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Coaches Roundtable (Part One), with TheDarkHorse and steverodgers

By TheDarkHorse

Tom Cable: Sitting in the dark in Alameda. (Source: AlltheAbove)

THEDARKHORSE: Alright, steverodgers, the draft has come and gone, Pac Man’s hanging out with Ochocinco, Tony Romo’s won a playoff game sans Jessica, and Big Bad Orton’s still the starter (barely) in Denver. When will the other shoe drop? What do you see in your 2010 crystal ball?

STEVERODGERS: What do I see…? I see another glorious NFL season. I see Kyle Orton making the leap and hitting some passes for over 10 yards. I see Brady Quinn flexing in the mirror, his clipboard watches mildly impressed. I see the Pats recording only five sacks for the entire season. I see Mangini and Holmgren on a road trip, the car is full of snacks, they listen to Journey and discuss secret offenses and the Mississippi Showboats 1984 USFL Season. I see my Sunday’s spent away from my family. I see John Clayton writing article after article that I completely disagree with. DH, what do you see? Where does the NFL go this year? Who will be the heroes, the villains, the ones left with their fans in stands wearing paper bags on their heads?

THEDARKHORSE: I think, even today, Holmgren calls Mangini down to his office, and–in a slowly developing friendship–Holmgren opens the little fridge, pulls out two PBRs, cracks his, cracks Mangini’s, and pushes it across the desk. They sit and talk Montana, Young, Favre, Elway, Brady (Tom not Quinn), McCoy. Mangini is concerned about the age along the defensive line. “I need you speak with Heckert–speak with Tom–I need a lean, quick, 5 technique defensive end to spell Smith–I need two young defensive tackles… we need this by June, Mike.” Holmgren dials his admin. “Yes, Mr. Holmgren.” “Vivian, can we get two steaks, medium, and a couple of baked potatoes in here?” “Yes, Mr. Holmgren. Do you want slices of cake?” “Yes, Vivian, two slices of chocolate cake.” Holmgren hangs up and looks at Mangini, “It’s gonna’ be OK, Eric. We’re on a trajectory here.” They sit deep into the night–drinking cans of PBR, probably 10 each–at one stage, Mangini draws up a brand-new NFL defense, the 1-8-2. “I call it ‘The Drunken Tot,’ and do you see what it does?”
Mangini draws up an opposing offense with rapid, efficient strokes on the dry-erase board. “Drunken Tot will nag, defuse, and destroy the ‘The Wildcat.’ We’ll wait. We’ll unleash this Week 13 in Miami. We’ll drop the hammer, Mike.”
Holmgren chuckles to himself, drifting back into his massive, plush-leather easy chair, staring out over the practice fields below, and the distant rooftops, neon, and church spires of quiet Berea, entering nightfall.

STEVERODGERS: The Big Rex down in N.Y. runs out of steam this year. Late in the season, he ransacks Mangini’s old office, hoping to find some Aspirin, maybe a warm beer–only to find Baby Ruth wrappers and postcards of Australia. The clock is ticking. He’s hungry, but he can only eat what his stomach allows. There are meals that he has to skip. He remembers boyhood meals, sitting around the table, huge meals of pasta, milks, sodas, fried chicken, canned-fruit salad, epic deserts, and football conversations. His father would sit in his chair after and talk about “Bringing the Heat.” He’d say, “Listen boys, in the end it’s all bullshit. Your front just needs to have more than their front. Reduce it to a brawl, just bring the heat.” He would drift off to sleep. The boys would retreat to their shared room and fill notebooks with trick plays and defenses. They based one defense on the original seven G.I. Joe members. He still has those notebooks, and every time he runs. or sees his brother run, the “Clutch, SnakeEyes Right,” he smiles. He sits in Mangini’s old office, one light is on, he remembers sneaking a beer for the first time at Randall Cunningham‘s wedding–everything was white that day. He remembers his mother, always there with a grilled cheese on Sundays in front of the TV. There will be more seasons, he thinks, this is just one season of my life. He finds a piece of paper, he writes “Bringing the Heat” at the top, in big block letters. He begins to diagram plays.

THEDARKHORSE: Tom Cable out in Oakland sits in his office with the lights shut off. Pitch-black. No windows. He’d asked for an office with no windows. He’d told the Raiders’ facilities man, “No windows. This Harbor Bay Parkway is a dump–and I don’t want to stare out at a dump all day and night, now do I, slim?” They’d created Cable’s office out of a refurbished maintenance bay–tall, concrete ceilings with piping running to and fro. In the darkness, Cable listened to the waterways–and thrived. The room was sparse–a desk; a blank, standard dry-erase on the wall; and a fully-stocked liquor cabinet. In a hollow, pea-green filing cabinet in the corner, he kept five handguns, a hunter’s knife, and a map of the Canadian forest. Cable lounged in his chair, silent, alone. Occasionally, a knock at the door, but they knew not to burst in. Hours would pass–no team meetings, not a phone ringing, nothing. Every day, at 4 p.m., like clockwork, the loudspeaker at the facility would crackle to life, followed by the sound of a raspy man, clearing his throat. “Raideerrrrzzzz………… men of Oakland,” Al Davis whispers to all living beings with ear shot. “Stay classy……. Raideeerrrrzzzz.” Then it would cut out. Cable on another planet. Dreaming about guns, whiskey, and the northern woods.

STEVERODGERS: Cable is a madman! DarkHorse, I believe it’s happy hour here at ReadAndReact HQ. Let’s find Artie and C-O-U-R-T-N-E-Y! and put out some calls to see how Rookie Camp is going. Ears to the ground and bellies to the bar. We’ll meet here tomorrow to finish up with our Coaches Roundtable. As they like to say in Oakland: “The autumn wind, my friend. The autumn wind.” Beer time!

THEDARKHORSE: Can we get french fries?

STEVERODGERS: Yes.