The Rules Reconsidered: Coach K's Dukedom

I was at Ye Olde Bull and Bush 76107 (please, no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned), speaking with the Bobby Stubbs.

"I'm never talking to you again," the Bobby said.

"Why not, dear Bobby?!"

"You made me the butt of your joke."

"No, dear sir, my drunken dart did."

"And you mentioned my name."

"Only Bobby!"

"Stubbs."

"Erroneous! I never linked the Stubbs to the particular wound you were dealt. You did."

"When?"

"Just now, Bobby."

"I hated it."

"Another round for anyone?" the Amy asked.

"I'll take two. One for me and one for the Stubbs. I owe him."

"Did you read his article?" the Stubbs asked, squirming on his stool.

"I did."

"What'd you think?"

"I liked it," the Amy said after some consideration--for which I liked her. "But I'm not serving another person ever again unless they refer to me as The Amy."

"Two rounds for the both of us, if it please the Amy!"

It was then I received a telephone correspondence. I had anticipated a missive, if not a missile, from the Barry Lewis, dear man, but this number was unfamiliar. Had he changed it?

"Hello?" I said.

"David Tucker here."

"The David! How are you, sir? Long time no hear!"

"I am calling you on behalf of Barry."

"How is the Barry?"

"He won't talk to you."

"And why not, David?"

The David Tucker sighed on the other end and I awaited clarification.

"Because he says that you will not quit quoting him though he asks you not to. And you won't quit saying things he said he didn't say."

"It's a necessary precondition for the fictional process, dear David."

"Yeah, he mentioned you might say something like that."

"The Barry knows me all too well, I aver!”

"So I am calling in his place. I am aware that this means that you may well give false reports about what we are about to discuss."

"Only in the name of art, David."

"I see. By the way, Barry says you are strictly banned from tennis."

"Well whatever for?"

"We were doing great until you showed up. Then Baylor slaughtered us."

"The mortification! It was a great tragedy, I agree."

"You are also banned from basketball. You attended and we lost to Texas. You failed to attend and we didn't."

"I am a victim of perfidious obloquy, David. Anything else?"

"Baseball. You attended and now we've lost two games straight."

"I would argue that may be coincidental. But okay. And football?"

"Yeah. You probably shouldn't show up there either."

"I see. So I am strictly prohibited from setting foot on any court or field in which a TCU athlete might conceivably set their own lavender feet--even if by accident."

"Correct."

"Hang on, David."

I uttered a litany of curses such as no patron or bartender, the Amy notwithstanding, has ever heard in the history of homo sapiens and swearing--which, according to certain theological experts, not least of all Kent the Lutheran, may predate homo sapiens.

"You okay?" the Stubbs asked.

"I'm being fired."

"The quality of Killer Frogs' prose might go up a bit then."

"How's your ass, Stubbs?"

"Hurts."

"Then could you stop speaking out of it, please, for both our sakes?" I unmuted my phone. "Are you there, David?'

"I am here."

"It's great to be loved."

"I agree."

"So you're saying I'm being fired, terminated, forcefully unemployed, relieved from all scrivener's duties."

"No. Not at all. We need you to write. Because when you write, even if no one understands what the hell you're saying . . ."

"Not least of all me!"

" . . . You not least of all, we win. It's as simple as that. You write, we win. So you have to write, but you can't attend. You write, we win. You attend, we lose. It's as simple as that."

"So I still have work?"

"I mean, yes. Just don't expect a raise any time soon."

"That's okay. That's what jobbing is for."

I took a sip on my Guinness, then another sip out of my Paddy's, offered the Stubbs a begrudging cheers, cleared my throat and said: "Is that all, dear David?"

"No. I have something for you to consider. Have you heard of Coach Krzyzewski?"

"David. I've hardly heard of a coach anything. From what of that would you surmise!”

"I thought it worth asking."

"Coach who the what?"

"Krzyzewski."

"How do you spell it."

"K, every consonant in the alphabet, throw an e in there and an i."

"I see."

"We call him Coach K, for short."

"Okay. The Coach Kghstywlbnmeqzpi, aka., the Coach K. I can see the piece inchoate in my mind's eye already."

"But I'm not going to say anything more for fear of self-incrimination. Instead, I'm going to send you a text of an article. Which, thank God, you didn’t write. Write what you don't know. That's what you're good at, no?"

"As long as it benefits the under-Frogs."

"It seems to."

"I shall."

I received another telephone correspondence shortly thereafter. An article about this Coach Krzyzewski and his Blue Devils, which to their nominal credit, was more original than Wildcats.

It was a piece about a farewell tour, though I had only heard the term applied in the context of a rock and roll band comprising members 50 years of age and older that lasts for around twenty-five years or more. According to the article in question, this is Coach K's 42nd (and final--supposedly, but the Stones have been saying that my whole life) season at Duke. And the more I read, the more clearly this Coach K., this beloved elite leader, was the beneficiary of some truly nefarious plotting by the National Collegiate Athletic Association.

It became more than a little persuasive to me immediately that the referees, those true devils, practically handed UNC the game in the Cameron Indoor Stadium, upsetting the grand Duke's home finale--by, of all opponents, an unranked team. Impossible.

Needless to say, despite Duke’s loss to an unranked team, and a grand rival, no less, there was plenty of conversation to be had, and though I know next to nil about anything when it comes to sports, I do know that conversation translates to money, unless, of course, it is my conversation involved! Which, of necessity, leads to the national tournament. And it's clear to me that there's plenty of money to be made by Coach K continuing to win.

Consider: Coach K recently earned his 100th NCAA National Tournament win (first ever), not to mention a list of career victories that surpasses 1200. Of course it goes without saying that an underdog is beloved in sports. The only thing more beloved is the graceful goodbye of a universally respected general in victory. Coach K is now in the Final Four, after having defeated Texas Tech, whom the Frogs barely beat, despite his last home game being a loss to an unranked team. What are the possibilities that those referees and the NCAA have established the Duke his Dukedom from which all other upstarts are banned? After all, how much money is there to be made by Coach K, in his final season, winning a National Championship?

Down with the tyrants, I say! Let royalty go the way of the French monarchy! Open the gates of freedom! Freedom sweet freedom! Democracy! Egalitarianism! Underfrogs Unite!

"What are you working on?"

It was the Clair, aka., the Clair Bear, standing impossibly lovely beside the Mike Cocanower, aka, the Cocaine-Hour.

"The finest conspiratorial piece written since the Warren Commission."

"Oh. What's it about?"

"Sports. You want in?"

"Only the Swimsuit edition," she said.

Mike laughed; I fumed.

"The only swimsuits in the Killer Frog Fan Nation belong to the swim team, and you are not allowed. Members only!"

"But what about you?"

"I'm not either. I've been banned from every TCU athletic event that involves a court or field."

"Swimming doesn't involve a court or field,” Claire mentioned, pensively.

It was then my next project emerged from nothingness.

"Claire, you're a genius!"

I delivered unto the Barry Lewis a text correspondence as quickly as I could.

"What are you doing?" the Mike asked, still humored by Claire's proposed self-objectification.

"Salvaging my sports privileges."

"I'm not talking to you," the Barry said.

"But Barry, I'm not banned from swimming! There's not a court or field!"

"They're too good. Good thing their season as concluded. You are no longer allowed to attend a TCU sporting event. Period."

"You're just like the NCAA. You get to make all the rules that benefit the people you like."

"And the people I like are the Frogs. And I'd like to quote yourself back to you. If the other team does it, it's a penalty; if the Frogs do it, it ain't. That means that if it's in our interest, that's the rule. And you attending anything with a Frog uniform or jersey is a compromise of our interests. But please keep writing. And that's all I'm going to say before you quote me."

"So I'm out?"

"You're out.”

“I’m out.”

“And so am I. Before you quote me. Goodbye!”

I stewed in my cups.

"How'd that go?" the Stubbs asked.

"I'm out."

"Cheers."

"Indeed."

"What's in a name anyway?" the Stubbs asked.

"Some people might want to know your name, Bobby."

"That's why I'm here."

"Where everybody knows your name," I said. We shared a Cheers. "And just as importantly, knows how to spell it!"

Want to join the discussion? Click here to become a member of the Killer Frogs message board community today!

Follow KillerFrogs on Twitter to stay updated on all the latest TCU news! Follow KillerFrogs on Facebook and Instagram as well. Download the KillerFrogs app on Google Play or in the Apple App Store.