And of course, I talk shit. I'm going to tell you how good I am and exactly what I'm going to do to you while I do it. It makes it all the better when I whip your ass, take your heart and your girl, and maybe your sister too, if she's hot enough.
Coach Bainridge doesn't seem to agree with my assessment, however, and his face turns a little pink as he listens to my question. It’s a low blow. I mean, it wasn't his fault his ex-wife ran off with a younger guy. "You little shit. You're lucky that you're even still on this team after the stunts you've pulled. I could throw you off the team, you know."
"And if you do, I declare for the supplemental draft that's coming up soon, get selected, and cash in early while you get your contract bought out. I'll be in the pros while you're stuck doing what? Analysis on some second-rate cable network? That's really supposed to scare me?"
Coach smirks, and for the first time in our entire conversation, I'm somewhat disturbed. I'm the one who’s supposed to be in charge of this conversation, not him. Then why does he look like he's under control? "I don't think so, Duncan."
"What's that supposed to mean? In case you don't remember, I'm not one of your scholarship losers. I'm fully paid up. My dad paid all of my way through this school. I can walk, and it doesn't hurt me. You can't hurt me."
Coach leans forward, putting his forearms on the desk, and shakes his head. "Oh, but Duncan, I can. You say you can declare for the supp draft, and that's true. But try getting drafted if it comes out that you're a ball hog and a bad teammate who causes drama for any team that drafts him. The teams can find out about your party habits. The League nearly crucified the last little shit who tried to ride out the gravy train while having your sort of past. What's he doing now? Oh yeah, that's right, drug rehab in an in-treatment facility about an hour south of Santa Barbara with no contract and about ten million dollars’ worth of lawsuits sitting in his lap when he gets out."
Shit. "You can't. I'll sue you for defamation of character."
Coach laughs again, like I've just told the funniest joke in the world. "Sue me? Duncan, first, you'd have to prove that I did actually reveal any information, and there are so many sources out there. The reality is that for three years now, I've been covering for you, not revealing anything about you."
Like that matters. "Yeah, just like every other coach around college ball. You guys get a player with my talent, and you bend over backward to make sure we stay eligible and putting cash in your pockets. How much is that Nike endorsement contract the team signed last year worth to you? Half a million a year?"
"That contract is written with the knowledge that players like you come in and fade out. There are some who have a good year, then shit happens," Coach counters, still smiling a little smile that disturbs me. Maybe Bainridge knows something more than I do. “By the way, I know you had that agency do an evaluation of your potential draft position over the summer, and I know the results. Coming off the chips in your elbow, and as a tight end, regardless if you have good speed and hands for that position and can play slot, you were looking at nothing higher than a third-round pick in April's draft, weren't you?"
Damn, Coach knows more about me than I thought. Talking with an agent like that is technically against the rules, although I never signed any contract with them, so there's nothing that can be proven. "Something like that."
Bainridge nods and continues. "But if you put up good numbers this year, you've got a chance at a first-or second-round pick, which doubles or even triples the money you get on that rookie contract. I know you don't give a fuck about the money—you care about the fame and your reputation. Being some third-round scrub pick is nothing. Being a first-or second-rounder though, you come with expectations and a greater potential of fame. You think you're the first egotistical prick I've had to deal with in twenty years of being a head coach?"