“Good morning, Huey Jackson, it’s time to rise and grind.”
The Devil’s words come penetratin’ into Hue’s wrecked mind.
So Hue sets down Mike Brown’s laundry, cause that’s his job these days,
In addition to designin’ passes for Andy Dalton to throw away.
“Wake up, Sunshine!” the Devil laughs. “It’s time to break more hearts.”
“I’m breakin’ em now,” Hue Jackson growls. “Why don’t you go suck on some farts.”
“You know when you said you were sending me ‘to the Browns’ I thought that you meant to the team.
My ass should have known that a deal with Old Scratch simply never would be what it seemed.”
This miserly bastard has me washing coffee filters, and re-using zip-lock bags.
And driving his car, but it’s better by far than falling for one more of your gags.”
“But you’re Gamblin’ Hue Jackson,” says the Devil, “and you wouldn’t let a chance pass.”
“Another chance to dig this hole deeper?” says Hue “shove it up your charred ass.”
“I’ve played your damned game, I’ve ruined my name, my career is an end that is dead.
I might be stuck here with the World’s Cheapest Man, but at least this gig’s keeping me fed.
Later that day while Hue’s mowing Mike’s lawn the Devil returns just to say,
“So tell me old Hue, is it eating at you, to know coaching again is in play?”
“Since when,” says old Hue, “does a fiend such as you go on handing out gifts,
Except pokes from your burning pitchfork or mouthfuls of boiling shit?”
“Well, it’s Combine Week,” says the Devil, “and all of us down here below,
We sort of celebrate in our own sweet way, and this year you’re the star of the show.
Why, just last night I came up to earth and I seen those college kids run,
And I said to myself, ‘Hey, I bet old Hue would be up for a spot of fun.’
So just for a bit of excitement, we’re gonna set you to coachin’ again.
And see what good old Hue is able to do with a team that’s been on the mend.
But you’ll never turn the corner, and you’ll never be able to quit,
And every player you ever coach will turn from draft gold into shit.
“Well, you’re much too kind,” Hue Jackson says. “And you treat me much too well.
Hand me somethin’ nice, and then to turn it to dust — you sure know how to run a Hell.
Well, a game is a game,” Hue Jackson says, as he heads to collect Mike Brown’s mail.
“But what if one pick is a steal for me, what if one that I pick doesn’t fail?”
“A steal?” says the Devil. “What if one don’t fail? Ain’t none of these players getting hot.
Nobody makes All-Pro or goes to the big show when the Devil is calling the shots.
White, or black, or somewhere in between!” screams the Devil, “every single pick busts,
And before one soul succeeds in your hands, I’ll see these gates of Hell rust.
But if any one player doesn’t have their life ruined, I say, anyone you name,
Then I’ll release you from that first contract you signed.
Now get out and play the game!”
The a flash of light and a thunderclap and Hue’s standing right next to the lake.
And he starts looking over the scouting reports to see who he wants to take.
In the first he gets his hands on Corey Coleman, a receiver from Gang Rapist U.
And next it’s Emmanuel Ogbah at pick number thirty-two.
Then Carl, then Shon, then Cody, then on, to Joe Schobert at ninety-nine,
And then it’s Ricardo Louis, with stone hands but a low forty time.
Next up is a Kindred spirit, after that Seth DeValve’s name gets called.
Then Jordan Payton becomes the next one of Hue Jackson’s dominoes to fall.
Then Drango, Higgins, Caldwell, Wright, and we fast-forward a single year.
When Myles Garrett – the first player taken – joins the team and starts holding back tears.
Next Peppers, then David Njoku, a tight end they traded to get,
Then the dazzling DeShone Kizer, behind his ears still a little bit wet.
Then Larry Ogunjobi, whose thunderous steps shake the ground,
Next Wilson, then Johnson, then Brantley, then Zane – he’s a kicker – then Dayes ends the round.
Then – Hee Hee! – it’s Baker Mayfield, and Hue Jackson has visions of wins,
And it never even occurs to him that this might be torment for his sins.
Denzel Ward three picks later, then an offensive lineman named Corbett finds it’s his turn,
Nick Chubb then Chad Thomas and Antonio Callaway along with his off-field concerns
Avery is the next one Hue takes and it seems like his time’s growing short,
So he reaches for Simeon Thomas, fresh from entering a plea in court.
Hue is countin’ the wins he expects to cash in when he hears the Devil say, “Hue, my friend.
It has certainly been fun, but your time has now come, and you’ve got just one more pick to spend.”
“So make your choice,” the Devil says, “no more of this making us wait.
And make it a pick to remember, Hue — it had better be somebody great.”
“So who’s the one, Hue Jackson?” they scream. “Who is it gonna be?
The locker room cancer, the gritty gym rat, or the tight end who runs a four-three?”
The cannon armed quarterback, meatheaded linebacker, or workhorse tailback you’ll turn into glue?
And Hue Jackson stops…and he squints at the Devil…and says…”Sucker…I’ll take you.”
“Foul!” cries the Devil. “Throw a flag! The rules don’t hold for me.”
“You said white or black or in-between,” says Hue, “and I guess you’re all of the three.”
And a roar goes up from the demons of Hell and it shakes the earth across,
And the imps all squeal and the demons scream, “He’s gonna draft the boss!”
“Why, you filthy scum,” the Devil snarls, blushing a fiery red,
“I give you a chance to coach again and you bust me in front of my friends.”
“Hey, play or pay,” Hue Jackson says. “So set me free at last,
Or put on these pads and grab onto your nads cause I’m about to spoil your devilish ass.”
“You got me,” spits the Devil. “Go on and stay on your precious earth,
And be on your way and call your plays, but carry this life-long curse.
There’ll be dozens of head coaching vacancies, and no GM’s gonna come to your door,
And you shall design ten thousand plays and not a single one’s gonna score.
And the players that you previously coached, they’ll turn their careers around,
And everyone will remember you as the worst coach in the history of the Browns.”
So back on the streets goes Hue Jackson again, pitchin’ them crazy schemes,
And all that’s left of his coaching career is a single failed dream.
And he gets no praise and no accolades he just sits there in silence and thinks,
Hell, buy him a round – it won’t cost much – ice water is all he drinks,
Then lend him an ear when he tells you his tale of how his coaching career came to a halt.
And try to keep your face straight as he goes on and on about how it was all someone else’s fault.