Necessary Roughness: 1st Quarter

"Eddie's a good man, unlike you," she fires back. "He's a good Christian. When was the last time you took Belle to church?"

"Call her Belle again and the next time you'll hear from either of us is when I kick the shit out of you in court." And if I have it my way, I'll do to Eddie what...well, the hell with Eddie. Just...the hell with that guy. In fact, the hell with everyone right now except my daughter, my sister and Crystal.

Fuck, I need a drink. Just one, though. I'm not a drunk.

(September 13, Sun Life Stadium, Dolphins vs. Cowboys)

I seem to have dodged my first real bullet as coach - the Vickers story has gone away quietly, I didn't lose a whole lot of guys to cuts, and I get to go about my business. Life seems OK, but we're looking down the barrel of a very tough opener. The defense hasn't come together at all, and we can't seem to get our act together on offense. And the worst part? We're facing one of the favorites to go to the Super Bowl out of the NFC - the Dallas Cowboys.

The same Dallas Cowboys who screwed up our trade prospects last week - we were after Adrian Peterson at the expense of our O-line. Needless to say, the Cowboys got him. I'd say Jerry Jones made the Vikings an offer they couldn't refuse, but I think our offer was actually better. Maybe he threw in a giant scoreboard for the Vikings' new stadium; I don't know. It's whatever, I guess - I didn't want the bastard anyway. I can handle my players doing a lot of stupid shit, but what Peterson did to his kid - as a father, I'm repulsed.

Aisha told me how she wants to get back at the Cowboys just as bad as I want to kick Peterson's ass, as if she's ready to suit up herself and take them down - that is, if she could find a designer helmet and a matching handbag. She'll settle for watching the game from one of the suites way upstairs.

Isabelle is settling for watching the game from her aunt's house - I couldn't secure seats for her or Crystal, and Gretchen has a lot to do, so it's probably a good thing they're home. Y'know, since they can turn the TV off if the Cowboys get a jump on us and things look really bad.

I take a look up - the offensive and defensive coordinators have a big booth upstairs while we lowly position coaches hang out in the sideline with Coach Philbin and the players. At least I get a close look at our guys from here.

I won't get a close look at my players right away - the Cowboys win the toss and elect to receive, so we get our defense out there. The defense we blew the bank on and hasn't been playing like anything close to a cohesive unit since...well, ever. Couple that with a backup left tackle, and this could get ugly.

And ugly it gets - right out of the gate. If they say you can tell a lot about the season by how the first play goes, well, we're fucked - Lance Dunbar goes 92 yards for a touchdown on the opening kick, and right away, we're down 7-0.

The Cowboys' first kickoff of the season goes through the back of the end zone, so here goes the first play. Jordan Cameron lines up as the starting tight end - and the first throw is to him. And it would be a perfect strike if Tannehill doesn't get rushed - he ends up missing his target. Damn. And damn again on second down. Next up is a run up the middle - an apparent white flag that gains no yardage, and we go three-and-out on the opening drive.

The rest of the first quarter turns into a slog as the Cowboys get a field goal and we're down 10-0. The second quarter isn't that different, except we squeeze out a field goal at the end of the half - at least this Franks guy has a leg on him - and we're down 20-3 going into the locker room. I'm sure Isabelle is off shooting hoops at her aunt's house at this point, so she doesn't see just what a shit show this has ended up turning into.

And after we head back out for the second half, I really hope that's true. We get the opening kickoff for the second half - and it ends up fumbled and the Cowboys get the ball. Two plays later, Tony Romo hits Dez Bryant over the middle - touchdown.

Then the Cowboys really start hitting on all cylinders - and the wheels come off for us. Tannehill ends up getting sacked six times in the their quarter alone, and we don't so much as get a a first down. The Cowboys? Touchdown, touchdown, touchdown - and it's a mind-blowing 48-3 after three quarters. At this point, the hell with it - send in the second string. Get them some playing time.

The Cowboys evidently disagree with that line of reasoning, and their first-string stays in. That includes Peterson, who's still pounding out yards while Romo goes for long passes to Dez Bryant. I think he hits Bryant for more than 20 yards five times in the fourth quarter alone. But it's not like he's running up the score or anything, right? That would just be classless. And the Cowboys are a classy organization, right? I mean, they only sign the finest woman-beaters and child-abusers. I'm looking at you too, Greg Hardy. And to think he's still suspended.

After the dust settles and the fans practically flee the stadium, the Cowboys ultimately hand us a 62-3 defeat. The mood in the locker room couldn't be more somber if someone just announced he had cancer. And I just want to get the hell out of here and update my resume. Yeah, it's not my fault, but the only person who seems to think so has about as much pull in the front office as a dead mouse.

I have to listen to the sports talk people all over Miami just crucifying us - and the O-line - all week. I just hope we can get a little momentum for the next game.

That game is also in our home building - against the Ravens, a team that could easily be in the Super Bowl. And they show it - we manage to get a whole two field goals in the game, but the defense can't stop a nosebleed and we end up going down 38-6. I actually send my resume to Auburn after the game - probably going to need it. At least Auburn isn't more than a couple of hours from Tuscaloosa, so Isabelle can se her mom more. That is, if she stops acting like a fuckup - I haven't heard from her since the phone call in Houston, so unless she's pulling some mom mojo from a hat or something, I can't worry about her.

(Miami International Airport, September 19, Dolphins' team plane)

Road games are a fact of life in the NFL - and in the case of a single father who's a coach, it's a really good time to thank God I have an awesome sister, y'know, just in case there's a God to thank. As much as my dumbass ex hates it, I don't take Isabelle to church - might have to do with the fact that I work Sundays - and she's never really asked me to. Besides, last time I checked, most religion just boils down to 'don't be a dipshit and you'll probably be OK.' Too bad that doesn't extend to football.

Another fact of road games - a big-ass plane taking us up to Boston, or rather, Foxboro, Massachusetts, home of the Patriots. I guess we'll have to inspect those balls before the game starts.

At least I have a comfortable flight up to Boston - I head right for my seat with the coaches and front office personnel. And since I'm earlier than most everyone else, I grab an aisle seat - a necessity seeing as how I'm ridiculously tall by airplane standards. Just a habit I have, especially flying commercial and on college planes that aren't as nice.

I guess I'm lucky too - no one takes the window. So I spread out, putting my playbook in the seat before we go ahead to takeoff. Might as well look over some stuff while we're waiting - and then someone taps me on the shoulder.

"Can you get up, Neil? I can't get through past your massive legs." Real tactful for a woman who wears designer everything. And in true Aisha Claiborne style, she carries her designer carry-on right past me to the window seat, giving me a dirty look to make me move all the stuff I set there. Not sure if the look is for setting my stuff in her seat or the fact that my eyes are locked on her gorgeous ass as she walks by.

"Since when does the salary cap analyst travel with the team?" I ask - Aisha's predecessor never did.

"Since I'm every bit as important as the general manager," she snipes.

"Look, I get it. You're a woman in a man's industry. Fine; I don't care. All I care about is-"

"Your damn players." Yeah, pretty much - just interrupt me. "Look, I'm doing all I can. I saw what happened. Believe me, I didn't like watching us get massacred by Dallas any more than you did. I can't stand hearing the talk by all those idiot sports guys." Yes, apparently one of the local radio jokers has managed to extrapolate "Dolphins" into an unflattering acronym - Dumb Owner, Lousy Players, Hell, I Need Scotch. At least they're right about the scotch part. "But you being in my ear doesn't help. Maybe focus on keeping your guys healthy and figure out how they can come together. I can't do anything about that."

"This is going to be a long flight, isn't it?" I grumble as she looks away.

Then someone peeks over the back of our seats - it's Zac Taylor, our quarterbacks coach, a real wise guy. "Will the two of you just fuck and get it over with?" Surprisingly, Aisha doesn't give him a dirty look - I actually see her try to suppress a chuckle. I know she isn't totally soulless, but then again, she just kind of rubs me the wrong way. I get it - she's two types of minority in this job and she feels like she has to prove herself. But the way I see it, every one of us had to prove ourselves. That's how the business works.

Aisha and I don't exchange any more words during the flight - she has her earphones in and I'm too busy studying plays. I can't only hope our guys are working just as hard for this - it's our first division game. Everyone else looks pretty focused.

And then that all goes out the window in Foxboro when there's a sudden cold snap. What is this, the middle of damn winter? We're sure as hell not prepared for this shit, especially since the weather forecast called for a nice day. Not what we need after a tough night in our hotel - we lose power twice and the fire alarm goes off. Is this how the Patriots keep winning?

It must be - we can't get a damn thing going. We end up not even getting a first down until the third quarter, and the defense looks completely silly going against Tom Brady. We end up fumbling four times, and Tannehill can't get a throw off for most of the game. Needless to say, we get crushed - this time 45-0. I almost want to go straight to Auburn and just tell this team to fuck off. Seriously, what a bunch of shit.

(Sun Life Stadium, Monday, team offices)

The kind of September this team's had usually leads to a whole bunch of confidence votes, players-only meetings, and all kinds of other motivational bullshit. In our case, we're scouting the colleges for a left tackle we can draft with the first pick and hoping we can squeeze out one or two wins so we don't joint the 2008 Lions as the only two teams to go 0-16. Seriously, we spent nine figures on a defensive tackle and staked our franchise on this?

I'm out of options - we play the Texans this week, a team with a hell of a defense and a surprising uptick in quarterback play. They're undefeated, having held opponents to a combined 41 points, whereas we've crossed midfield a total of six times and haven't scored a touchdown. And the stud of their O-line? Ronnie Vickers - and yes, the sports media is crucifying us for cutting him. And I can't even tell anyone why I did it - it's common knowledge I insisted on cutting him. Now I have people saying I need to be fired. It's a miserable feeling.

I'm here because we're having an all-staff meeting of sorts - coaches and front office staff are all together in a what-the-hell-do-we-do meeting.

But that's in a half-hour, so I have a little catching up to do on film. It looks like Jason Fox could be a fine blocker, but putting him at left tackle seems to be a bit much - people know he's a weak point and are overloading him. Tannehill gets clobbered, so he runs scared and he can't accomplish anything. Factor in a defense that isn't living up to its billing, and we've been outscored 145-9 in three losses. Seriously - we're losing each game by an average of 45 points.

My film study is cut short - Isabelle's calling. "Hey, Dad," she answers me - she seems down. "Yeah, I'm going back into class soon. I just...I got a call from Mom." Well, damn. "She wasn't nice. She said she's taking me back to Alabama in January and I'll never see you again." Are you fucking kidding me?

"Look, honey," I try to interject. "Your mom isn't taking you away from me. I'll always be your dad. And after all she's done, I'll make sure she doesn't hurt you."

She's crying. "I just want everything to be OK. I want my mom back. The one who isn't mean." She knows a different Andrea from the one I know; that's for sure. "What can I do to get the nice Mom back and not have you guys hate each other?"

"I ask that question every day." My answer at this point seems to fall apart with replacing Andrea with an impostor and making Eddie drive off a cliff. Shouldn't be too hard on that part, since that shitwad seems to have more DUIs than functioning brain cells.

"Dad, just tell me Mom's coming back. You don't have to get back together or anything." It's sad that she's thought that far ahead - but yeah, no way in hell am I taking that bitch back. "I just want my mom back."

"I want that, too." I'm actually telling the truth about that, as far as Andrea being a real mom goes. "But at this point, it looks like the Dolphins have a better chance to win the Super Bowl than we do of getting your mom to come around."

She seems to understand, and me telling her I'll always be there doesn't help much - the rest of the day's going to be shitty for both of us.

This looks like a what-the-hell-do-we-do meeting until I notice the absence of one conspicuous person - Coach Philbin. Dennis Hickey, our general manager, is leading the meeting.

"I know this hasn't been a good start to the year, guys," he leads. "We have a lot of potential and nothing to show for it." No shit. "We have made a decision. We're going in a different direction. Joe Philbin is no longer the head coach of the Dolphins. Our interim coach for the rest of the year is Dan Campbell." Our tight ends coach. I had no shot at this anyway - two years of experience at the pro level and a unit that isn't getting it done? On the upside, I'll be handling the tight ends as well as the O-line for the rest of the year.

At the end, I look around - and raise my hand. "Look, people," I exasperate. "Clearly Jason Fox isn't strong enough to handle left tackle duties. And clearly we're not replacing him. So why don't we just put in a second tight end for extra blocking every time?" I get a look from around the room as if I just suggested we go to Sunday's game without pants.

The rest of the meeting goes pretty poorly, and afterwards, I pull aside Bill Lazor, our offensive coordinator.

He speaks first. "What right do you have telling me how to run my offense?" he scolds.

"I don't know, maybe because I'm in charge of the unit that's getting murdered and needs the most help?" I fire back. "Work with me, will you?"

"I don't need to work with pond scum like you," he scoffs. "You're just a position coach. Fuck you."

"Oh, fuck me? Fuck you too!" I snap. "You saw what happened to Philbin. We're all out on our asses if we can't turn this thing around."

"Maybe you're out on your ass, but I'm set," he snorts. "It's whatever, dude. You can't coach worth a shit. And frankly, I'm sick of your kid hanging out at practice. Get her out of here or I'll-"

"You leave my daughter out of this, Lazor," I fume. "One more comment about her and we're both out on our asses and you end up with a lot fewer teeth-"

"Both of you, enough!" I would have expected that out of Coach Philbin. I actually get it out of Aisha, of all people. "Bill, get your ass back to work. Neil, my office." She actually stands between us - Lazor is the first to back down, heading out of the office. I smirk until Aisha, who's wearing heels and almost eye-level with me, stares me down. "Do we have to do this the hard way?"

"Yeah, let's do that," I sneer as I reply, looking her over - as cold and insane as she is, I could look at her all day. Not sure if the feeling's mutual and not sure if I care; Aisha can remain a fantasy.

She shuts the door - and it seems to lock. "You want to keep this job, Neil?" she demands. "Honestly you're not going to get fired unless you piss people off. And you're starting on that. First me, now Coach Lazor. Who's next, Neil?"

"I'm sorry, do you have anything relevant to say or can I go finish up my prep for the Texans and go pick up my daughter?" I dismiss - as miserable and inconsolable as Isabelle is, she's no doubt easier to handle than this collective horseshit. "I mean, we go to Houston on Friday and we-"

"I know that. I have a seat." I still can't believe she does. "I don't like being talked down to. Especially not by an arrogant chauvinist who thinks he has to prove he's still got it."

"A chauvinist, am I?" She nods her head. "You know that a chauvinist is just a relentless advocate, right?" That's actually the dictionary definition - still not sure how that word got attached to pigheaded sexist men. "In that vein, you're damn right I'm a chauvinist. I'm a chauvinist for my guys. And I'm a chauvinist for my daughter. Pretty much everyone else can go fuck themselves, including the icy bitch sitting across from me."

"I can name-call all day," she scoffs. "You're just a pseudo-intellectual man-child with a one-track mind, and you wouldn't last ten minutes in my world."

"Like you'd last five in mine," I counter. "Is that chip on your shoulder designer, too, you petulant snob?"

"Like you'd last two minutes without having everything handed to you," she derides. "I had to work twice as hard to get where I am."

"Do you think I give a fuck that you're a woman, Aisha?" Well, from one standpoint, I do, but from another, all I care about is getting help for my guys. "Or that you're black? Or that you somehow made it to being head salary cap analyst with three different teams before you cracked thirty? So you're young and gorgeous. Big fucking deal!"

"Don't even try to flatter me, Neil," she scolds.

"Oh please, Aisha. Like you don't know you're super-hot when you dress to kill just to go to the damn grocery store, drive a Mercedes and make Beyonce look like your ugly cousin." I actually just rattled that last one off at random - I'm pretty good at this.

"No, I mean about me being under thirty." Come again? "I'm thirty-three."

"Fuck you, no you're not," I scoff - turns out she is. Damn, two years older than me and she looks like that? "How do you do it? Seriously, are you a witch or something?" Well, I've called her a witch to Isabelle, mainly because the word I'd typically use, the one that rhymes with 'witch,' is verboten.

"I could ask you the same question," she replies - the fuck? "I may think you're a pompous asshole, but I know a good-looking man when I see one." She rises from her chair - and around her desk. Am I hallucinating?

"You piss me off to no end, Aisha," I scold as she approaches.

"Right back at you," she replies - and she bends down to me.

She kisses me.

I don't believe it. I'm actually shocked - not sure what to do next.

"That door's locked, right?" I ask - it is.

Aisha wastes no time - she rips my shirt off. "I knew you were a stud," she teases. "Look at these muscles. And I know you have it where it counts."

I kiss her passionately, undoing her jacket and blouse and revealing a lacy black bra underneath - Victoria's Secret, no doubt. It comes off quickly, revealing the most perfect pair of breasts underneath.

Another surprise - her nipples are pierced. I take them in my mouth, licking and biting - she almost melts as I strip her naked, undoing her skirt until she's down to just her underwear and sliding those down too.