his own home.]