He had planned to sleep at his palatial office. Shut his eyes in darkness. Open them to light. He’d peer out his window. Survey a well-manicured lawn. Then get to work. Because he loved his job. He really did.

He was a 38-year-old Midwestern transplant, who after three nomadic decades had found a home out west. Work had initially lured him to Los Angeles. Life had attached him. He’d graduated from early adulthood here. Learned a ton. Married. Had kids. He’d traveled north for a payday, then bolted east for a “great job,” then returned for his “dream job.” And in September 2013, even as he struggled, he couldn’t imagine leaving it.

Until, on a return flight after a business trip, he got the note. His boss wanted to meet. Not tomorrow. Tonight. And not in his office, not even at company headquarters, but in a private room at Los Angeles International Airport.

Six year later, the scenes flicker back into his mind. He grabs his luggage, a bit confused. He steps off a bus. Crosses a tarmac. Drags himself into the private room.

And at around 3 a.m., with his family sound asleep, he gets fired.

He fights. Not physically, but verbally; emotionally. He’s desperate to state his case. His boss steps out of the room to make a phone call – perhaps, he hopes, to reconsider – then returns to say it’s too late. So after an hour of pleading, he slumps into a car, his body weary, mind spinning. When he arrives home, he wakes up his wife. She’s surprised. He explains. They’re both crushed.

He tries to sleep. He can’t. As the sun begins to rise, his phone begins to ring. He doesn’t answer. He’s angry. Stunned. And he knows. Knows that he’s national news. Knows that the thousands of people who wanted this to happen, who wanted him to suffer, who wanted him to lose his job will soon hear exactly how he lost it. They might even celebrate.

Someday, his three kids will hear, too. For now, he’ll try to act as if nothing’s changed. He’ll have more time for them. He’ll take them bowling. But when he does, strangers’ eyes will hound him. He’ll pull his hat down over his face. He won’t be able to enjoy his daughters’ smiles. And before long, he’ll have to uproot them. Pull them out of schools. Sever their friendships. Again.

Because he is not your average 38-year-old corporate executive. His name is Lane Kiffin. And his profession is football coach.

View photos Lane Kiffin was just 33 years old when he was fired as head coach of the Oakland Raiders. Five years later, he'd be relieved of his USC head coaching duties in the middle of the night at LAX. (MediaNews Group/Bay Area News via Getty Images) More

The human element

There are 32 head coaches in the NFL. Thirty-two men at the top of their profession. Thirty-two driven employees whose successes and failures are intensely public. There are hundreds more in college. And every winter, dozens of them experience what Kiffin did six years go; dozens of them lose their jobs.

Which, in any normal context, would be absurd. Eight NFL head coaches were canned last season. A quarter of the 32. Twelve months later, four more have been fired and two more could follow.

The churn is one of many accepted absurdities of a very abnormal industry. One that pays extraordinary wages for extraordinary hours and extraordinary work. One where, when the dawn-to-dusk days don’t yield results, customers instantaneously become aware and impatient.

Coaches become the natural scapegoats. They become hashtags and chants, their names fused to the word “fire” by superglue. Journalists call for them to lose their jobs. Before they actually have, prime-time TV and radio shows speculate about their successors.

And they get it. They really do. They are privileged, blessed, the 1 percent both in society and their line of work. They could do without the line-crossers, the front yard-trashers, the verbal abusers. Everyday passion, however, is why they make as much money as they do.

But what gets lost in the abnormality is that they are still human beings. Yes, they get paid millions. No, exchange rates for dollars and happiness do not exist. Yes, their families are financially stable. No, stability does not mute their emotional pain.

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