It was dark when Coach Tressel got home. 

He sighed as he opened the door. It had been a hell of a day. Sanzenbacher still wasn't coloring in the lines, Ballard had needed to be changed twice, and Pryor had nearly choked to death on his crayons. It almost seemed like the players were more likely to choke on the big, thick crayons intended for toddlers, an irony that would be funny if it weren't so dangerous. 

"Sigh," sighed Tressel, leaning against the kitchen island, rubbing his sagging eyelids. 

He reached in the fridge, navigating an army of "Poughkeepsie Parades," his least favorite flavor. They tasted like a nun's fart, but you couldn't get the Seagram's Variety Pack without them, and he certainly wasn't going to throw money away not buying his wine coolers by the case. 

His groping hand found it's prey. An icy cool "Jamaican Me Happy."

He popped the top, tilted his head, and took an oblivion-seeking slurp. The lemon and mango went to work as usual, washing his worries away and leaving a smooth, crisp, lo - Tressel paused, his brow furrowed. Was that guava he sensed? It couldn't be.

Lowering the bottle to the table, he turned it. The label smiled up at him. A coy grin played about the edges of Tressel's mouth. Guava. He knew it. 

"Clever SOBs," he chuckled to himself, taking in another mouthful. That was why he kept coming back to Seagrams. Just when you thought you had them pegged, they went and added guava.

Jim shut the fridge door and walked out of the kitchen. Wine coolers, he thought, just might be the second best thing in the whole world, stepping onto the basement landing.

"But not quite first," he muttered to himself, standing alone in the darkness. With a sudden flick of the wrist, he threw the basement lights on like a conductor driving the orchestra to their climax. Row upon row of lights flickered to life, illuminating picnics, tea parties, sock-hops, and Sunday socials. Tresseltown, population 553 perfectly preserved beanie babies had been waiting for it's mayor all day, and 1106 beady little black eyes winked up at him. Tressel grinned back at them, setting his wine cooler on the town water tower while fiddling with his belt.

"Hey gang... dad's back."