R E D C L A D L O O N
Winging It 7:
THIS NOTE'S FOR YOU
On Oct. 26, 2001, President Bush signed the USA Patriot Act into law. With this law we have given sweeping new powers to both domestic law enforcement and international intelligence agencies, including the power to spy on citizens' e-mail conversations.In recent weeks, a high-ranking White House staffer, however, has (allegedly) leaked the following classified transcripts.
JOE DAILEY'S E-MAIL TO JAMMAL LORD:
Hey, bud, about all this "Start Dailey now" stuff: I just want you to know that you've got a much better handle on this offense, and I consider you my mentor and my teacher, and even I know that I'm not quite ready for prime time yet. One of the things I've learned since I've been here is how lousy and intimidating it can feel to be primed to do great things for the team, only to have the critical masses ready to chant the new guy's name. I really feel for you, dog. You the man.
JAMMAL LORD'S E-MAIL TO SCOTT FROST:
Just like you suggested after the win over Penn State, I listened to the audio of the 1997 Central Florida game. And you know, you're right. It's pretty clear that the booing was limited to the student section -- and maybe just a small part of the student section, at that. And heck, it's obvious that they weren't booing YOU in specific, but in actuality they were booing the decision not to keep your young backup in the game. I feel a ton better now. A ton!
SCOTT FROST'S E-MAIL TO ELL ROBERSON:
If your widdle finger doesn't heal up soon, you'll hurt more than your club's chances of winning the North -- you'll really screw up your current draft status as the 13th best prospect at free safety. Do what I did, you wuss -- play through the pain and find your way onto an NFL roster somewhere. You don't want to be hanging around Manhattan bars in six years, living off your past glory. Believe me on that one.
ELL ROBERSON'S NOTE TO CHANCE MOCK:
When people see you on campus and tell you "Way to go," they're just being nice. Just so you know.
CHANCE MOCK'S E-MAIL TO JOHN MACKOVIC:
Sorry to hear about your, um, problems in Tucson. All I can say is, I know how it feels to have absolutely no one who wears your school's color wanting anything to do with you. Sometimes, I feel like an embarrassment to my family, too. Chin up.
JOHN MACKOVIC'S E-MAIL TO MARK MAY:
As luck would have it, I just found myself with some free time and was thinking about seeing about getting my old job back. Think you could put in a good word with the suits up in Bristol for me? In anticipation of my return to the airwaves, I've even thought of a new weekly feature called "Being John Mackovic." We could select one lucky viewer each week to have a chance of taking a legitimate Pac-10 contender and turning them into the cast of "Boys on the Side." Ain't that great? I'll be waiting to hear back from you. And by the way, I always liked you best.
MARK MAY'S E-MAIL TO RASHAUN WOODS:
Tough break there up there in Lincoln. Still, if you and your brothers would have gone to a Big 10 or a Pac-10 school in the first place, you wouldn't have had to go through all of that. What's so great about the Great Plains, anyway?
RASHAUN WOODS' E-MAIL TO BO PELINI:
I am extremely, extremely frightened of you. Please take the Tucson job, for all of our sakes. Please.
BO PELINI'S E-MAIL TO FRANK SOLICH:
Don't worry your square little head off about all this Arizona talk. It's just a rumor. If there's one thing I've learned since I took this job, it's that if anyone anywhere even thinks about quitting or retiring or getting fired, I'm automatically considered for the job by some sportswriter, somewhere. But I'm perfectly happy where I am. And, just so I don't have to send you individual e-mails over the course of this season, I will have no interest in the Auburn, Notre Dame, Florida or Penn State openings at the end of the year, either. Just so that's clear. Gotta get back to practice, Demorrio needs to be fed and we're all out of raw meat.
FRANK SOLICH'S E-MAIL TO GARY BARNETT:
Whoa. Two and two, and it's barely October. Well, I wouldn't sweat that .500 record so much -- I've been there and done that, and look at how things have turned around for me a year later. You guys will probably catch fire like you always seem to do in the second half of the season. And hey, speaking of .500, if I'm not mistaken, you could win out and finally be over .500 for your career. Good luck with that, and we'll see you in November at your place.
GARY BARNETT'S E-MAIL TO BILL SNYDER:
Boy, at least when we get beat, it's a total meltdown at the hands of a team in the Top 25, not to some ham-n-egger MAC squad. You ever wonder if your guys blew this one because you're maybe wound just a little too tight? It's like my anger-management therapist tells me: Ninety-five percent of the things that you worry about will never happen. The other 5 percent, however, will kill you. Guess the law of averages finally caught up with you, huh? By the way, we plan on running a whole bunch on you, too.
BILL SNYDER'S E-MAIL TO BOB PRUETT:
I'm returning the green-and-white "Game of the Century 27-20" T-shirt with regrets. It was a fine token of your esteem, but Section 4.1.300.21.1(b) of my Personal Operations Code prohibits me from owning, much less wearing, regalia designed with colors other than PowerCat Purple. Sorry, rules are rules; we all have our crazy crosses to bear, and I guess being an evil emotionless robot is mine. P.S. -- I'd certainly appreciate it if you didn't share that game tape with anyone. Particularly if their ZIP Code is 68508. Just tell them you lost it in the postgame celebration.
- Mr. Snyder
BOB PRUETT'S E-MAIL TO LARRY BLAKENEY:
Braaayyyy! Braaayyyy! I sure do feel like an ass these days. Guess that will teach me to sit around signing all of those commemorative "Miracle in Manhattan" sweatbands instead of preparing for your mighty Men of Troy. Just so we're straight, I hope you didn't take my postgame comments as a suggestion that your win over us was a fluke. That's not what I meant, not at all. Like my mama always used to tell me, "If a crow craps on you, don't blame the crow. Blame the crap." And crap is exactly how we played last Saturday. If we would've been even halfway decent on either side of the ball, I wouldn't have to write this e-mail -- oops, see, there I go again. Nice game.
LARRY BLAKENEY'S E-MAIL TO MIKE PRICE:
From one Alabaman to another, I thought you should know: She was faking it.
MIKE PRICE'S E-MAIL TO STEVE PEDERSON:
As I have found myself with ample spare time these days, I took in your boys' game against Southern Miss the other night. Hey, if you want an offensive coordinator who can show you guys how to throw the ball really, really well, just drop me a line. I'll be around, watching ESPN. Or Cinemax, if it's after 11 p.m. EDT. Let the phone ring a few times if that's the case.
-M. Price, esq.
STEVE PEDERSON'S E-MAIL TO NIKE:
Thank you very much for the free merchandise and for the thoughtful presentation to our staff this week. You have great-looking products, and I am convinced we could both make out like bandits if you were awarded our school's contract. However, I'm afraid we're kind of boxed in with adidas and this whole "Husker Nation" thing right now. Because of this, your Cornhusker stuff is the "wrong" color of scarlet: Think somewhere on the spectrum between Washington State and Ohio State, and then come back next year. By the way, here's three little hints for putting together any future uniform proposals -- red pants, red pants, red pants.
- Steve Pederson
NIKE'S E-MAIL TO D.T. McDOWELL:
Yo, little man. You see the kind of coin LeBron is raking in, true? Well, he only plays ONE sport, kid. You can only imagine what we could do with someone like you. It'd be like Vick-meets-Jeter, wearin' scarlet and cream. You scratch our back, we'll scratch yours -- you stick to your word and go to Lincoln, but only if they promise to switch to The Swoosh. Then leave the rest to us, dog.
-Your boys in Portland
D.T. McDOWELL'S E-MAIL TO JOE DAILEY:
That FieldTurf is pretty green under your feet right now, son. Enjoy it while it lasts -- because in 10 short months, I'll be gunnin' for your butt. Just wait until all those Husker fans get a load of ME.
Red. White. Loon.
Get your ovenstuff'd Husker goodness at THE POND,
Home of Nebraska's RED CLAD LOON.
Winging It 7: