Stalling in from the twelfth sanctuary.
The Drexel Perennial Country Club was within walking distance to Drexel Memorial Stadium. Walter Flint had unintentionally discovered this little known fact when he became the head football coach at the high school. He remembered the occasion like it happened yesterday. He had parked his car at the South gate of the stadium and began walking towards what he thought was the Administrative Annexe. He saw a sign. In actuality, he stepped inside the Administrative Atrium, which, if one turned right and continued through a series of ninety-degree angled hallways, eventually led to the country club’s main kitchen.
Walter Flint was reminiscing about that day while sitting in the lobby of the Drexel Perennial (as locals called it). He was in the middle of remembering what he wore when he heard footsteps.
“Coach Flint,” a baritone voice called out.
“Dean Kattahookee,” Flint said as he extended his hand for a handshake. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet me…I know you’re a busy man.”
The Dean assured Coach Flint that it was nothing and, “I always make time for the head coach of the high school’s football team.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Coach Flint breathed a sigh of observable relief. “We, uh, we could really use your support right now.”
Dean Kattahookee then excused himself to answer an unexpected phonecall. His demeanor had become lukewarm by the time the call ended. Though he insisted that nothing was the matter and the golf game could certainly continue, Coach Flint wasn’t completely convinced. The Dean’s breathing grew louder the farther they got from the Drexel Perennial. They hadn’t walked to the Garian Gazebo yet when he clutched his chest and fell to his knees. Coach Flint yelled for help; a nearby lawn worker heard him and called for the on-site doctor.
The last image the Dean remembered seeing was Coach Flint’s concerned face hovering above him.