by Peter Gent
“I just wanted to tell you about Charlie.” Digging into Stillman’s shoulder with his strong fingers, Simon turned, looked into Stillman’s eyes and saw a man who knew he’d been caught. “He sold me out like a sneaking dog, and if I had my two-seventy, I’d show ...” His eyes catching sight of Taylor, Simon suddenly stopped. “... show ... and ... I’m ... I’m ...” He looked at Taylor again. “I’m sorry.” Simon released the vise grip on Stillman’s shoulder and shoved him over the podium and crashing through the crowd.
Simon stormed into an open elevator. Two writers trying to follow were tossed gently off, only bouncing a couple of times. The TV sound man was screaming that his leg was broken. The doors closed on Simon, all alone in a descending elevator. Taylor watched it all. Nobody had won and Simon had lost. It was so pointless.
CALLING THE PLAYS
TAYLOR AND WENDY went up to Doc’s on Dead Man Creek and watched the moon rise big and red, climbing rapidly into the sky, getting smaller, finally turning white.
“You remember the Bowl Game when A.D. got hurt?” Taylor closed his eyes. “It was near the end of the game ... remember?” Their separate hammocks creaked slowly in rhythm, the white nets of cotton cord stretched between the skinned and jointed cedar poles that supported the porch’s tin roof. The crickets and hammocks made the only noise for a while.
“No. I didn’t watch.” Wendy didn’t want to talk about the Bowl Game.
“Well,” Taylor continued, unaware, “A.D. was flopping like a fish, screaming, moaning and groaning. Simon wanted to call a priest instead of the trainer.” To keep his hammock swinging, Taylor pushed off the stone floor, his long leg crooked, his foot flat. “So now everybody is scared and the trainer says, ‘A.D.! Where are you hurt?’ and A.D. acts like he’s taken bullets in the chest. He groans finally. ‘Don’t worry about me; how are my fans taking it?’ ”
Taylor began to laugh. When Wendy did not respond, Taylor’s laughter quickly died off. They lay silently in the hammocks, listening to the whippoorwill in the oak motte.
“You going to do what my father wants?” Wendy asked finally.
“No. I try never to cooperate with the system. How about you?”
“I don’t know. Are you proposing?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask for forever if you don’t want it.”
“Maybe I want it.”
“Maybe don’t have a pay window.”
“Life isn’t always metaphor for sports.”
Taylor said nothing for quite a while; then quietly, carefully, he said, “It takes management and coaching to win consistently, but to do it quickly the Franchise needs a great quarterback—me. There are plenty of good players for the other positions, all mass-produced by the colleges, all available. But great quarterbacks are rare.”
“You make it seem that way,” Wendy said.
“That’s the reason Red’s in a hurry,” Taylor went on. “Me too. I’m a lifelong tramp athlete with one chance in a million to turn some big money. If your father stays clear.”
“He won’t,” Wendy said. “He never will.”
“I know, and that means skating on thinner ice than usual. I still want you with me, but I can’t think about a wife and children. It’s going to be full speed through the fog, with me calling the turns. I have to pay attention.”
“How about a simple yes or no,” Wendy said impatiently.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“You’re backing down from my father,” Wendy accused.
“Not an inch, nor am I purposely pushing him. I don’t need any additional bends in the road. Speed and time are important.”
“You’re just going to let real life go by while you play games for my father.”
“This is real life.” Taylor pointed at himself. “I have to control the playing field or I am gone, replaced by a technician who becomes the coach’s pawn, showing great skill but no magic.”
“Now you’re a magician?” Wendy was sarcastic. “You definitely are an escape artist.”
“Keeping my eyes on the road ahead is not the same as ignoring you. My life is what it is,” Taylor said. “You’re welcome to make this insane run; you can get off or back on anytime, but don’t grab the wheel.”
“No wedding? Or children?” Wendy spit the words angrily. She was unused to being denied.
“Why risk the first few laps,” Taylor replied. “I have the skills, knowledge and power to survive the business. With your help I could win at it, on and off the field.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Wendy asked warily.
“Understand.”
“What do you mean by that? Understand what?”
“Three things are important.” Taylor frowned. “Don’t lie, never make a promise you can’t keep, and never quit.
“I fight for control every day, against more than Cyrus. I trust no one, especially people who believe in Spur, team, and University. I thrive against the system.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Be on my side ... trust me ... and ...”
Wendy interrupted unhappily. “... And let you call the plays.”
Taylor nodded and remained quiet.
The whippoorwill started up again, and they both looked off into the darkness toward the sound.
Finally Taylor spoke, “What power I have, what control I exercise in the world, has its source in the game. On the field I must have complete control. ... No plays from the bench or suggestions from the press box, because those bastards aren’t out there. Only the players are ... only the players count. I have to deliver on demand at the right time. Timing. It does no good to do magic tricks on Monday ... if the game was Sunday. Timing and winning are power and control.”
“Timing what?” Wendy closed her eyes. “Winning what?”
“All of it,” Taylor said. “All the way to the Super Bowl. And fast. It’s possible in three to six years, if they build the Franchise around me. And if I deliver.” Taylor continued, “I force your father, Conly and Red to deal with me because on game day they need me more than I need them. That is power.”
“Do you love me at all?” she asked quietly. “Are you always this cold and calculating? My stomach is a broken Slinky and you just swing there, passionless, blank-faced.”
“I get nervous when people start tossing passion around like a Frisbee. There are two sides to the goddam Frisbee and chaos is one.”
“My father is not going to stop my marriage.”
“Well, he’s not going to force me into mine. Passion is not what we need right now. We need patience, calculation, time to figure our next move. Logical decisions are catastrophic in an insane situation, and your father ...”
“How can you humiliate me like this?” Wendy stopped the hammock and stepped onto the rock porch floor. She walked to the west end and peered around the ranch house. “All my friends think we’re getting married.”
“I didn’t tell them. Let’s just ease on down to training camp and see how the first season goes....”
“Son of a bitch!” Wendy leaned against the stone wall and stayed at the west end of the porch. “Dumb son of a bitch. You’ve got no idea what’s important—”
“I’ve got one idea,” Taylor interrupted. “Love hurts, passion hurts. And I’m in a business where, during the important times, I cannot allow pain, mental or physical, to interfere.” Taylor stared at Wendy’s back; she was hugging herself like she was cold. She looked small, alone and abandoned.
“I ignore pain,” he went on, “but I never forget it, because then it runs loose. Forgotten pain is the most destructive kind.”
“Bullshit!” Wendy turned. “One person isn’t enough: You have to have hordes of fans. And you’re afraid of my father and Dick Conly. You’re afraid to chance it.”
“I’m less frightened of your father than I am of you.”
“Why? Why me?”
“You’re used to looking at other people as parts of your life.” Taylor stood up and stre
tched his fingers pointing skyward. “You’ll want to choreograph parts of my life. You actually think you can make me do what you want to do whether I care or not.”
“Tell me”—keeping her back to Taylor, Wendy leaned forward and braced her chin on the back of her hand—“is that what it is about me that enchants you so that marriage is out of the question? Take a chance.”
“You don’t even know what you’re asking ... Forever! Forever is one of those no-changing-your-mind jobs.” Taylor frowned. “It’s a son of a bitch. Chance has no meaning relative to forever.”
“Come on, marry me!” Wendy was suddenly pleading.
And Taylor was suddenly frightened. A man with the talented desire for command—thriving on conflict, violence and danger, executing tactics and strategy under extreme pressure—he had delivered two national championships, rewritten record books and always delivered. Yet, he was frightened at the thought of caring for someone, even himself. Forever.
“Wives and children aren’t all that bad, for Chrissakes,” Wendy said. “A lot of people do it.”
“We’re not a lot of people. I’m on the fast track, trying to survive.”
“But I have money. You don’t have to do this.” Wendy was tired, desperate.
“Don’t you see,” Taylor said, “I want to do it. At least in this game I call the plays. What am I if I’m not the quarterback?” Taylor frowned at what he was saying. It wasn’t coming out like he wanted. “If we get married now, it’s like I’m confronting Cyrus, and there’s no way to guess what he’ll do. He has some other plans for you. Well, let him think what he likes. We’ll do what we want and need. He can’t make you marry Lem, for Chrissakes. This isn’t the twelfth century.”
“No,” Wendy said, and her voice suddenly fell, resigned. She watched the moon. “It’s not the twelfth century, and I don’t know what you are if you’re not the quarterback.”
Just as Dick Conly had promised, Taylor was in camp when Lem and Wendy flew to Puerto Vallarta and got married.
Taylor got drunk and went crazy, ending up in a fight with A.D. Koster over who was the greatest all-time Comanche chief, Quanah Parker or Buffalo Hump.
Nobody thought it strange. All sorts of weird things happened at that camp.
CAMP
“YOU COMING?” SIMON D’Hanis looked down at Taylor Rusk on the small dormitory bed. It was the team’s first night off since camp began. It was also the first time the big guard had said more than “Hello” to Taylor since the camp began.
There was a big yellow school bus idling in the parking lot, waiting to take the players to the weekly dance at the Crystal Palace Dance Hall.
“No.” Taylor lay on the small bed with a paperback in one hand. His other hand rested behind his head. He was barefoot and wore khaki shorts and a Texas Pistols practice T-shirt.
Simon was freshly shaved and showered, wearing a red Ban-Lon shirt, black slacks and loafers. His face was slightly flushed; his oversize muscular body seemed to pulse with anticipation. He smelled like English Leather.
“You just going to stay here and mope about Chandler’s daughter marrying Lem Carleton III? Marriage ain’t all that easy.” Simon started to turn away. “I ought to know.”
“I’m just going to read and rest,” Taylor said. “I thought you were still mad at me.”
“What?” Simon turned back. He wanted Taylor’s company.
“You’ve been acting pissed ever since the day Cyrus tacked our dicks to the floor.”
“Buffy explained to me about Wendy and you and Cyrus. I figured out the rest.”
“He got us both.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re a lineman, you’re forgiven.”
“Well, c’mon, let’s go, then.”
“I’m still tired. Simon, you’re a born curfew breaker; you like the thrill. As long as your wife sets a curfew, your marriage will last.”
“Why don’t you go get Wendy back? You could do it,” Simon urged. “That’s why you’re the quarterback.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be quarterback anymore.”
“You got something you want more?”
Taylor was silent for a long time. He wanted Wendy Chandler back.
“So ... what do you want me to do? C’mon, man.” Simon sat down. The tiny bed groaned and creaked. “It won’t be as much fun without you tonight,” Simon complained. “It’s going to be history in the making.”
“You’ll have plenty of fun. Find Kimball Adams and Ox Wood.” Taylor kept his eyes fastened on the book.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Simon said. “I’m playing in the same line with Ox Wood. The guy is my idol.”
“It’s not healthy to have idols, Simon,” Taylor warned, “especially when you’re supposed to be one yourself. It’s the guys you play with and the money you leave with ... That’s all.”
“You are a cynic and you would be no fun.” Simon left. Howling and beating on doors, making his way down the hall and out to the idling bus in the parking lot.
Taylor tossed the book onto the empty bed. He roomed alone; he demanded it in his contract. His privacy was important to him.
He heard the school bus roar and rattle out of the parking lot, drowning the howls and yelps of the oversize crazed men who hadn’t been anywhere since training camp began on July fifth.
Red Kilroy weeded them out fast and early.
The ones in the school bus, Taylor and others around the junior-college campus were the survivors. On the first day of practice there had been one hundred and fifty football players. Seventeen days later Red Kilroy, his staff and the Texas sun had reduced the number to ninety. Another ninety men would come and go before camp ended and the roster was set. Red had his scouting network searching the colleges and the pros around the country, checking waiver lists, keeping him posted on more available bodies.
After seventeen two-practice, three-meeting days, with just enough extra time to eat, tape and sleep, the survivors were at the breaking point. So Red turned them loose on the Crystal Palace.
Red would continually need replacements: more bodies and more skill. He would find them, too, because he never stopped looking. Never. After coaching twenty years, he had spies out everywhere. He kept track of everybody, everything—all in his head. The others were going to computers, but not Red. He never thought about anything but football and winning. And connections. His network. Red’s boys. Techniques, strategies, personnel, weight, and nutrition programs; he never stopped trying to improve, to increase, to grow, to conquer, to win, to succeed and achieve his long-term strategic goals. Ownership. Possession. Control.
Red developed methods and measurements of achievement and success, then committed it all to memory. He chose assistants and scouts on the strength of their memories, drove them all as nuts as he was and made them devoted geniuses. Technique, tenacity and good people—that was Red Kilroy’s system. So was alcohol and manic depression, fear and anger; but mostly it was genius. Damned genius.
Winning took exceptional men and ate them.
“Hey, Taylor? You still crazy?”
A.D. Koster stood in Taylor Rusk’s dormitory room doorway. His cheek was bruised and his chin scabbed over.
Taylor turned over on the unmade bed and looked at the damage he had done.
“I’m still crazy, A.D. I’m just not mad anymore.” Taylor absently rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. “How you feeling?
“Terrific. There’s something about being sucker-punched that really clears your head.”
“Simon’s on the school bus with the rest. They plan to sucker-punch the Crystal Palace Dance Hall.”
“Kimball Adams called it a search-and-destroy mission. He went off in his own car.”
Twenty-year veteran Kimball Adams, the much-traveled, controversial, study-by-the-jukebox-light quarterback, had been purchased from Cleveland to go along with veteran receiver Bobby Hendrix.
A.D. was in the room next to them. Red was keeping A.D. b
ecause he knew the system and was working his way to starting at free safety. A pure hitter rather than a complete defender, A.D. would often separate a receiver from the ball and his ribs. Fearsome on the field, he took between fifty and seventy milligrams of Dexedrine for games, earning the name Footsteps by hitting anything that moved.
The safety had been passed over in the draft and signed as a free agent for a $6,000 bonus and a good contract—a calculated gamble by Red. “I’ll sign you, A.D., if you’ll just run a slow forty for the Scouting Combine,” Red had promised. And Red delivered. A.D. was already collecting on his contract. He’d done better in real dollars than Simon D’Hanis, the number-two choice. Simon wouldn’t start collecting until the season started and was already having trouble making ends meet. Buffy, beginning to show her pregnancy, had rented a nice expensive apartment in Park City.
“Did Hendrix go with Kimball?” Taylor worried about Hendrix, one of the only two good receivers. The other was Speedo Smith.
A.D. shook his head. “No, Kimball was going to his drinkin’ place. Hendrix said he might join him later. He was studying his playbook. They are sure a strange pair.” A.D. rubbed his hands together. “I’m in, Taylor, I’m in.”
“How deep?” Taylor asked. “I heard you lost more money to the Cobianco Brothers.”
“I’m clean. Besides, even Cyrus Chandler gambles with those guys.”
Taylor just shook his head.
“I’m telling you, those guys Adams and Hendrix are real antiques,” A.D. said. “They were in the Old League.”
“They have seen the elephant and watched it die,” Taylor agreed. “Come on, A.D., sit down. I forgive you.”
“You forgive me? You hit me five times before bothering to even mention that we were having a disagreement!” He pointed to the bruises and scabs on his face. “Luckily I fell under the table, where you couldn’t get at me.”
“It was a bad time of the month. Wendy Chandler married our PR assistant and Simon was treating me shitty. I’m sorry.”
Before A.D. could accept the apology, Taylor’s phone rang.
“That’s for me,” A.D. grabbed the phone. He was right. It was Suzy Ballard, the roller-skating carhop, who had just driven up from the city in A.D.’s car.