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scandals—only a smattering of honor code violations, a couple of pranks gone wrong, and a few DUIs. Walker was a squeaky-clean program where Coach Carr turned good kids into even better men. And he did all of this while winning, season after glorious season. As Wolff so eloquently explained:
If a kid signs with Walker, odds are he is going to leave with a diploma, some bowl-game hardware, and more than a fair look from scouts, an irresistible combination from Clive Carr, the beloved coach straight out of central casting. The Knute Rockne of our generation, as rugged as Clint Eastwood, eloquent as Perry Mason, and handsome as George Clooney.
    I remember reading that paragraph, then staring down at the photosof Coach Carr—a candid shot of him standing stoically on the sidelines with his headset and hat, and another more styled, staged portrait of him on the Magnolia Quad—and thought,
Oh
,
please.
    Everything Wolff wrote was true, but I still felt a familiar stab of annoyance that I had to share my idol,
my
coach, with the masses. I remember rolling my eyes, then shoving that magazine into a drawer, along with coupons and paper clips and wedding invitations I’d forgotten to RSVP to.
    Right before I slammed the drawer shut, I spotted Miller’s number on a cocktail napkin that he’d given me the week before, on
another
drunken night out. I’d blown him off after Lucy labeled him a loser, and I decided she was probably right. But that morning, right after I ate a bowl of grits and a greasy biscuit, I picked up the phone and called him. He answered on the first ring, we went out that night, and we’d been dating ever since.
    Only now, with Mrs. Carr’s death as a wake-up call, I realized just how stuck I’d become, how much of a rut I was in. Something really had to be done. I had to find a way to mix things up. Move forward.
    I was thinking about all of this one afternoon as I took a long walk around the Walker grounds. Although I was on campus virtually every day including the weekends, I typically only passed between my office in the old field house and the student union center, where I picked up my lunch. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had strolled without purpose, maybe since I had been a student myself a dozen years before. I did an entire loop around the tree-lined grounds, from Wait Chapel on the quad, down to the dorms, over to the science and business centers on the banks of the Brazos River, then past the pillared mansions on Greek Row. I walked and walked, thinking about Mrs. Carr and Coach and Miller, my job and my life.
    Then, right when I got back to my office, I saw a note on my desk:
Coach Carr would like to see you.
I stared at it for a few nervous seconds, wondering what he wanted. Likely he just wanted to talk about the small feature Lucy had asked me to write on her mother’s life for ourhometown paper. I had given Coach a very polished draft a few days ago, with a note that said,
Let me know what you think. Happy to make any changes.
That had to be why he wanted to see me, I decided, as I got up and made my way to the other end of the field house, out the back door, and across the parking lot to the modern, gleaming new football complex. Crossing the marble lobby, I took the spiral staircase up three flights, admiring the shrine to the Broncos, glass cases filled with trophies and banners and photos, then entered the security code to open the doors leading to the coaches’ wing.
    When I arrived at the huge corner office, I found Mrs. Heflin, Coach’s longtime secretary and gatekeeper, manning her post. “Go on in, hon,” she said, jovial as ever.
    I glanced uneasily at the closed door, usually a sign that he didn’t want to be disturbed.
    “Don’t worry. He’s expecting you,” Mrs. Heflin said.
    I nodded, but still knocked quietly, tensing as I heard his familiar bellow to come in. I pushed the door open to find Coach sitting at his desk, listening to Trace Adkins’s