Late Tuesday night, in a dimly-lit hotel room somewhere near Syracuse, a lone man is staring intently at his computer.
George Blaney (muttering to himself): Haha, the kid's saying NOT to tase him, and they are! Haha. Kids today.
He gets up from his desk and stretches his arms, yawning.
Blaney: Looks like I better go check on our kids. Make sure they're in for curfew and all. Big game tomorrow. Tough game. Syracuse is excellent. I don't know if we've got it in us to win a road game like this.
He puts on his loafers slowly, thinking.
Blaney: It would've been nice to have Jim here for this game. Sometimes I think I can't get through to these kids. Oh well. At least he's getting healthy back in Connecticut. I'll do fine tomorrow. If I believe in myself, I can accomplish anything. C'mon, Blane Dog. You can do this.
He walks towards the hotel room door. As he turns the knob, the door opens violently, pushed from the outside.
Jim Calhoun: Surprise, fuckah!
Blaney: Coach? What are you doing here?
Calhoun: You think I'd really miss a Syracuse trip? It's not officially February until I piss on the Quahd in the shape of a middle fingah.
Blaney: But the doctors said you can't coach tomorrow! You're not 100 percent yet.
Calhoun: No shit, shuh-lock. But I haven't seen my buddy Jimmy in a while, and I got tayad of trying to prank him from afah. There's only so many times you can sign him up for the Norwegian navy, ya know?
Blaney: Why do you want to prank your friend?
Calhoun: Are you retahded?
Blaney: No sir.
Calhoun: Good. Then here's what we're gonnah do. We're gonnah go find Boeheim's house, and we'ah gonnah egg the shit out of it. Get some of the playahs, we'll make it a team-building thing.
Bring the shootahs. That Coombs-McDaniel kid, definitely. Dyson obviously, since he's ah woyah. Is that Haralson kid still on the team?
Blaney: No. He's in Tulsa.
Calhoun: Tell him to come anyway. Let's go.
Thirty minutes later, Blaney, Calhoun, Jamal Coombs-McDaniel, Jerome Dyson and, somehow, Scottie Haralson arrive outside Jim Boeheim's gated estate in a Syracuse suburb.
Dyson: This house is baller.
Calhoun: All basketball coaches live in mansions, son. Little known fact.
Now let's go get him. You see those five guards in front of the gate? I think we'ah close enough to reach Jimmy's house, but if we want to be sure, we gottah get past them to get closer.
Blaney: OK, but they're staring right at us. If we take out the eggs, they're gonna come after us.
Calhoun: Don't be a dumbass. This is Boeheim's house, and they're Boeheim's guards. They're guarding zones, not people. We'ah gonnah have to share the eggs, find some seams, set a screen or two, and crush the guards' spirit. We'ah gonna put the kids in a position to succeed.
That's the thing about a zone ... they'ah soft. HARALSON!
Haralson (sleepily): Yeah?
Calhoun: Throw an egg. See if you can reach Boeheim's house.
Haralson throws an egg. It overshoots Boeheim's house completely. Haralson's shoulders sag.
Calhoun: Goddamn it, son. That's the one thing I brought you here to do.
Haralson: Eh, you ain't even my coach any more. Taxi!
Haralson takes a cab back to Tulsa, Okla.
Calhoun: Son of a bitch. Well, fuck it ahl then. Dyson, do your thing.
Dyson charges the guards with reckless abandon. All five of them converge on Dyson, who drops all but two of the eggs.
Calhoun: Alright, they're distracted. Jerome: throw me the eggs!
Calhoun: That's my woyah. Frawsh: go in theah and grab those two eggs before Jerome drops 'em.
Coombs-McDaniel: Yes sir.
Coombs-McDaniel grabs the eggs while he and Calhoun move inside the gate. They stand five feet from Boeheim's front door.
Calhoun: Alright, son. That's how we do it. Where the fuck's Blaney?
They turn around simultaneously to see that Blaney is sleeping standing up outside the gate.
Calhoun: Ah, fuck 'em. It's just us two, frawsh. Now, take this egg. And you huhl it right at his dooh. Then I'll leave my calling card.
Calhoun plants a sign post saying only "FUCK YOU UGLY" on Boeheim's lawn.
Calhoun: He'll know it's me. It's a thing we have. You ready, frawsh?
Coombs-McDaniel: Yes sir.
Coombs-McDaniel misses the point-blank egg shot, the egg hitting Boeheim's front porch.
Calhoun: Jesus Christ, do I have ta do everything myself? It was never like this when Doron Sheffer was here.
Calhoun fires an egg that hits Boeheim's door and explodes into a yellow mess.
Calhoun: Gawd damn that's beautiful.
Boeheim opens the door, startled.
Boeheim: What the hell? Jim? I thought you were in Connecticut.
Calhoun: Shut the fuck up and shake my hahnd, you ol' bastahd.
They shake. As Boeheim pulls his hand away, Calhoun grabs Boeheim, puts him in a headlock and gives him a noogie. After seven minutes of consecutive noogie-ing, Calhoun lets him go.
Calhoun: You never change, little fellah. Tell Juli I said hey and that next time she's in Connecticut, she can pick up her dress. HA! I'm just kiddin, l'il buddy. She's a classy lady, but Pat would kill me if we were ever in the same room. Alright, good talking to ya, Boewatch. And good luck tomorrah....yah gonna need it with Blane Dawg running the ship.
Boeheim: Uh, thanks, coach. Feel free to stop by any time. You know, and maybe don't bring eggs next time.
Calhoun: Whatevah, fuckah. Frawsh, you ready to go?
Calhoun: Where the fuck is woyah?
Coombs-McDaniel: He's been trying to come over here, but he keeps running with his head down into the guards.
Calhoun: Fuckin' right he is. That's my woyah. Tell him to pick up Blaney and let's go.
Coombs-McDaniel: Yes sir.
Coombs-McDaniel walks over to Dyson as Calhoun meanders back to the gate. As Coombs-McDaniel approaches the gate, Calhoun pulls Boeheim's mailbox out of the ground and heaves it as far as he can.
Coombs-McDaniel: Yo, Jerome. Coach said it's time to go.
Coombs-McDaniel: Coach never mentioned this shit when he was recruiting me, ya know?
Dyson: Shit, man. This is like the seventh time he's brought me out here to do this. You'll get used to it.