In the midst of her Father's story of the genesis of the 10th Mountain Division -- just when four American skiers gathered in a tavern in Vermont, and in the bottom of the fifth in Oakland, Dave Parker hit a single to left field -- there was an unrelated commotion in the sports bar. In a crowded bar in Oakland, there would be a standup crescendo of welcoming cheers for the new arrival, but this was San Francisco. Some fled, but many women stayed because of the new arrival's wicked grin, muscular arms, and fast boats on the intracoastal Waterway tan.

Briefly interrupting Mark McGuire’s unfortunate ground ball, the sports bar management played a few bars of "We were the Wild Ones." And even in Joe Montana territory, where quarterbacks were bred in Notre Dame, the new arrival was given a hero’s welcome.

The gentleman, whose arrival had caused this commotion, spoke with an unmistakable Alabama drawl. His brown hair was streaked with gray. He wore a blue shirt and white pants, knew who he was, and if everyone in that bar didn't know before he got there, they did know now. He told Caydance how pretty she was. With undisguised interest; he looked across the table at Giselle. Griff grinned, poured his Best Man a substantial glass of Johnnie Walker Red, moved a pitcher of beer within easy reach, ordered a platter of scampi in garlic sauce.

"I'm not here to talk about marriage," the once-upon-a-time Raiders quarterback said to Griff. "I'm here to talk about coaching because you aren't 'Bear' Bryant and you aren't John Madden, and Lord knows you aren't going to make it without some help."
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