THC Meets with Ron Zook: Part III

OPS and I flew to Chicago to cover the Big Ten Media Conference. If you haven't read it yet, the first part of the meeting with Ron Zook is chronicled here. The second part is here. You'll want to check those out or this story may come off a little weird.


The minute we got outside the hotel, the Zooker's mood changed. I thought he was difficult before; now he was impossible. I kept peppering him with questions, but trying to keep his attention was futile. I finally stopped talking and just got in-step behind him.

We got into a bit of a rhythm after a block or so. He moved down the street at a breakneck pace, covering ground like a silver topped panther, stalking his prey. I had no idea where we were going and if not for the slight giddy-up in his step (probably the result of the Zook Hook pressing the bounds of decency in his khakis), he would have lost me. I was relieved to not have his nose trained on me but to be honest, inside, I felt a desire to get his attention again. I don't know if it was for the story or for more nefarious purposes, but at that moment, I knew I wanted Ron Zook more than I'd ever wanted any man before. As he leapt from corner to corner I tried to look about to see where we were but none of the streets looked familiar, nor did the faces. As the shadows grew long, my patience grew short. I was losing my buzz and now petulance was my mask to wear.

Finally, I grabbed him by his meaty shoulder and said, "if you just tell me where we're going I'll let you smell my hair as long, and as hard, as you need to."

Without breaking his stride, or even turning, he whispered one word: "Chinatown."

(read more...)

THC meets with Ron Zook: Part II

Hey, Jebus here. I'm a professional journalist now, so I did what we do and flew to Chicago with OPS to cover the Big Ten Media Conference. His meeting with Ron Zook is, chronicled here. If you haven't seen it yet, you need to.

So, we're in Chicago and I was just starting to have fun when I got a harried phone call from OPS. Here's the transcript from the call (that got me out of bed):

OPS: Wake up, shithead. You don't even want to know what happened to me this afternoon.

JHC: I'm pretty busy here. What do you need?

OPS: Whatever. Zook is fucking weird and I'm out of here. I'll walk back to Iowa.

JHC: Hang on. You're with Zook? Sweet! How's his tan?

OPS: He's a freak, and not the cool kind. I'm grabbing my shit and leaving. Between what you got and what I got we can make the rest up.

JHC: Hang on. I told you there'd be things you didn't like. That's part of being a journalist! We're pros now, man. Sack up! It's not all free fried food, adultery, and plagiarism. What's the big deal?

OPS: ... he keeps smelling me.

JHC: Wha?

OPS: Yeah. He made me buy new shampoo and then he sniffed me like a hothouse flower. It was like he was trying to sniff my insides...

JHC: He's a "sniffer", huh?

OPS: How the hell do you even know what that is? You know what? I actually don't want to know. I'm getting my stuff and taking off. Later.

JHC: No! Stall him. I'll be there in 5 minutes.

OPS: What? Where are you? What happened to busy?

JHC: We have adjoining rooms. I put them on Hawkeye State's Amex.

[adjoining room door opens and Jebus comes out]

OPS: Dude, put some fuckin' pants on, it's 3 in the afternoon.

JHC: Right.

[Jebus goes back into room, comes out seconds later looking groggy but strangely focused]

JHC: Let's do this.

OPS: Are you still drunk? Did you shower today? Did you shower this week?

JHC: What week is it?

OPS: I'm getting my shit. You freaks do what you want.

[OPS enters room with JHC following]

Zook was sitting in the corner of the room, which was totally dark, except for the lamp in the corner. His leathery face may have been obscured but we could feel his steely glare.

"So you needed back-up for the Zooker?," he spit out.

OPS walked over to the bed, grabbed his notebook, his bag, and he muttered, "family emergency... this is Jebus... later" toward Zook and as he passed me on the way out he whispered, "you boys have fun". He left the room and as the door slammed the Zooker shouted after him, "GOOD GAME" with authority.

Zook didn't move. We had a timeless staredown but finally gave up because it was so dark we couldn't tell if one of us blinked. I went over to open the blinds. Zook saw his opening and was up like a shot. He slipped in behind me, got on his toes, and got a cheap smell in, I felt the heat of his proboscis graze the back of my left ear.

".... what... what is that?", barked Zook, baffled.

I looked at him knowingly and said, "Hi, coach. I'm Jebus H Christ with The Hawkeye Compulsion. Why don't you have a seat and lemme ask you some questions."

Zook backed into the chair and sat down hard. "What was that scent?", pleaded the Zook, more to himself than anything else.

I started the interview (I may have been slightly slurring my words), "I think it's clear you have things moving in the right direction on the defensive side of the ball. You have J Leman, who's got tremendous hair, by the way..."

"HE DOES!", Zook interrupts, and instantly perks up.

"...but I want to know what makes you think you're going to be able to build something over the long haul here? If we assume you aren't cheating, which you clearly are, how are you going to succeed as a football coach at a basketball school if you couldn't succeed as a football coach at a football school?"

"How tall are you, son?"

"Six-four."

"What do you weigh?", the Zook continues.

"205."

"Why can't I smell your hair?", the Zook pleads petulantly.

"Can we get to the interview here?"

"Can we get to the interview here?", mimics Zook, childishly.

"Coach, come on. Let me do my job."

"I am sooooooooo sick of foot-ball! Jiminy Christmas, doesn't anyone want to talk about fishin'? Or newsy stuff? Ask me about water skiiing!", cried an aroused Zooker.

"Let's shift gears. Why don't we get out of here and go catch a drink?"

At this point, Zook positively leapt to his feet with an aggression and athleticism that both surprised, and intrigued, me. I also noticed for the first time that flat front pants were an ill-advised fashion choice because he was aroused and not ashamed. Before I had a chance to say anything he was hustling me out the door with a hand just a little too low on my back and his ever present nose was just fucking hovering on my shoulder. I didn't like his intentions but I liked his moves.

"I know just the place! The Zooker will treat you to a nice haircut!"

"... I thought we were going for a drink?", I asked suspiciously.

"Place I have in mind, you'll get both!"

I pointed to his crotch and asked, "you bringin' that too?"

He looked down and proudly swiveled his hips lasciviously, exclaiming (just a little too loudly), "The Zook Hook? Oh yeah!"

Part III, is here.

THC meets with Ron Zook: Part I

(Legal disclaimer: you should not believe a single word of any of this)

One of the perks of being a Big Ten Blogger(tm) is that we're granted unlimited access to all Big Ten media functions, like this past week's Big Ten Media Conference. Sure, we're technically not members of the media, but I am an excellent string-puller (for future reference, readers, think long and hard before you agree to perform an unspecified favor for Jim Delaney. Long and hard.).

When JHC and I arrived in Chicago, we were awed by the luxurious set up for the coaches, players, and reporters. The tables were filled with media guides, posters, and other free memorabilia. We never thought we'd need a free 2" Purdue helmet, but you never know, right? Jebus mentioned that his flask was empty (note: it wasn't when we got on the plane at 9 A.M.), and after promising he wouldn't drive, he set out to remedy the situation. I, on the other hand, got my responsible journalist on.

The hottest interviews were, of course, with Jim Tressel and Lloyd Carr. That's no surprise. I wasn't able to get any meaningful questions to them, so I decided to pursue some of the less famous coaches.

After kibitzing with Bill Lynch, whose most common response to questions was "I told you my name's not 'Terry'," I asked a fellow journalist (hint: name rhymes with Dirk Werbstreit) where the Illinois table was. His face blanched in terror.

"Why?" he asked. I replied that I wanted to get a few quotes from Zook.

He stood in stunned silence for a beat, then burst out laughing. When he noticed I didn't laugh along with him, he settled down. "Did you stay here at the Regency this morning? What shampoo did you use?" he asked.

"The shit in the little bottles they give," I responded.

The well-coiffed journalist cackled with glee. "All right, man," he said. "Go talk to Ron. Let me know how it goes."

As soon as I sat down at the table, star tailback Rashard Mendenhall quickly excused himself. I naively saw nothing wrong with that and began asking Zook some questions.

I started with some softballs, like: "Do you believe the hype about Illinois making a bowl game in 2007?"
"We're getting better and better!"
"How about Isaiah, or as--"
"JUICE!!!"
"Yeah, uh, 'Juice'--"
"Juice is getting better and better."

I was about to bring up the absurdity of Williams' 37% completion rate when Zook's nostrils flared and he stared daggers into my eyes.

"You staying here this weekend?"

I waffled, perplexed. "Uh, yeah, someone else asked--"

"I can smell it, son! You think Swindle uses goddamn Suave?!" he barked.

Before I could respond, I was sent away from the table by security. As I wandered around in a daze, I felt a firm grab on my arm. It was Zook.

"There's a Whole Foods on West Huron," he whispered into my ear. Then he quite conspicuously sniffed me, which elicited a disdainful groan. "Your hair's thick," he needlessly reminded me. "Like a horse, or a dog. Pick up something to make it smell good."

If I was going to get my chance to ask the hard-hitting questions (how does someone get fired from Florida that quickly? whose member of Aurrelious Benn's family did he have to kidnap at gunpoint to get him to commit?), I figured it wouldn't be too much of a hassle to pick up some shampoo.

After the quick stop at the store, I showered quickly, and began dressing. As I was slipping on my shirt, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and Zook stood there, eyes ablaze.

"Mr. Zook, I, uh," I began.

"You showered," he responded. "Good."

"Yeah. What are you doing here? Who told you what room I was in?"

"Shhh." He put his finger to my lips and walked in. "I suppose you want to do this interview."

"Well, yeah, uh--" I stammered. "I gotta get my notebook, I wasn't really planning on doing this up here, or you being in here at all. Ever."

Always the Casanova, Zook sat down on the bed, gently placed his hand on my notebook and said, "We'll get to that," which was more than mildly unsettling. "How much did you spend?"

"Oh, it was like $7. Don't worry about it," I said. "Please."

Undeterred, Zook took a $20 bill out of his pocket, folded it the long way, and put it on the night stand. "It's on the Zook," he said. As he exuberantly crossed the room to close the blinds, he smelled my hair again. "Organic shampoo? You dirty little bitch."

Part II, written by JHC, is here.
The horrifying finale of the Zook trilogy is here.

THC Meets with Ron Zook: Part III

The minute we got outside the hotel, the Zooker's mood changed. I thought he was difficult before; now he was impossible. I kept peppering him with questions, but trying to keep his attention was futile. I finally stopped talking and just got in-step behind him.

We got into a bit of a rhythm after a block or so. He moved down the street at a breakneck pace, covering ground like a silver topped panther, stalking his prey. I had no idea where we were going and if not for the slight giddy-up in his step (probably the result of the Zook Hook pressing the bounds of decency in his khakis), he would have lost me. I was relieved to not have his nose trained on me but to be honest, inside, I felt a desire to get his attention again. I don't know if it was for the story or for more nefarious purposes, but at that moment, I knew I wanted Ron Zook more than I'd ever wanted any man before. As he leapt from corner to corner I tried to look about to see where we were but none of the streets looked familiar, nor did the faces. As the shadows grew long, my patience grew short. I was losing my buzz and now petulance was my mask to wear.

Exasperated, I grabbed him by his meaty shoulder and said, "if you just tell me where we're going I'll let you smell my hair as long, and as hard, as you need to."

Without breaking his stride, or even turning, he whispered one word: "Chinatown."

The moist summer air gave portage to the word and it grazed my lobe like an insistent lover. That singular word, as it washed over me, sent a bolt of energy through my nether regions like I've never felt before, and I froze. I was dumbstruck and--to be clear--more than a little creeped out. His behavior was such that the only thing I was certain of was that he wasn't fucking around. He was going somewhere and I was going with him. As soon as I decided I was all-in, he was gone. I looked around frantically, but he was nowhere to be found. I moved forward and as I did I noticed for the first time that I was a full head taller than everyone around me. I was in Chinatown. I moved down the street, discarding Chicasians left and right. I suspect I was causing a bit of a scene because eventually my diminutive speed bumps cleared a path and let me through. I was directionless, though, and the faster I moved, the farther I felt from my man. I must have run a mile, randomly turning left and right; I think I passed the same bodega 3 times (fuckers all look alike). I was frantic. I may or may not have been crying (a little). I finally bellowed out like a mighty beast, "ZOOKER!!!!" and pounded my fleshy paws on the wall of a seedy shoe store/tattoo parlor/whorehouse. When my lungs burned and my hope was snuffed I stopped. This was it. I was done. I'd failed. I was no journalist. I wasn't even a blogger. I was just another hopeless, sexy, fully aroused man, drenched in sweat, lost in the armpit of the Midwest.

Just as I decided to head back toward civilization, I felt a little tug on my sleeve. It was a small boy (or possibly a tweenish Asian Catholic school girl hooker?) trying to garner my attention. I grumbled and pulled away. I think I actually growled at it. As I took a step away I heard a little voice say, questioningly, "zookhook?" You look for zookhook?"

I unclenched my raised fist and said to it, "You know where the Zooker is? If you do, take me there. If not, I'm not paying more than $10 for a tug."

It (upon further inspection it looked like it was a middle-aged man) replied, "follow me, Big Boy!" and it scurried down an alley.


It was full-on dark now and I was pretty sure I was about to be mugged or brought to a filthy Cantonese restaurant; either way, I was up for it. I went down the alley, turned a corner, and there was one light. It was bright and red and dirty, like a beacon of sin. I didn't need my little erstwhile Sacagawea to tell me what time it was. I knew I'd found the Zooker.

I don't even have a foot in the door and I hear from the back of the room, "Big Boy!" in that unmistakable Zook croak.

It was somehow dark and bright at the same time. I could hear him but couldn't see anything. The place... smells. I don't know if it's opium or if someone's getting a perm. All I can hear is giggling and "zookhook", over and over again. I finally get my eyes on him and I wish I hadn't. He's exposed, aroused, and wearing nothing but a ne'er do well smile and a cock ring made of what appeared to be pot stickers. He also looked like he'd never been happier. There was nothing sexual going on, but some things, specifically things involving Ron Zook, massage oil, and his unfathomably crooked shank cannot be unseen. I've been around (a lot) and I've never seen anything like it. He dispatched a few of his half dozen minions over with a flick of his newly manicured finger and they practically carried me to a throne next to (but significantly less baroque than) the Zooker's. As they attempted to remove my clothes I shook them off. He gave me a sly look and said, "lighten up, Newsy. This is on the Zooker."

"That's great coach, but I'd like to get an interview in..."

He clapped his hands and within seconds I had a tumbler with 6 fingers of bourbon and 3 ice cubes, just how I like it. I instinctively reached for it and took a long pull from it. I felt the Zooker's knowing smile, but I didn't care. That glass was the teat of God, and I was sucking it like the runt of Christ. I drank it down in one drink and it was the best drink I've ever had. It burned all the way down and a single whiskey tear trickled down my cheek. It burned too. I was instantly soused and I didn't resist when what felt like a thousand greedy fingers removed my clothes. Soon enough I was wearing nothing but my notebook. Zook took an appraising look at me and winked, "lookin' good, Big Boy. Don't worry, the Zooker's a vault."

"Can we get to the interview? " I slurred. I was thinking there was more than bourbon and ice in that glass. I liked it.

"You ask one, I ask one. That's how the Zooker plays ball."

"I have never seen worse technique on a Division I QB. What are...

"He's color blind too. Ain't that a sumbitch?"

"... noted. What are you doing to get him on the same page, offensively?"

"You hit that one, Newsy. One page. That's it. Zooker trimmed the playbook down for the stupid bastard. I'd like to see OBC think of that."

"Speaking of which..."

"Nice try, this one's mine. Why couldn't I smell you back there? "

"I'm odorless, man. Totally odorless. Always have been, " I replied.

"No WAY!"

"Way. And it's my turn. We both know you're cheating..."

"Right."

"That wasn't my question, by the way, but thank you."

"You cheeky motherfucker!"

"Thanks. So, the cheating thing, it works. I can see that. But you're going to have to coach, eventually. You will need a system to move to the top of the Big 10. Your one-page playbook theory sounds great, but what are you going to do when you look at that talent all looking back at you and you have nothing to say? You know, like when you were at Florida?"



"I don't understand how you're odorless. What if you sweat?"

"You never answered my question, but I'll give you this one. Nope. Not even when I sweat. Not even when I bleed..."

"No one makes me bleed my own blood, " he interrupted, as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever said, "you know what movie that's from?"

"Dude, seriously, don't waste your questions on shit like that. " I cautioned.

" 'Don't waste your questions! I'm Newsy! I'm bossy!' Lighten UP, man. Jesus. Do you like mango?"

"Juice?"

"No, shampoo, I bet you'd smell fab."

I couldn't help it. I was flattered. I also noticed that my eyes were getting really heavy. I was sure now that they'd slipped me a mickey. "You drug me, coach?"

"Big time. It's amazing you're still sitting up. I'm fucking crashing myself. Arr.. arreell... fuck, what's his name, Newsy?"

"areln... Arreola... dude... I dunno, " (I think) I replied.

"That Benn kid. He's always talking about the purple drank. He thinks he's the shit. I brought him in here and he was out for 2 days. You should see the video. Kid's got a cock like a fucking peanut too..."

"fasd sleepp"

"Me too, Newsy, me too. It's lights out for Captain Zook."


I woke up in the back of a cab on the way to the airport Monday afternoon. To this day, I have no recollection of what transpired over the weekend. I felt surprisingly good, but I was wearing the Zooker's pants. That was awkward. My cell chirped, I looked at the ID and it said "Zookster." Which was new to me. I answered it (which I never do), and before I even said anything he started in.

"Newsy! You were a blast. Hey, no hard feelings. I took care of everything with the girls too. I didn't rape you or anything if that's what you're worried about. I'm not into dudes. I will say this, your hair smelled fucking awesome when they were through. I was wrong about the mango. You're strawberry-kiwi, all the way. We still on for Oct 12th?"

I was in shock, awe, and rage. I'd lost the last 48 hours, and I'd probably been raped--repeatedly--by a bumbling, water skiing head coach of an arch rival. But as I answered, I looked in the rearview of the cab, and I had the best haircut of my life. It was outstanding. Without a second thought I said, "Aye fucking aye, Captain!"