by Peter Gent
The week before his theory had been almost the exact opposite: We worked too hard and, consequently, were exhausted near the end of the game.
“Goddammit, Meadows, you always got some fuckin’ theory.” Tony Douglas, the middle linebacker, spoke up from the top bench.
“We oughta do at least ten windsprints and run the ropes at the end of the each practice,” Meadows said.
“Bullshit!” Douglas was irritated. The discussion ended.
There was a long pause while everyone sweated and thought.
Larry Costello, the man B.A. thought “liked to sit on the bench,” was sitting at the front. He was bent over, his head in his hands, staring at the floor.
“What’s the matter, Larry, didn’t you make your weight?” There was malevolence in Douglas’s voice. He enjoyed other people’s misery.
“No I didn’t make the fucking weight.” Costello was a second-string defensive tackle, thirty-one years old, with bad knees. Because he seldom played on Sunday, the three days without work made it difficult for him to stay down to his assigned weight.
“How much over?”
“Four fucking pounds.” Costello was depressed. He had a wife and three kids and no prospects outside of football.
“Goddam, two hundred dollars.”
Costello spent every day in the sauna. At fifty dollars a pound, he had to or go broke.
“I’ve got it figgered out,” Costello said, talking into the floor, his head still in his hands. “I count the drops falling off the end of my nose. One hundred drops equals one pound. I just sit here and count.”
I escaped to the showers. I had barely broken a sweat. The shower cooled me down, and as I dressed I enjoyed the empty spent feeling that a good physical workout gives.
By the time I had crossed the parking lot, started my car, and pulled out of the lot, the sweat from the afternoon heat was soaking through my shirt.
I pushed a tape into the deck and fished in the glove box for a joint.
The car was heading south on Central Expressway, the tape deck was at full volume, the windows were rolled up, and the air conditioner was on Maximum Cold. Two joints, combined with the exhaustion of the workout, had smashed me sufficiently and I floated toward downtown Dallas, insulated from the world by modern technology and good dope. It was the afternoon rush hour and I was going against the grain of the traffic escaping north to the suburbs. I passed miles of glazed eyes, tight jaws, and hands tensely gripped on steering wheels, people rushing home, dazedly thankful that the world had held together for another day. Race home, drink martinis, barbecue in the back yard, scream at the kids, try and get a hard on, give up and fall asleep, trying not to think about tomorrow.
I nodded my head in time with Mick Jagger.
“I’m a man of wealth and fame ...”
I was headed downtown to the 52nd floor of the CRH Building and the Royal Knight Club.
Floor-to-ceiling windows behind the bar made the club the finest place in town to sit stoned and drink. I would look out over Dallas and in on the business community’s afternoon cocktail hour.
The CRH Building bore the initials of its owner, Conrad R. Hunter, and housed the corporate headquarters of CRH Systems, Incorporated, Hunter’s original electronics firm and the source of most of his wealth. Systems Incorporated manufactured aircraft and missile-guidance systems for the Defense Department, supplying the largest portion of systems in use in Southeast Asia.
I stepped aboard the express elevator and interrupted a conversation between two men in identical gray glen-plaid suits. The men remained silent and motionless the entire ride, while I hummed to myself and otherwise tried to ease the strange tension that filled the elevator. The doors opened to the darkness of the club’s foyer and the two men stepped out and resumed their conversation in midsyllable.
“What’ll it be?” A bartender in gartered sleeves, a plaid vest, and a Sebring haircut put a napkin on the bar.
“Beer.”
“Coors?”
“No, Budweiser.” I thought about ordering Pearl out of a vague, confused loyalty, but stuck with Budweiser.
I looked out the windows, north across Dallas. The landscape was slightly rolling, with no outstanding topographical features with the exception of a couple of small bodies of water, presumptuously called lakes. It was a clear day, but the rush-hour ground haze and smog robbed the view of much of its sharpness. It was growing dark and I could see the lines of headlights still heading north on the expressway.
The club was dotted with groups of neatly dressed, immaculately groomed men. There was an undertone of motion as intense conversations were punctuated with pointed fingers or whole bodies leaning forward aggressively to accent a conviction.
“I told the little bastard if I ever found him with any, I’d turn his hairy little ass over to the police.” A man with gray muttonchop sideburns stood, with three other men, behind me and to my right. “I’ll do the same thing John Gauthier did with his kid.”
John Gauthier, an eminent Dallas stockbroker, had recently discovered his fifteen-year-old daughter in a carnal embrace and in possession of marijuana. He immediately had her committed to a mental institution, where, in the course of her internment, she was administered electroshock treatments. The successful stockbroker was recently quoted in the local Sunday magazine as saying how wonderful the institution’s care of his child had been and that since returning home his daughter had been “quite calm.”
“Did you see what they’re doing in Spain?”
I turned completely around at the sound of a familiar voice, and instantly wished I hadn’t.
“Phil Elliott!” The voice belonged to Louis Lafler, a wealthy realtor and close friend of Conrad Hunter. I had met him at several quarterback club luncheons. “Come on over and join us,” he said. He was standing with Muttonchops.
I turned on the stool and the four opened their circle and moved to the bar to surround me.
Lafler quickly went through the introductions. I half-rose and gave firm grips to disguise my confusion and terror at having to communicate. The names went right through my head. I nodded a lot.
I sat back down. Sitting, I was as tall or taller than all four men.
“As I was saying,” Lafler continued, “Martha and I were in Madrid a month ago, and they were sentencing hippies to six years and one day in prison for possession of pot.”
“I’d heard that.” A fat man with the ruddy complexion that comes from broken blood vessels spoke up. “They know how to handle ’em.”
“They can say what they want about Franco,” the fat man continued, “but I was over there last year and it’s a great place. Prices are cheap. The streets are clean and the trains run on time. He knows how to run a country, I tell you.”
“That’s what they said about Hitler.” It jumped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Huh?” The fat man looked at me, momentarily confused. “Oh, yeah, he sure did. Yes, he did.” His eyes brightened, pleased with Hitler for supporting his philosophy. He bore on. “Yessir, you can say what you want about a dictatorship, but there’s no crime in the streets.”
“You can say that again,” I nodded, smiling wryly at Louis Lafler.
When I was still married, Louis Lafler had invited my wife and me to his house for drinks one afternoon. I had smoked a couple of joints on the way over and was completely loaded. My wife didn’t dope and was furious. About twenty-five other married couples were already there and I parked our car behind the Lincolns and Cadillacs that lined the street in front of Lafler’s palatial north Dallas address. Once inside, Louis quickly hustled us a couple of drinks, introduced us, and then called the room to order for the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. It was a John Birch Society meeting.
At the end of the meeting they passed around pencils and paper and asked everyone to list people they thought might be Communists, use drugs, or otherwise act suspicious. I was afraid to hand in a blank sheet of paper, so I listed my
wife.
“What do you think about that, Phil?” Muttonchops stared quizzically into my face. He looked like a hip Porky Pig.
“About what?” I noticed my glass was empty and turned to the bartender. “I’d like another beer, please.”
“The death penalty,” Muttonchops pressed. “What do you think about the death penalty?”
“The what?” I had heard him distinctly, but was shocked by the question. I needed more time to collect my cannabis-dazed mind.
“Death penalty ... to guys who sell dope.”
Oh, beautiful. The death penalty. I wished I had another beer so I would have something to do with my hands and mouth.
“Well, I wouldn’t lump heroin and marijuana together... .” That was a pretty stupid thing to say.
I heard the distinctive clunk of my fresh beer hitting the bar beside me. I whirled and picked it up. I drank half the glass in long, terrified gulps. I focused intently on the beer and everything fell back into place. I took another long drink.
“I think the death penalty is pretty extreme,” I said, “no matter what the crime.” Nice safe middle-of-the-road humanitarian statement. I was proud of myself.
“Yeah, that’s true,” somebody agreed with me.
“Enough of this. Let’s hear about that football team,” the red-faced man interrupted. “How you guys gonna do in New York this weekend?”
“Okay, I guess. They don’t have much, but you never know.”
“On any given Sunday ...” Muttonchops said, nodding his head, his lips in a tight line. He sounded like Sports Illustrated.
“Boy, I’ll never forget the time you hit the goalpost against New York. I thought you were dead.”
“I thought I was dead, too.”
They all laughed heartily.
It was always surprising to me to see respected businessmen who deal in millions of dollars and thousands of lives giggling like pubescent schoolgirls around a football player. I could never figure out if it was worship or fear. Probably just confusion.
“Boy, you sure took some lumps last year.”
“I took some this year, too.”
They all laughed again. Apparently, we were having a good time.
People always like to discuss my injuries in great detail. I wondered if this happened to all players.
“Which injury hurt the most?”
“Well, one year I had hemorrhoids.”
“Hemorrhoids? Oh ... no ... no ...”
They all laughed again. Here I was, having a big time with the cream of the Dallas business world.
“No, really, which one?”
“Did you ever have hemorrhoids?” I asked.
“I’ve got ’em now.”
“Well, that explains the expression on your face.”
They all laughed again.
“Well, then.” The laughter had subsided. “What after hemorrhoids?”
“Back, I guess.”
“That time against Cleveland?”
“Yeah, smashed the big muscle along the spine and broke off some short ribs. Hurt pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I know,” Muttonchops offered. “Can’t do a thing when your back is hurt. Stand up, lay down, screw. I know.” He didn’t elaborate on how he knew.
“Who do you like better, Unitas or Starr?” People always asked me to compare players. I didn’t know how they compared. To me it was a stupid question.
“I dunno, they’re both pretty good.”
“I think Unitas is better,” Louis Lafler concluded. He told me once he loved Unitas because he wore high-top shoes. Louis had worn high tops when he played in high school. The shoes were the only thing he remembered about the game. They were the only things about the game to which he could relate.
“Yessir, he is a good, steady quarterback. He’ll get those key third downs,” Louis continued confidently. “He wears those high tops and he means business.” The inference was obvious all those guys in low cuts didn’t mean business.
“That’s the trouble with America today.” Louis’s voice softened and his eyes became distant.
“High-top shoes?” I asked.
“No. Not enough people mean business.”
I noticed my glass was empty again. I was drinking fast, a sign of heavy tension. I signaled the bartender and asked the four if they needed a refill. They were all fine, so I just ordered a beer.
“Coors?” It was a new bartender.
“No.” I started to order a Budweiser, then changed my mind. “Bring me a Pearl.” I nodded and smiled, pleased with my order.
“We ain’t got it,” the bartender replied unsmiling. “How ‘bout a Coors?”
“No. Bring me a Budweiser.” I felt a twinge of nostalgic remorse over the passing of the West and the end of Texas beer sovereignty. It was a rotten shame.
“Do you like these slacks?” Louis said suddenly and stepped into the middle of our circle to do a half-turn. They were madras slacks, the kind that were popular in East Lansing in the late fifties. “They cost forty-five dollars a pair here at Jack’s,” he continued. “But I get ’em for fifteen dollars a pair when I’m in Hong Kong. The guy’s got my measurements and everything.”
“Next time you’re over there, get me two pair.” Mutton-chops seemed interested.
“Two pair?”
“Yeah.” Muttonchops smiled. “One pair to shit on and the other to cover it up with.”
They all laughed again.
“I saw Conrad at Windwood Hills, Saturday,” said Muttonchops, changing the subject.
Windwood Hills was the newest, richest Dallas country club. Conrad R. Hunter was the member, as he was in all Dallas business and social circles of any consequence.
“He was hitting a few shots, waiting for the rest of his foursome.”
“Yeah, we were in the same foursome last weekend,” Louis interrupted. “Charlie Stafford was along. He goosed ol’ Con on the fifth tee and made him hit one in the water.”
They all laughed again.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I stood in front of a black urinal with gold fixtures, feeling guilty about the intense pleasure I felt. My eyes wandered around the room. It was a palatial toilet with gold-plated fixtures, hand-carved floor-to-ceiling doors, and walnut paneling.
A tiny black man crept up behind me and began brushing my back rapidly with a whisk broom. I ignored him and continued to survey the walls. A small mark on the paneling, just above the urinal, caught my eye. Leaning closer, I could make out four words etched deeply into the walnut:
CONRAD HUNTER SUCKS COCKS
It was 7:15 P.M. as I drove back north on the expressway, heading for Joanne’s high-rise apartment. I had just turned off the radio after the seven o’clock report of death and violence in the Southwest: A Dallas property owner had been acquitted of the murder of a sixteen-year-old boy who was stealing tools from his garage. He had shot the boy twice in the back and left him to bleed to death in the alley. The police chief came on the radio to warn the citizenry that shotgun-wielding officers would be lying in ambush in high-crime areas. He was reminding the public to avoid suspicious behavior that might result in an innocent person getting blown in half. There had been twelve armed robberies in the last twenty-four hours.
I passed the North Dallas Towers. The tenth floor was brightly lit. They would be watching the New York films, designing the game plan for Sunday.
The light was on in Clinton Foote’s office. The general manager was working late too. I was reminded of one particular meeting in that office. Late one March I had been notified (a form letter addressed “Dear Player”) that my option had been picked up. I had answered by form letter and was quickly summoned by phone to the North Dallas Towers. Clinton’s was a corner office that smelled of fresh paint. One wall was covered by a full-color superstat of a fifty-yard-line ticket from Super Bowl I. The furniture was stainless steel and there was a complete selection of last year’s game programs on the glass coffee table.
&nb
sp; Clinton was on the phone when his secretary ushered me inside. He waved me to take a seat and continued his conversation.
“No. No. Absolutely not.” His foot tapped loudly under the desk. Clinton worked long hours and often relied on Dexamyls from the trainers to keep going. The way his foot was working was a sure sign that time pills were going off somewhere. “No. Absolutely not, you can’t have it.” He hung up and picked a piece of paper off the desk. It was my letter to him. “Before we go any further, why did you send me this smart-assed letter?”
The letter had been mimeographed and addressed “Dear General Manager.”
“You sent me one. You could have just picked up the phone.”
“I got more than one contract to negotiate and more important things to do than concern myself with your delicate sensitivities.” He wadded up the letter and tossed it away.
“Sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I apologize.” I hadn’t expected him to get quite so mad. It had seemed funny while I was doing it. I didn’t need to be putting obstacles in my own path.
Negotiating with Clinton Foote was extremely difficult for three reasons. First, Clinton owned a small part of the club and had an override on profits. Thus, a percentage of any money Clinton saved in overhead (i.e., player’s salaries) came back into his own pocket. Second, Clinton tried never to let a player know the whole troth about his status with the club. It kept the players off balance and easier to control. A player didn’t need to know any more than was necessary to play on Sunday. Third, Clinton Foote was one smart son of a bitch.
Contract negotiations were honorless, distasteful, and totally frightening experiences. There were no fixed rules and behavior varied radically, depending on the individuals involved.
“Well, Phil,” he had been gazing at a yellow note pad. He set it down and looked directly into my eyes. The man who extracted millions from the television networks was about to extort a measly few thousand from a fool. “How much do you want?”
I shifted uneasily in my seat. My head was crammed with facts: number of catches, number of touchdowns, yards per reception, and so on. My head was also crammed with considerations: I was the starting flanker, I was younger than Gill—he was healthier but that could change—and more. The contest would be between my head, jammed full of assumptions, facts, and fear, and Clinton Foote’s note pad, a neat outline of undisputable truth.