SCENE: HOUSTON NUTT’S home office, some 24 hours after the conclusion of the Cotton Bowl. The room is brightly lit, overly so, and the faint scent of Lemon Pledge and Phillip’s Grocery corn nuggets is wafted about the room by a squeaky, off-kilter ceiling fan. HOUSTON NUTT is sitting at his desk, clutching a Dan Brown novel in his right hand. There is a low, unenthusiastic knock at the door.
HOUSTON NUTT: Gig?!
Peering through a now slightly opened office door is JEVAN SNEAD, clad in a red polo shirt, jeans, and a flat-brimmed Texas Rangers cap.
JEVAN SNEAD: Uh, so, that means I come now, or..
HN: Yeah yeah, come in Jevan.
JS walks in and throws himself into a chair. Quickly slouching, he has an air of impatient annoyance about him.
HN: So what’s up Jevvie?
JS: Um, Coach Nutt, you called me here.
HN: Oh, right, yes, blotankus. Let’s see… AH! Yes! Ya put any thought into the NFL?
JS: Well coach, I think I’m gonna do it. I think I’m gonna give the combine a shot and see how well I do. I’m thinkin’ maybe early-third, late-sec–
HN: Nah, nah, spoodankus, that ain’t so much gonna happen.
JS: What do you mean coach? This isn’t fair. Dad and I talked it over and we reall–
HN: Ya ain’t gonna wanna do that, Jev. C’mon now (wiggles fingers, stares at ceiling, grunts).
JS: Well you know that it’s always been my dream to play in the NFL and I think a pro salary would be ballin.
HN: Fuck a dolla and a dream. We’re gonna need you and you ain’t goin’ anywhere.
JS: (confidently) Oh yeah? Why not!?
HN: Have you seen yourself play this season? You’re Jay Cutler with less mobility, Jamarcus Russell with a weaker arm and (significantly) smaller skull, Jake Delhomme with less cajun. C’mon Jevan, let’s work on that.
JS: Coach, you don’t so much work on that whatsoever. I mean, in prac–
HN: Let’s not get caught up in semantics here. Hold on let me call up Kentofankupoo baby WHOO holdon to it baby!