by Peter Gent
Dick Conly could have handled the Clyde problems according to the usual pro-growth formula. They were sheep and God made them to shear, but the shepherd, Dick Conly, the architect of Clyde’s healthy business climate, had moved to New Mexico.
So on Super Sunday the eight-lane freeway tried vainly to funnel thousands of cars into Clyde through only two exits and access roads.
“We’ll never make the dome.” Bob Travers shifted down. “This’ll be gridlocked in another hour.”
“Do what you have to,” Taylor said.
Bob nodded, hit the siren, cranked the wheel, pushed the accelerator to the floor and crossed three lanes of traffic.
The freeway cut through Chalk Mountain and the Pistol Dome was behind Chalk Mountain, but the first exit was another mile south. Bob figured they needed ninety to a hundred miles an hour to climb the grade that would lead them, without a road, to the dome.
“Grab the roll bar and hang on,” Bob said calmly as the car launched itself into the air. The wide, billowing trail of chalk dust looked like rocket exhaust. There was some minor sideslipping and a couple of bumps; otherwise it seemed a relatively simple achievement.
Or so it appeared to the dozens of motorists who tried to follow the white Ford up the hill.
It was a major catastrophe when measured in dollars. Eighty-one cars were seriously damaged or totally destroyed.
The three people in the white Ford were too busy searching for the quickest way to the underground entrance to the dome parking lots, unaware of the mass destruction going on in their wake.
The lots were jamming up with cars and buses and motor homes. There were tailgate parties everywhere. Crazies and drunks wandered the parking lot yelling “Kill” or “We are number one.”
The SSI guards were adding to the confusion because of their unfamiliarity with the stadium grounds. Even though SSI had the crowd and traffic control contract for the whole season, the Major’s high rate of personnel turnover and his own inability to administer the contract made every Sunday a Chinese fire drill.
Bob spotted the underground entrance that led right to the locker room door, but cars, buses, RVs and souped-up pickups jammed every drive leading toward the players’ entrance.
“Miss Chandler, if you don’t mind, I believe I am going to have to tear up some more real estate,” Bob said. “Personally I don’t think either of you should try to walk through those parking lots.”
“Let’s go,” Wendy said. “That’s why God created insurance companies.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The expert escape driver downshifted and crept slowly toward a four-lane, two-way boulevard leading straight toward the entrance. The median was about twenty feet wide, planted with two rows of young pecan trees. A white clapboard guard shack commanded entry to the boulevard.
All the traffic lanes were gridlocked.
The people were leaving their cars, wandering around with drinks in their hands. Four Mercedes stretch limos full of Arabs and Houston lawyers were surrounded by bodyguards in Hong Kong suits carrying Israeli submachine guns.
The SSI guards had lowered the gates to the boulevard. A fat man in an ill-fitting uniform and reflector glasses began shaking his head and waving Bob away. A cheap .38 in a cheaper leather holster flapped at his hip. He had bought the whole outfit from the major on time.
“Move it, mister; nobody comes in here.”
“I can see that,” Bob said, “but I wanted to ask you how I’m going to be able to get to the players’ entrance? It’s straight down there.”
“Hey, that’s your problem. Don’t tell me your sad story.”
“Well”—Bob continued talking while his eyes studied the guard shack and the layout of the median and the brand-new pecan trees—“I have Taylor Rusk in here, and if I don’t get him inside ...”
“Taylor Rusk, huh?” The fat guard looked into the back.
Taylor nodded at the rude, coarse man.
“Yeah, you’re him all right, but it still don’t cut no ice with me.” He stepped back. “Get it out of here, pal,” he smirked again, “Besides, I bet a whole month’s pay against you guys. Ain’t no way you’ll beat Denver by sixteen points.”
“It’s guys like you that make me believe in God.” Taylor looked at the fat man who was trying to hold power. “A whole month’s pay? I love it. You look like you could afford to miss some meals.”
“Wait a minute, buddy.” The fat man moved toward the car. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“He didn’t mean it, Officer,” Bob interrupted, knowing the guy loved being called officer. “We’ll be moving on.” Bob studied hard on the guard shack.
“Well, goddammit, git before I run you all in.” He hooked a fat thumb on his gunbelt.
“Is there anybody in the guardhouse?” Bob pointed at the wooden shack.
“Naw, the dumb son of a bitch I’m working with came in drunk and is off trying to find a bathroom.”
“You don’t have a bathroom?”
“Or heat! Not a damn thing in there; they just set it down on the grass. Four walls and a desk. Now, get that goddam car outta here.”
“Thanks, you’ve been a great help.” Bob put the Ford in gear. Bob hit the gas and the car leaped forward. The fat man was too clumsy to move and fell over. Anticipating the fall, Bob swerved around the terrified scrambling fat man, drove right through the guard shack and straight down the median, mowing down pecan trees and dodging drunks who failed to hear the siren or see the flashing lights.
At the Cyclone fence separating the stadium from the parking lot, the median stopped. The white Ford didn’t, tearing through the fence with amazing ease.
“I figured the Cobianco Brothers Construction Company would use subspec fence,” Bob said, cranking the wheel to miss a corny-dog stand and three guys selling Super Bowl programs. Steering toward the entrance to the locker rooms, Bob had to tear through another fence. He shut off the siren and started to slow as they came around a curving runway.
“Oh, Jesus!” Bob said. “Look at this!”
Ahead was the network crew shooting coverage tape for use if the game was the yawner the point spread promised. The three personalities in front of the camera wore big cowboy hats on little heads. The talent—in network jargon—were making extemporaneous remarks written on giant cue cards.
“I can’t stop,” Bob said calmly.
“Hit the talent.” Taylor wasn’t even looking; he was watching off to the side into the parking lot, craning his neck back at a big Winnebago motor home. He thought he saw Lamar Jean Lukas laid out on a chaise longue. Taylor decided it couldn’t be Lamar and turned back to see if Bob was steering for the talent.
Wendy’s eyes were wide; her grip on Taylor’s arm was pure-white knuckle. Bob was doing some fast calculating on the distance between the technicians and the talent.
Taylor had taken a quick look and figured it himself. “You got six inches to a foot to spare.”
“They haven’t seen us yet. If they do, they’ll react. And if anybody moves, I lose my six inches and up go my insurance premiums.” Bob hit the accelerator.
“Pour it on,” Taylor agreed. “Go faster to get out of trouble.”
The white car shot toward toward the crew.
Taylor heard the word Hornung or horny as the white Ford shot between the camera and sound crews and the talent with eight inches to spare, two on the driver’s side, six on the other.
Bob pumped the brakes hard, downshifted, setting the car up into a drift, then slammed the accelerator to the floor. The tires screamed and smoked, biting into the concrete, plunging the car straight down the ramp. A crash dive beneath the stadium.
Taylor could still smell the burnt rubber as Bob pulled up next to the locker room door.
“Leave it here a minute,” Taylor said. “The bus with the rest of the team isn’t scheduled to leave for another thirty minutes. Wendy, you’re going to have to find them a helicopter. I’ll call Red.”
“I have
more helicopters than I have cars.” She stalked into the Pistols’ locker room and on through to Red’s private suite.
“You better get one for Denver too,” Taylor suggested. “But try and find them an ex-Air Mobil pilot from Vietnam who’s been crop dusting and drinking ever since.”
Wendy arranged for off-shore crew helicopters from Chandler Well Services. The Pistols got a civilian pilot who was a Baptist deacon with a wife and five kids. Denver got a twice-divorced ex-MEDEVAC pilot who had three tours in Vietnam and was still carrying shrapnel in his back. He loved to fly under power lines and bridges. His hangover was killing him but he promised to deliver. Wendy told him to be certain he gave the Denver players a demonstration.
The choppers brought the teams. The ex-MEDEVAC pilot had so enjoyed the Denver players’ screams when he dove under the Chalk Mountain Overpass that he couldn’t resist a little joke at the end. Hovering at about fifteen hundred feet, checking the markings on the makeshift landing pad, he suddenly cut the motors. The giant helicopter dropped like a stone, as he screamed. “We’re all gonna die!”
Then he back-rotored the big chopper and gently delivered the Denver team—safe if not completely sound.
THE HALF STEP
THE GAME WAS THE easy part, as Taylor had imagined and Red had planned.
Everybody knew their steps and angles.
Only Texas’s young offensive linemen made any mistakes, failing to pick up a couple of pass-rush stunts. But Speedo and Danny Lewis made uncanny route adjustments and caught balls thrown early under pressure, while Amos Burns and Ox Wood often blocked two pass rushers at once, knocking them into each other like billiard balls.
Denver sprung no big surprises, and the Pistols’ defense did not give up a first down until the second half.
Red Kilroy’s game plan had been well thought out. It was basic, solid and well constructed, depending on execution and superior personnel plus tricks and brand-new wrinkles. The Pistols were the better team and continued doing what they had done best all year. Plus, they gambled. From the Pistols’ opening onside kickoff, which they successfully recovered, Texas pulled trick plays. Taylor gambled all day. Favored by sixteen points, he had to gamble or die.
Taylor read coverage quickly and correctly, his teammates did the same and together they made the necessary adjustments, continually confounding Denver’s defense.
“We’ve got the half step on them,” Speedo Smith said early in the game. “I can feel it. I can hear their brains clankin’. They’re already guessing.”
“There is no man in football can outguess me,” Taylor said, “ ’cause I just change my mind on the spot. Speedo, I’ll want overdrive.” The quarterback asked, “Can you give me some?”
“I got whatever you need. I’m held back only by your lack of faith. You name it, I can do it.”
Taylor hit Speedo on a first-down fly route. The cornerman guessed wrong and stopped dead at twelve yards, expecting a breaking route. Speedo flashed by him and the back was so shocked, he just stood there watching the play go for seventy-six yards. The ball was in the air less than twenty-five. Taylor let it go as soon as he saw the cornerback set up, expecting a break. The ball was less than ten yards away, coming down on the money, when Speedo looked. He grabbed it and ran with an easy grace and speed that had never been seen in professional football before and would probably never be seen again.
Taylor stood in the pocket and watched in awe long after he had released the ball.
Speedo’s next touchdown was spectacular, but only Taylor understood his receiver’s astounding athletic skill. Speedo beat a double coverage and broke open up the middle, running straight away with two backs in pursuit. The free safety was dropping straight and deep and Taylor put too much on the throw, making certain the free safety didn’t get to the ball. Taylor knew he had overthrown badly. He was starting to cuss himself when suddenly Speedo put his stride into the overdrive Taylor had never seen before the Washington game.
Overtaking the ball, leaving the defenders in the dust, as promised, Speedo had done the impossible.
To everyone but Taylor Rusk the play seemed perfectly timed.
Taylor found Speedo on the bench, heaving oxygen into his lungs, his face twisted in pain.
“You okay?” the quarterback asked.
Speedo nodded, his chest heaving, rolling his head back in agony. He could not speak yet.
“What’s the matter?” Taylor began to look for a trainer, certain that his best receiver was injured. Speedo grabbed his arm with small, strong hands and held Taylor there on the bench while he continued to gasp and writhe in pain. Finally he began to breathe easier and released his grip.
“You all right, Speedo?”
“Sure, man,” he gasped, “it just hurts to run that fast.”
“That was faster than Washington. I figured I had overthrown by twenty yards.”
“You did.” He pointed at his powerful legs. “These babies don’t lie.”
“I am the only person in this stadium that knows it was impossible to run under that ball.” Taylor shook his head. “Nobody is that fast.”
“You can’t overthrow me.”
“I’ve overthrown you lots of times.”
“Not today, turkey.” Speedo’s breathing eased, but pain still creased his face. “Not today ... so put it up as far as you can and relax”—Speedo closed his mouth; his nostrils flared to allow more air to his lungs—“ ’cause you’re throwing to The Fastest Nigger Ever!”
Speedo Smith’s third touchdown reception came on a third and four quick out. As Taylor took the snap, the outside linebacker turned and ran straight for Speedo. The halfback laid off, depending on the linebacker for the short route. The weak safety started moving up to take the short inside. It was a peculiar defense, but instead of coming off to an alternate, Taylor just dropped the ball over the linebacker to Speedo up against the sideline.
The quarterback would have been satisfied with the five yards and a first down. They had Speedo tripled against the sideline, surrounded with no place to go. But instead of just stepping out of bounds, Speedo ran straight back at the linebacker, who made the mistake of trying to tear the small receiver apart instead of just grabbing him. Speedo ducked, cut upfield past the weak safety in the same movement and was running free.
“We got the half step,” he yelled back at the Denver defense strung out behind him.
Taylor threw eight touchdown passes in that Super Bowl, a record almost certain never to be broken.
He threw five to Speedo Smith, one to Screaming Danny Lewis and two more to his backs.
Taylor gambled constantly. The fourth touchdown pass to Speedo came on a third and one on Texas’s twelve-yard line. A dive fake to Amos Burns and a naked bootleg gave Speedo time to get behind everybody for an eighty-eight-yard TD. Speedo’s fifth touchdown came on the first play after middle linebacker Margene Brinkley had knocked a Denver back loose from the ball, recovering it on the Pistols’ two. Taylor then caught Denver blitzing and flipped the ball to the hole in the short secondary where Speedo’s sting adjustment would put him. Speedo wasn’t there yet, but Taylor knew he would be, and the blitzing Denver linebacker was grabbing the quarterback already. Taylor never saw what happened, the Denver defense buried him. Speedo scored, he could hear it.
Red Kilroy outcoached Denver in every stage of pregame preparation. During the game Red, of course, lost his mind and spent four quarters looking for it. He ranted and raved on the sidelines, suggesting plays years removed from the playbook. He even called out defenses from college.
All day long he called Ox Wood “my man Bluto” and twice he called for Bobby Hendrix to get in the game and “run some short stuff across the middle—make those linebackers stay loose.”
As usual, nobody listened.
EVENING OUT THE ODDS
IT BECAME PAINFULLY apparent early in the game that Red Kilroy’s promise to Suzy Chandler and A.D. Koster to throw the Super Bowl game was as ephemera
l as the promises he made recruiting eighteen-year-old blue chippers for the University.
Suzy and A.D. had been fed bad dope.
The promise of five percent of the Franchise failed to sway Red, and by halftime the Pistols had a thirty-six to seven lead. Denver would never get closer.
The Pistols’ game plan that Red had passed through Suzy and A.D. to the Denver coach was fraudulent. It only confused Denver’s preparation and confounded them during the game.
By the middle of the second quarter Don Cobianco was convinced he had been betrayed. By whom he did not know yet.
It was a fix, Cobianco was certain. He was partially right.
He never saw the magic. Nobody does, except the magicians.
As the game progressed he was more and more certain that Dick Conly was involved. When Conly had placed his huge bets, Cobianco had laughed to himself and made jokes to his brothers about the senile old fart who had been outsmarted by a carhop. Don was happy to book the enormous bet.
“No fool like an old fool.”
R.D. Locke, the Denver cornerback, fell down on a simple set-backfield up route and Danny Lewis had six points. Then, on third and goal from the five, Locke was called for interference, bumping Amos Burns in the end zone with the ball in the air.
After Denver’s first score there was a late flag and the score was nullified. Denver’s right guard was called for holding. Later the films showed Denver’s right guard was the only man in the line who wasn’t holding. Denver cut him the next year anyway, explaining that his early penalty was the turning point of the game.
The official picked up his flag and stuffed it into his hip pocket. He loved football. In high school they were winners. District champs. He had played running back for an unknown coach named Kilroy.
Red Kilroy had co-conspirators everywhere; he’d spent years placing them. Red and Dick Conly understood the game: build a winning system, infiltrate the entire game, dictate the rules, the regulations, the winners, the losers and the television schedules; fine-tune the show, the team, the circus, the spectacle, the organization, the system. Control the delivery and the content.