by Peter Gent
“My God, you are a beautiful woman.”
Wendy flowed around the goal. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”
“Increasingly beautiful every moment.”
“Do you love me?”
“Do you love me?”
“I asked first.”
“Does what is happening anyplace but right here really matter?” She stopped swaying and looked at him. He began to shiver like he was cold. Wendy could look deep into him when she decided to take the chance and reach for the center, probing for soft, empty places. She found them quickly.
Wendy moistened her lips. She knelt down and ran her hands across the bristled artificial turf.
“Maybe you better go get that blanket.” She began to unbutton the front of the simple cotton dress. “Hurry now. We’ll see if we can make the Polyturf move.”
The walk from the end zone to the car at midfield and back, in the bright moonlight, in the empty stadium, was the most memorable yardage Taylor Rusk ever covered.
“Why the end zone?” Taylor pulled off his boots and socks.
“It seems like the best choice. It’ll be something to compare with other experiences you’ve had or will have in the end zone.”
“Sort of a baseline?”
“Gives us both a common denominator. We got some heavy decision-making to do, so we had best get to work on our data base.” Wendy unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. She was always surprised by the size of his powerful upper body. “We should both pay close attention to any transferable type of behavior. Or is there no comparison?”
“There is only one way to find out,” Taylor pulled her to him, dragging her slender soft ankle across the Polyturf, causing a small burn. “First we choose up sides.”
“Choose me,” Wendy said again. “Choose me.”
They gripped and stroked each other, his big hands covering her small smooth body. They kissed and she pressed herself against his naked chest, ignoring the sting of her ankle. She played with pain. It was the big leagues.
“There is a certain enchantment about the stadium,” she said later. They were both covered with sweat. “All those dark empty seats.”
“Fill them full of screaming people and you really focus the mind.”
A slight breeze blew the length of the field, down one tunnel and up and out the other.
“This is the end zone, huh?” Wendy sat up and looked around. “I’m going to try harder to learn about football.”
“It takes a long time to learn your way around a football field. A long time.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
THE DEMOCRATIC SPIRIT
CYRUS WANTED A contest run on television to choose the new Franchise name.
“I want something subtle but Texan,” Cyrus told Conly, who had suggested “The Texas Pistols.” “Not something as obvious as The Texas Pistols, for Chrissake, Dick. Where’s all that goddam imagination you’re supposed to have? We’ll let the fans decide. We’ll do a promotion tie-in with all sorts of consumer products.”
“By vote,” Conly said. “The American way.”
“We’ll let them pick the colors too.” Cyrus snapped a look at his sardonic CEO. “Purple and white. Great choice, Dick.”
They, too, had been Conly’s suggestion.
The Name the New Franchise and Pick Your Favorite Team’s Colors contests ran simultaneously. Over a hundred thousand entries were recorded. The decision was strictly a democratic one: the most votes for the name and the most votes for the colors.
The new Texas Pistols would wear white at home and purple on the road.
When he heard the fans’ choices, Cyrus Chandler stayed visibly angry for two weeks and fired his accounting firm.
THE SIGNING
“EXCUSE TAYLOR AND me, will you, fellows?” Cyrus Chandler steered a course through the assembled press and club and league officials. The TV lights were still on; cameras rolled and shutters clicked. Taylor Rusk had just signed his $1.6 million two-year contract with the Franchise.
At the edge of the crowd was Simon D’Hanis. Cyrus had requested he attend Taylor’s signing ceremony. Simon had signed two days earlier. Cyrus signaled for the lineman to follow him and Taylor away from the press and into his office. Dick Conly, Lem Three and Richie Dixon stayed outside and got drunk with the press. It was Lem and Richie’s job; Dick Conly did it for the hell of it.
Taylor sat on the couch as Simon shut the door.
“Happy with your contract?” the owner asked his big lineman.
“Yeah,” Simon nodded.
“We didn’t have much left when Doc Webster, Taylor’s agent, finished with us,” Cyrus said coldly. “You should have gotten a better deal.”
The implication was clear: Cyrus Chandler hoped to confuse Simon—embarrass him—and teach Taylor Rusk a lesson.
“Did you read it?” Cyrus’s eyes glittered with cruel expectation.
“Not all of it, but Charles Stillman explained it to me.” Simon smiled. “It’s a fair three-year contract. I’m grateful.”
“We didn’t come here to talk contracts,” Taylor interrupted, sensing Cyrus’s intent.
Cyrus Chandler sat behind his desk and leaned back. He glanced at Taylor, then focused on Simon D’Hanis. “You got yours, Taylor, but Simon ...”
“Simon,” Taylor argued, “don’t you see what he is doing here?”
“A number-two choice”—Cyrus frowned—“should have done better. Stillman? Why did you choose Charlie to be your agent?”
“I don’t know. I’ve known him for a while,” Simon said, squirming, glancing from Taylor to Cyrus. “He works for the Players Union.”
“You mean he hangs around the locker room a lot.” Taylor immediately regretted the remark.
“I guess so.” Simon looked angrily at Taylor; his palms were wet.
“Incidentally”—Cyrus stuck Simon hard—“you don’t have a three-year contract. We have the three-year contract. You have three one-year contracts. You never even noticed. And of your $125,000 bonus you took $100,000 as deferred payments, right?”
“Yeah.” Simon’s eyes dropped to gaze at the carpet beneath him; he absently pulled at his lower lip. “Stillman said that and deferring half my salary for fifteen years would keep my taxes simple.”
“It should keep them real simple.” The owner laughed. He enjoyed this big man’s discomfort; he couldn’t help acting smart, bragging, beating the giant down to his knees. “You have any idea what those dollars will be worth? When and if you get them? Stillman took his ten percent up front on the gross amount, so you even got fucked by your own lawyer. You aren’t rich, you’re broke.” Cyrus paused. “And apparently dumb.”
Taylor thought Cyrus had overplayed his hand—fatally. Simon did not like being called dumb. It always discomposed the Big Thicket white-trash giant to be called dumb.
Except today.
“Jesus.” Simon sat down hard like he had been shoved. Taylor watched Cyrus strip D’Hanis bare.
“All those big numbers, the $400,000 that we just batted around out there for the press. That’s for them. Makes you look more valuable.”
“Simon, don’t listen to this,” Taylor pleaded. “These guys are slime.”
Simon sat frozen, staring blankly at his hands in his lap.
“Stillman was so anxious to fuck you and make us happy that we didn’t have to buy him off.” Cyrus grinned and saliva formed at his mouth’s corners. “He wants to do more business with us, and we are going to be around for a long time. You are just passing through.”
“Simon,” Taylor interrupted, “come on, let’s get out of here. You don’t have to take ...”
“He damn well does!” Cyrus yelled. “And you are next, Mr. Hotshot Crotchkey. I’ll get to you after I finish with the boy here.”
Simon flushed red, embarrassed, frightened. He clutched the arm of the chair. Knowing they suckered him so easily scared him.
I am dumb! Simon thought as he looked at Ta
ylor slouched on the small couch, watching from the corners of his eyes. Simon hated him for being there.
Cyrus continued, “I’m telling you these things now because I like you and I expect great things from you as a football player. Taylor is going to be the Franchise. It’s good PR, but building blocks like you are the reality. I will take care of you, but we don’t deal with agents. We’ll renegotiate your contract next year. Just you and me.”
“Simon, don’t you see what’s happening here?” Taylor said to his confused, distraught friend. “He and Conly and Stillman have been lying to you from the beginning. He screwed you then and he’s lying to you now. Take your lumps and walk; don’t make him another deal. Fuck him.”
“You got yours, Taylor,” Simon said softly. “I want mine.”
“I didn’t get mine out of yours, Simon, so don’t let him.”
Simon stood to leave. The movement caused Taylor to tense.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Chandler.” Simon walked out.
“Jesus! Simon!” Taylor knew his friend’s mind was made up. Further arguing was useless.
Cyrus looked sourly at Taylor, then smiled at the closing door, elated by the ease with which Simon was intimidated, scared and humiliated.
“That was nice, Cyrus,” Taylor said. “You should carry a cattle prod.”
“You’re next.” The owner turned to Taylor Rusk. “Your order is just as simple. You stay away from my daughter. I have plans for her and do not want the kind of grief you would cause my family. You are property of the football franchise, that is all. Junie goddam near drove me nuts during Water Carnival. I already told Wendy. Now I’m telling you.”
“What did Wendy say?”
“None of your goddam business. My plans for her don’t include you. It’s my family and my franchise. Do you understand?” Cyrus pointed at the door. “We can just as easily step right back out that door and pop your little bubble quicker than we pumped it up. You understand the bottom line? I want your word or you are through with this football team.”
“Well, Cyrus, I have plans that don’t include you or the Franchise.” Taylor smiled slightly. “So let’s go back out there and tell the newspaper and TV folks you have changed your mind and I’m not the Franchise nor the greatest quarterback ever. It was a mistake giving me the Heisman Trophy. See what Red Kilroy says when you tell him what you just did to Simon D’Hanis. You don’t know anything about football or the men it takes to play and win. Simon’s supposed to keep killer niggers off me and you fuck him into resenting my salary!”
“It’s a tough life, kid. This is show business. Guys like him are cheap.”
“Well, guys like me aren’t, as you well know,” Taylor said. “Your inability to judge talent is astonishing.”
“Stay away from my daughter!” Cyrus looked at Taylor. “You fuck up on this and you’ll never work in this business again.”
Taylor glimpsed something missing in Cyrus’s lined face, something dangerously absent: discipline. Not even the slightest trace.
“Since my first day on a football field,” Taylor said, “people have been threatening to stop me from playing. It comes with the turf. Threats are the language of sports. You don’t scare me.”
“It’s true.” Cyrus’s voice rose to a screech. Flecks of saliva flew from his mouth. “You fuck with me and you will never work again.”
“Are you going to get me for dating Wendy?” The quarterback looked around the richly furnished office. “A cement overcoat? I doubt it. You might be able to carry out your threats, but first you got to get out of this room. So you better just get Dick in here before your alligator mouth overloads your hummingbird ass.”
“I can put you on the list!” Cyrus’s squawl broke to a whine. “We can keep you from ever playing again!” His hand shook as he mashed the intercom call button.
“I’ve heard that before.” Taylor turned toward the sound at the door. “Damn, this is the big leagues; let me see you actually do it.”
Dick Conly walked into the office and headed for the wall concealing Cyrus’s alcohol.
“Precisely, Taylor,” Conly said. “It’s the big leagues, and you are so damn good at it.” The general manager banged at Cyrus’s wall until the hidden wet bar swung out. He held up the brand-new eight-ounce Texas Pistols-logo tumblers, purple and white, crossed Walker Colt .45 single-action revolvers. “Drink?” Conly looked to Taylor.
Taylor waved off the alcohol. “I’m on drugs.”
Conly nodded. Cyrus frowned as Dick poured four ounces of whiskey and drank it down in a long continuous gulping motion. He poured another. “Lots of people can play football, but only a few can make big money. Do what the man wants,” Conly said. “You could be making a big mistake. Expensive. Wendy and Lem Three are getting married this July. It’s been set for a long time. You won’t be able to make the wedding because you’ll be in camp early with the rookies and the centers. We’re going to train in your part of the state, just up the road from Two Oaks at Ben T. Milam Junior College up in the hill country.” Conly was painting the air with his hand. “Bluebonnets and bluestem grass, Indian firewheels. Beautiful country. God’s country. Cool breezes.”
“You a chamber-of-commerce lyricist?” Taylor looked up at Conly’s face. His long fingers were laced tightly together and his palms were dry. So was his mouth. “You can’t interfere with us. I’m not afraid of you and I sure as hell couldn’t be the Franchise if I were afraid of Cyrus.”
Taylor unlaced his fingers, clenched his fist and held it in front of Dick Conly’s face. Conly drank another glass of whiskey and watched with dead-fish eyes.
“That’s me in there. I can hold me in one hand.” Taylor’s jaws were tight; the muscles flexed and made his cheek quiver. His eyes cold, narrow; his lips, stretched to a thin crease, barely moved. “If I trust you and open my hand, I will float away, I know it. You know it. But you need me. Where would the Franchise be with Red Kilroy as coach and any other quarterback? Red is a raving lunatic.”
“The man is a football genius,” Cyrus protested.
“Sure, he’s a genius,” Taylor agreed, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a raving maniac. You have any idea what it is like to control and play a football game in front of seventy thousand people with a full-blown bozo on the sidelines as head coach? Against Ohio State he shit in his pants in the third quarter and didn’t leave the field until the game ended. He stunk like a shit-house and was crazier than a shithouse rat.
“You bring in your number-three choice, that hotshot quarterback from Florida State.” Taylor smiled. “Red will eat him for breakfast, bones and all, and then walk around asking everybody where the quarterback from Florida State went.”
“Red Kilroy knows more football than you’ll ever know.” Cyrus wasn’t looking at Taylor.
“There is no first place in the mad house, Cyrus.”
“Red wants to trade for a good quarterback.” Cyrus was still at him. “We got Bobby Hendrix from Cleveland; now Red wants that guy that threw to Hendrix, Kendall Adams.”
“Kimball,” Conly corrected, “Kimball Adams.”
“Right,” Cyrus said, “Kimball Adams.”
“He’s almost forty and has had four knee operations.” Taylor sighed, sensing a long war ahead. “How long do you think he’ll last behind the kind of offensive line we’re gonna have? You might get one good year out of him. Red knows that, I know it. We’re gonna have to run sprint-out passes for the first three years at least. How’s Kimball Adams gonna run a sprint out? He’s good, but he won’t put up with Red going crazy on game day. He needs ten shots of Novocain a half to play for Cleveland, and they’ve got an offensive line. Sorry, Cyrus, but you need me. And you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do, on or off the field. That’s why I’m the quarterback.”
Taylor looked at both men, then extended his hand. “If you fellows want to say good-bye, let’s have that one-million-dollar handshake Doc had you put in the contract.” He stared at
the two men; neither reached for the million-dollar hand, so Taylor walked out into the lobby.
“Asshole. College kid asshole,” Cyrus said. “I give him a great contract; then, when I try to keep him happy and wise him up, he walks out acting like the Franchise.”
“He is the Franchise,” Dick Conly said. “What the hell did you do to Simon D’Hanis in here?”
“I took him down a notch or two for Mr. Rusk’s benefit.” Cyrus smiled. “Now, what will Taylor Rusk do about my daughter?”
“Whatever he damn well pleases.” And this time Dick Conly drank from the bottle.
“Fellas ... say, fellas ...” In the outer office Simon D’Hanis called to the various writers and cameramen, sound technicians, assorted press and Franchise officials who were drinking free whiskey and looking at the hostesses dressed in black-net stockings, skintight purple-and-white hot pants and T-shirts.
Taylor stood next to the door and watched.
“Fellas, if I could have your attention again ...” Simon walked up to the podium and the bouquet of microphones taped there. “Charlie, could you come here a minute?” He waved at his agent, who was near the back of the room, talking to Lem Carleton III and one of the hostesses.
“Charlie Stillman and I have one more announcement,” Simon insisted, and people began to move back toward the podium, turning on tape recorders, cameras and klieg lights. Charlie Stillman, a tall, thin man with a pointed face, was a graduate of the University law school and had been recommended to Simon by the athletic director, T. J. “Armadillo” Talbott. It was a mystery to Taylor why Simon believed Armadillo. Taylor had tried to get Simon to let Doc Webster handle his contract, but Simon said Doc was a drunk with a bad reputation. Taylor wondered where Simon D’Hanis, from Vidor, Texas, learned to worry about Doc’s reputation. Taylor guessed Dick Conly.
“What is it, ol’ buddy?” Charlie Stillman said to Simon, who had the agent in a shoulder grip and was avoiding his gaze, concentrating his efforts on reinspiring the press.
Finally all the lights and tape and film were running.