Pulse 08 · September 30, 2026 · 11 min
The interview everyone warned me would go nowhere.
Emily Ross could not explain what she did for the Buffaloes. Her answer arrived later, tied with a blue ribbon.
There are interviews you prepare for because you expect great answers.
There are interviews you prepare for because you expect difficult answers.
And then there are interviews you prepare for because every single person quietly tells you you’re wasting your time.
“Emily?”
The athletic department’s media coordinator smiled before I’d even finished the question.
“She’s lovely.”
That wasn’t what I’d asked.
“Can I interview her?”
“I’ll ask.”
Two days later, a reply appeared in my inbox.
Twenty minutes.
After Thursday’s practice.
No restrictions.
That alone surprised me.
Over the previous month Emily Ross had become one of the more curious sights in college football. Television cameras occasionally caught her standing beside Coach Ethan Harper during games. Social media had already decided she was everything from an analytics genius to the coach’s daughter, neither of which was remotely true.
As far as anyone officially acknowledged, she simply worked with the program.
Doing what remained wonderfully unclear.
Practice ended beneath a pale afternoon sky. Players drifted towards the locker room, helmets tucked beneath their arms, while assistants gathered cones and footballs from the practice fields.
Emily appeared exactly as she always did.
White Buffaloes blouse.
Grey pencil skirt.
Black tights.
Black heels entirely unsuited to standing on grass for three hours.
She spotted me before I reached her and offered the same polite smile I’d seen dozens of times from across the field.
“Mr… Dave?”
“Dave is fine.”
“I’m Emily.”
“I was beginning to think we’d never meet.”
She laughed quietly.
“So was I.”
Not nervous exactly.
Just… naturally shy.
The kind of person who apologises when somebody else bumps into them.
We found an empty bench overlooking one of the practice fields. Somewhere in the distance equipment managers were collecting tackling dummies. A lawn mower hummed beyond the far end zone.
I switched on my recorder.
“So,” I began, “what exactly do you do for the Buffaloes?”
Emily smiled immediately.
“I knew that would be the first question.”
“And?”
“And…”
She laughed again, looking briefly towards the grass.
“I help.”
“With?”
“Oh…”
A tiny shrug.
“Lots of things.”
There was no evasiveness in the answer.
She genuinely seemed unable to produce a better one.
“You don’t coach?”
“No.”
“You don’t analyse film?”
“No.”
“You don’t recruit?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t really know football very well.”
I must have looked surprised because she covered her mouth for a second, embarrassed by her own honesty.
“I probably shouldn’t admit that.”
“Why not?”
“My father would be horrified.”
“Your father?”
“He watched football every Saturday. He always assumed I’d eventually understand it.”
“And you don’t?”
“I know touchdowns are good.”
She laughed at herself before adding, almost apologetically,
“I still ask people what certain penalties mean.”
It was such an unexpectedly sincere confession that I found myself laughing too.
“You realise you’re standing on the sideline of one of the country’s top college football programs.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t know what an illegal formation is.”
She blushed.
“Not really.”
I tried another direction.
“Then why are you here?”
“I honestly don’t know how to explain it.”
“What does Coach Harper tell you to do?”
“He doesn’t really.”
“So he hired you…”
“I suppose.”
“…without giving you instructions?”
She thought for several seconds.
“He mostly asks me to be myself.”
I waited for more.
There wasn’t any.
“That’s it?”
She nodded.
“Mostly.”
Years covering football have taught me when somebody is avoiding a question.
Emily wasn’t avoiding anything.
She searched earnestly for answers that simply refused to arrive.
Every sentence began confidently enough before dissolving into uncertainty.
“I just…”
“I suppose…”
“It’s difficult to explain…”
Occasionally she’d stop halfway through a thought, smile apologetically and laugh at herself as though she’d disappointed both of us.
Oddly, it never felt frustrating.
It felt genuine.
“Players seem to like having you around.”
“They’re very kind.”
“They come to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What for?”
“Oh…”
She looked down again.
“They tell me about exams.”
“Football players discuss exams with you?”
“And girlfriends.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“And homesickness.”
She paused.
“Sometimes they just sit next to me for a while.”
“You give advice?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you say?”
“Usually not much.”
That answer lingered.
Sports is full of people eager to speak.
Motivational speeches.
Leadership seminars.
Locker-room monologues worthy of Hollywood films.
Emily described doing almost the exact opposite.
Listening.
I decided to poke a little harder.
“So let me see if I’ve got this right.”
She smiled nervously.
“You don’t know football.”
“Not very well.”
“You don’t coach.”
“No.”
“You don’t call plays.”
“No.”
“You don’t analyse opponents.”
“No.”
“You don’t recruit.”
“No.”
“You mostly listen to people.”
“I suppose…”
“And Coach Harper thinks that’s worth a place on the bench during Division I football games.”
Emily’s cheeks turned noticeably pink.
“When you say it like that…”
“It sounds unusual.”
“It does.”
She laughed into her hands.
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
I studied her for a moment.
She certainly wasn’t what college football traditionally places on a sideline.
One of the country’s toughest sports.
Hundreds of pounds of muscle crashing into one another every Saturday.
Whistles.
Play sheets.
Headsets.
And in the middle of it all sat a remarkably polite young woman who looked as though she’d wandered in from a university literature department.
“I have to ask.”
She looked up.
“Some people probably assume you’re only here because you’re… well…”
I hesitated.
“…a very attractive young woman.”
Her entire face turned crimson.
“Oh goodness…”
“They’ll say you’re just a pretty face in a pencil skirt standing on the sideline.”
Emily buried her face behind both hands for a second, laughing in complete embarrassment.
“I hope not.”
“So what would you tell them?”
She slowly lowered her hands.
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Surely you’re more than that.”
“I…”
Another helpless smile.
“I hope so.”
Before I could ask my next question, a familiar voice interrupted us.
“There you are.”
Coach Ethan Harper walked over carrying nothing more than a folded practice script.
He looked from me to Emily.
“Everything alright?”
Emily nodded immediately.
“We’re fine.”
Harper smiled.
“I imagine Dave has been asking impossible questions.”
“Mostly just one.”
“And did you answer it?”
She looked almost apologetically towards him.
“I don’t think I did.”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
The coach rested a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
Not possessive.
Protective.
He turned towards me.
“You’ve been covering football a long time, Dave.”
“I have.”
“Then you’ve probably learned not everything valuable fits neatly inside a job description.”
“I’ve also learned coaches usually invent job descriptions.”
A smile crossed Harper’s face.
“Perhaps.”
He glanced briefly at Emily.
“She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.”
“What does she actually do?”
Harper looked towards the empty practice field before answering.
“She reminds people who they are.”
It was the sort of sentence that should have sounded rehearsed.
Instead it came across as perfectly ordinary.
He gave Emily’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“She’s Emily.”
Emily looked thoroughly embarrassed.
“Oh, Coach…”
“I mean every word.”
Harper nodded politely towards me.
“That’s probably enough attention for one afternoon.”
I switched off the recorder.
For once, I didn’t argue.
Because after twenty minutes with Emily Ross, I had pages of notes.
Answers, however, remained in remarkably short supply.
She gave a shy wave and whispered a thank you before she walked away. As I started to pack my stuff, still a bit in shock by the total lack of information, she called me.
“Dave?”
I looked up.
Emily had stopped halfway across the courtyard.
She stood there for a moment, almost arguing with herself.
Then she hurried back, clutching the strap of her Buffaloes tote bag.
“Oh goodness…”
She laughed nervously.
“I nearly forgot.”
She opened the bag and carefully removed a small cardboard box tied with blue ribbon.
“My mum baked cookies yesterday.”
She held them out with both hands.
“I thought… maybe… you might like some.”
For a second I simply stared.
“You baked me cookies?”
She nodded.
“I wasn’t sure if that would be strange.”
“It is.”
Her eyes widened.
“Oh…”
“It’s wonderfully strange.”
She relaxed immediately.
“I’ve covered college football for twenty-five years,” I said as I accepted the box.
“I’ve interviewed national champions.”
She smiled politely.
“I’ve interviewed All-Americans.”
Another small nod.
“I’ve interviewed coaches with more wins than losses.”
Emily waited patiently.
“But you’re the first person who’s ever ended an interview by giving me homemade cookies.”
A blush spread across her cheeks.
“They’re chocolate chip.”
“I’ll treasure them.”
She laughed.
“You should probably eat them.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She started to leave again before pausing one last time.
“Oh…”
She reached into the box, lifted the lid and tucked a folded yellow sticky note beneath one of the cookies.
“There.”
“You forgot that too?”
“I almost did.”
She smiled.
“Now it’s finished.”
With that she finally walked away.
⸻
I didn’t open the box until I was sitting in my car.
The cookies smelled faintly of vanilla.
Tucked between two of them was the little yellow note.
In neat handwriting it read:
Thank you for being patient with me.
Nothing else.
No signature.
It didn’t need one.
I sat there for another minute looking at that little note.
When I finally started the engine, I still couldn’t tell you exactly what Emily Ross did for the Buffaloes.
She couldn’t tell me either.
Coach Harper hadn’t really answered the question.
None of the players ever would.
But after spending twenty minutes with her, I had a feeling they all understood something I didn’t.
Sometimes the most valuable person in a football program isn’t the one holding the headset.
Sometimes she’s the shy young woman who worries whether giving a reporter a box of homemade cookies might be too much.
And somewhere between an unanswered question and a handful of chocolate chip cookies, I realized I’d become an unabashed Emily Ross fan.
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