“Okay, so the kid’s been a die-hard Coyotes fan since birth, right?” Tony Distefano had a thick northern accent that was reminiscent of the oldSNL“Da Bears” skits. He leaned forward and spoke to the audience like he’d been born to tell them stories. “So way back in the day, when she was in first grade, we were watching that game against the Steelers where the officials got it wrong so Cowher stuck a Polaroid in the ref’s pocket, right?”
It was Coach Cowher’s legendary power move. The Coyotes attempted a field goal and missed, but the refs threw a flag for twelve men on the field. Just as the coach was losing his shit because it was a bad call—there were clearly only eleven lined up—someone handed him a Polaroid so he had fucking proof the call was wrong.
But it wasn’t reviewable, so it stood.
As the half ended and the team was running off the field, Cowher—even more livid now that the penalty had led to the Coyotes converting for three—sprinted over to that referee and jammed the Polaroid into his pocket.
“Little Duff was happy as a clam that they screwed up the call and we banked three points, but she fuckin’—shit, sorry, I mean freakin’,” he corrected, which got him a few more laughs. “She freakin’ caught a killer crush on the coach. The kid watched just as many Steelers games as Coyotes that year, I swear to God,and she made a collage of the man on her wall—in elementary school.”
“No shit?” I said to her, loving this story.
“I was in first grade.” Duffy looked like she couldn’t quite decide whether to kill her father or run off the stage, but ultimately, she shrugged and said, “I simply chose football over unicorns; not a big deal.”
“But Bill Cowher?” I said, unable to suppress my grin because this was fucking hilarious.
“The man had an…intensitythat spoke to my six-year-old heart, what can I say,” she muttered.
“But you had atwentysomething-year-old heart when you got the concussion,” her dad said, working the crowd like a comedian with killer timing. “It was last year and we were in the security line at MSP. Neither of us noticed him in front of us, but when Cowher turned around and offered a bin for her laptop, it was like her eyes glazed over. She said, ‘Holy shit, you’re Bill Cowher’ and then she went down like someone hollered ‘timber,’ banging her head against Mrs. Cowher’s steel suitcase on the way.”
“And this resulted in a concussion?” Kell asked.
“Yeah, and the kid bled all over the place because Cowher’s wife had one of those really solid suitcases, the ones that cost like a grand, you know?”
“Can we maybe move on from this story now?” Duffy asked her father as the entire place laughed. It was funny as hell, the way these two were almost oblivious to the audience as her dad referred to her as “the kid” when she was in her twenties. “I’mpretty sure you set up this interview to discuss something other than my unfortunate airport head wound.”
“How about I jump in now,” I said, ready to make the Coyotes organization proud while noting that she’d just admitted her dad set up the interview, not her. Which actually made perfect sense somehow. “Because I’m dying to apologize to Ms. Distefano.”
“I already told you that sometimes people drop passes, so you don’t have to apologize,” she said with the wave of a hand, and I couldn’t tell by her straight face if she was being a smartass or if she genuinely thought I was apologizing to her for the loss. “I mean, it wasright thereand definitely catchable,but Brown was also wearing you like a shirt so there probably should’ve been a flag.”
“Oh, theredefinitelyshould’ve been a flag,” I agreed as the audience laughed at her criticism, “but I’m actually talking about Carl’s behavior.”
“You think Carl should’ve gotten a flag?” she quipped.
More laughter. Again, who the fuckwasthis girl? It was like I was being roasted—and flirted with—by some random sports fan who had a lot of opinions.
I kind of loved it.
“What I think is that the Coyotes organization would like to apologize for the actions of ourformeremployee and assure you we don’t take fan safety lightly,” I said, forcing myself not to fall into jokes because not only did I need to nail this PR shit, but this was genuinely important to me. “We value your attendance at our games and have zero tolerance for this type of behavior.”
“Um, thank you,” she said with a wrinkle between her brows.
“And we’d like for you—and your father, of course—to be guests in the owner’s suite for this weekend’s game.”
“Hotdamn!” Tony said with a grin.
“That’s really nice and I accept the apology,” she said, shaking her head and clearing her throat, “but I think it’s best if we watch from home this week.”
“Duff,” her dad said sharply. “Are you nuts?”
“Areyou?” she said, once again forgetting the audience when speaking to her father. “This is nice and everything, but I’m not going back to that stadium until I know we’re not going to get hit in the face with hot dogs and hooshed with beer. We’re staying home until we clinch a spot in the playoffs and are no longer considered a jinx.”
“I’m sorry,” Kell interjected. “Did you say you were hit in the face with hot dogs?”
“And what exactly is ‘hooshed’?” Kel asked with an amused smile.
“So you think we’ll make the playoffs this year, huh?” I asked, turning in my seat to face Duffy. “Even with my butterfingers?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Spare me the false humility after 1,263 receiving yards last season, Cunningham.”