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Coach Bryant looked out his office window at the happening on the wide Memorial Coliseum steps. Longhaired freaks, button-downed frat boys, tie-dyed girls, and what appeared to be a fair number of middle-aged parents sweltered in the late June heat, grooving to rock music while they waited in line. Electric anticipation shone on every face. The crowd of about a thousand appeared to be having a blast.
Stepping into his big office, I swung around the desk for the day’s outgoing mail.
“Afternoon, Coach. Anything special?”
The Man cut his eyes at me then returned to his surveillance. The party held his attention.
“They were sleeping on the steps when I got here this morning, and the crowd’s been building all day,” Coach Bryant said to the window. “What’re they waiting for, Steve?”
“The Rolling Stones are playing tonight, Coach. It’s supposed to be a big concert, or so the radio says. It’s first-come seating."
“The rolling stone gathers no moss,” he said on an exhaled cloud of smoke. “Well, I’ll tell you, they must be good, them Rolling Stones, because folks don’t sleep on the steps if you ain’t good.”
“I don’t know about good,” Sam Bailey said as he walked through the side door. “But the show’s a sell-out. About 16,000 tickets and they ain’t through yet. It’ll be the biggest crowd the Coliseum’s ever had. Bigger than Elvis, basketball or any of those other bands.”
“Bigger than Elvis,” the Man howled. “What’s the ticket price?”
“They’ll make six-plus a head, with the concessions,” Bailey answered, flopping down on the couch.
The Man’s face contorted as he sat behind the desk. “Damn, that’s about a hundred thousand.” The figure lingered in the air as his powerful frame sank deeper into the depths of the high-back leather chair.
“Yep, a big gate, and they’re playing more than 40 concerts on this tour. They do it almost every year,” Bailey said casually.
“A hundred thousand here, times forty; that’s four million dollars!” The Coach’s piercing eyes suddenly pinned me. “What do them boys play?”
“Rock and roll, Coach,” I said without thinking. “They’re the English rock band. The best rock and rollers in the world since the Beatles split up. They do, I can’t get no satisfaction, no, no, no.”
“I heard that.” The Man launched into a croak, deeper than his usual base. “I can’t get no sat..tis..faction. Hell, sounds like my life story!”
Coach Bryant looked out his office window at the happening on the wide Memorial Coliseum steps. Longhaired freaks, button-downed frat boys, tie-dyed girls, and what appeared to be a fair number of middle-aged parents sweltered in the late June heat, grooving to rock music while they waited in line. Electric anticipation shone on every face. The crowd of about a thousand appeared to be having a blast.
Stepping into his big office, I swung around the desk for the day’s outgoing mail.
“Afternoon, Coach. Anything special?”
The Man cut his eyes at me then returned to his surveillance. The party held his attention.
“They were sleeping on the steps when I got here this morning, and the crowd’s been building all day,” Coach Bryant said to the window. “What’re they waiting for, Steve?”
“The Rolling Stones are playing tonight, Coach. It’s supposed to be a big concert, or so the radio says. It’s first-come seating."
“The rolling stone gathers no moss,” he said on an exhaled cloud of smoke. “Well, I’ll tell you, they must be good, them Rolling Stones, because folks don’t sleep on the steps if you ain’t good.”
“I don’t know about good,” Sam Bailey said as he walked through the side door. “But the show’s a sell-out. About 16,000 tickets and they ain’t through yet. It’ll be the biggest crowd the Coliseum’s ever had. Bigger than Elvis, basketball or any of those other bands.”
“Bigger than Elvis,” the Man howled. “What’s the ticket price?”
“They’ll make six-plus a head, with the concessions,” Bailey answered, flopping down on the couch.
The Man’s face contorted as he sat behind the desk. “Damn, that’s about a hundred thousand.” The figure lingered in the air as his powerful frame sank deeper into the depths of the high-back leather chair.
“Yep, a big gate, and they’re playing more than 40 concerts on this tour. They do it almost every year,” Bailey said casually.
“A hundred thousand here, times forty; that’s four million dollars!” The Coach’s piercing eyes suddenly pinned me. “What do them boys play?”
“Rock and roll, Coach,” I said without thinking. “They’re the English rock band. The best rock and rollers in the world since the Beatles split up. They do, I can’t get no satisfaction, no, no, no.”
“I heard that.” The Man launched into a croak, deeper than his usual base. “I can’t get no sat..tis..faction. Hell, sounds like my life story!”
