by Tim Green
"You know as well as I do that the guy could stick his whole head up my ass for a million dollars," Lever said with mock severity.
They both laughed.
Lever guided the old wreck through the suburban streets that were as familiar to Clay as his own backyard. Three- and four-bedroom homes sat shoulder to shoulder looking very much alike except for their color. Small lawns were bordered by dirty snowbanks and cars parked in the street. Power lines hung like attic webs, thick and black and everywhere. Chain-link fences held back family dogs and kids. Clay's own home, gray and drab, would have been a gloomy sight had it not been so familiar. His father's rusted yellow Cadillac sat by itself in the driveway, alerting Clay that his mother was out.
Clay and Lever entered to find Clay's father, Ward Blackwell, lying on the couch with the paper and a beer.
"Hi, Dad," Clay said, not looking directly into the older man's eyes.
"Clayboy!" said his father, rising to shake hands. His frame was as massive as Clay's and, taking his large gut into account, he probably outweighed his son. "How did it go? Did you kick ass? Lever, how the hell are you? Go get you and Clay a cold one in the fridge, and you might as well hit me again too. I know it's only eleven-thirty, but you girls are legal."
Lever eagerly complied.
"Well," Ward Blackwell said with a rough slap on his son's shoulder, "sit down and give me the low-down."
"I did good, Dad. I had the fastest time in the shuttle run, and my forty was four-six-three."
"Son of a bitch. Lever, pop those caps. A toast ... to a four-six-three forty and to the million-dollar contract."
Clay's face flushed, but he took a slug of his beer and said nothing.
Clay's mother opened the door. Her arms were filled with two bags of groceries and her purse. Clay leapt up to help her. When he had set the bags down on the kitchen table, he gave her a hug, affectionately wrapping his huge frame around her petite figure. Without the tired lines in her face she would have looked like a young woman. Still, she was handsome, and to Clay she was life itself.
"Christ, Geneane," his father rumbled from the other room, "do you think you could let the kid have a little celebration here with us? We're having a beer. Either have him bring the damn bags in later, or do it yourself. Come on, Clay."
His mother smiled weakly, "Sit down, honey, I've only got one more bag, then I'11 make you some lunch." She gave his hand a squeeze.
"I'll go if you'll leave the bag till later so I can get it," he said.
She smiled and shrugged, so he went into the living room and sat down. Sitting while his mother worked alone in the kitchen distracted him, and while his father and Lever talked about the NFL teams that had called their campus apartment, Clay's eyes wandered about the living room.
The furniture, like the rug, was worn, but clean and comfortable. Above the mantel was a wood imitation coat of arms of the house of Blackwell. Clay's father had gotten the curio through a mail-order catalogue. Although Clay knew almost nothing about his ancestors, he had heard his father hint to his friends on more than one occasion about a mysterious noble past. On one side of the mantel was an enlarged black- and-white photo of Clay's father in a football uniform. On the other was a smaller picture of his parents on their wedding day.
Clay's father noticed that his son was distracted. "You see that picture, Lever?" he asked loudly.
Lever nodded his head.
"Does my boy, or does he not, look like my exact replica in the pads?"
Lever nodded again. Clay shifted uncomfortably and sipped his beer, knowing where his father was headed. He had heard this story before.
"Well, the reason the picture on the right is one of me in a high school uniform and not a pro uniform is the picture on the left."
Mr. Blackwell slugged the rest of his beer. "Why don't you get us all another one, son?" he said.
Clay got up and went into the kitchen. He fished noisily through the fridge so his mother wouldn't hear what was being said in the other room, but knew his father was waiting for him to return with more beer and didn't stay long in the kitchen.
"You see," his father explained between sips, "I could have done what Clay's going to do, but I had to marry Geneane, so I went to work at the Ford plant. There wasn't really any birth control back then, if you know what I mean. Ha, ha."
Lever forced a chuckle. Clay returned to the living room, his face frozen.
"I don't have any regrets, though," his father continued to Lever, finishing his beer. "Our boy here will be rich in a couple of months, and a father can't ask for more than that."
"I've got some sandwiches for you boys in here" came the cheery voice of Clay's mother from the kitchen.
After lunch, Clay got a call from his agent, Bill Clancy.
"Well," Clancy said, "how did it go?"
"I ran a four-six-three."
"You didn't." "I did."
There was a low whistle from Clancy's end of the line.
"You just made us a lot of money, Clay. A lot of money. You locked yourself into the first round of the draft. I don't normally say that, but you could go in the top ten. You'll go in the first for sure with a time like that."
Clay felt a rush of adrenaline. He had heard speculation that he was a first-rounder. He had even suspected it himself. But to have Bill Clcnry confirm it was something entirely different. Clancy was big time. He was known for making big deals, and he was known for his accuracy in predicting the draft. When Clay first met Bill, he had been suspicious. He was an upstate kid; Bill was a New York City lawyer. But they'd hit it off. Bill was easy to talk to, and Clay talked with him almost every evening on the phone. Now, for the first time, Clay felt a twinge of what he knew his father took for granted: that he would be rich.
"Great lunch, Mom," Clay said after hanging up the phone. "Lev, let me get my wash and some things, and I'll be ready to go."
Before his father could question him more closely about what Clancy had to say, Clay bounded up the stairs and into his bedroom. His boyhood trophies lined shelves on the wall. He had to smile at the idea of all the dreams those trophies had spawned and all the work he had done finally paying off big. He picked up the bag of neatly folded laundry his mother had put on the foot of his bed. She had also left two books discreetly on his chair under his desk. His mother read constantly and gave to Clay only the best of what she found to read. It was she who had suggested Hemingway. He had told her that he liked For Whom the Bell Tolls, so he smiled when he saw that one of the books in the stack was Islands in the Stream. He shoved the books down into the clothes--he preferred his father not see them.
Clay's mother had always been an avid reader, and "had been first in her high school class. She was a shy, kind woman, and her luminous eyes sparkled with intelligence. Because of her marriage, and Clay, she had never had the chance to go to college either. But she had continued her education on her own at home while she raised Clay. She didn't read romances or spy novels, concentrating instead on books with literary value. Clay had grown up listening to the stories of Charles Dickens, one of his mother's favorites. When Clay was a child, his mother would sit and read for long stretches before he would fade off to sleep.
In college, Clay learned that there was much more to the "children's stories" than he had ever suspected. Originally planning to be a business major, Clay had taken a course on Dickens as a filler that he thought would get him an easy A during football season. But the class had opened a new world of ideas for him, and he often wondered why his mother had never led him deeper into literature. He enjoyed reading, but had never been encouraged to devote much time to books. All his father's encouragement was directed toward excelling on the football field.
The spring of his freshman year, in the midst of spring football and a full schedule that included two English classes, Clay decided to become an English major. He took some kidding about it from his teammates, but the intellectual curiosity he seemed to inherit from his mother, and his resp
ect for books, helped him deflect any needling from his friends. The most difficult part of changing his major had been his father's reaction.
"What the hell is that all about?" he had exclaimed. "What if you don't play pro ball? You don't know if you'll play pro ball yet, you're still a damn freshman. What will you do then, become a teacher? I make more on the line than a damned English teacher! A fucking waste, that's what it is. I tell you to stay with the business courses. Then if you don't make the pros, you can still make it big in life."
But Clay's mind was made up. He was feeling free in college. The full scholarship he was on took care of everything. He had earned this education, and he would do what he wanted with it. It was one of the few times he crossed his father. Ward Blackwell stayed angry through the entire spring and into the following summer. The only thing that brought him around to talking to Clay again was the upcoming football season. Then he became good old dad again, as easily and suddenly as he had become irritated. Clay felt more sorry for his mother than himself. He didn't have to face the man until he came home for summer vacation, and even then Clay could escape the house with work and training. His mother, though, took the brunt of his father's anger. He blamed her for ruining the boy and constantly reminded her of it. Clay figured out why his mother had never pushed him toward literature, and was careful to avoid the subject of books around his father.
Nevertheless, at school he spent many hours with the great works of literature and tried to live by the principles of the men he came to admire. From Homer he learned the importance of honor and tradition as well as the powerful effect love could have on a man. From Milton he learned piety and grace, and of the lures of evil. And Thoreau taught him that the simple things were sometimes the most meaningful and the most pleasurable. Clay began to understand some of his mother's behavior that he had until now thought of as rather peculiar.
Clay thought of one afternoon in particular. It was during the late summer, and his high school football practice had been cancelled because of a lightning storm bearing down on the town. Clay drove his moth, r r station wagon home from the school while streaks of electric bolts lit the near horizon. As he pulled into the driveway, he saw his mother standing among the clotheslines in the backyard. He parked in the driveway and hurried around the house to help her bring in the wash before the rain began. Large drops pelted him. The wind whipped the clothes and the rope line that held them bowed and swayed, but his mother was not working frantically as one would expect. She stared at the dark, angry sky as the wind tugged at her long black hair.
Clay began to pull the wash from the line. "Mom," he said, "the rain."
His mother looked at him then as if she just noticed he was there. "Look, Clay, it's beautiful. Look at the sky. Look at the clouds, the lightning."
His mother had to raise her voice above the howling gusts to be heard, and Clay almost didn't recognize it as hers. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard her speak so loud or so clearly. He couldn't remember hearing her yell. The rain was beginning to fall hard now, but Clay looked up too. A bolt of lightning hit close, exploding in the air.
"Mom, it's raining," he said once more.
"Clay," she said, wrapping her arms around him and his wet laundry and hugging him, "doesn't it make you feel alive? Don't you just want it to sweep you up? That's what life is supposed to do, Clay, it should shake you, sweep you up, let you know you're alive."
She kissed his cheek and pressed her head against his chest, and he stood there while she held him for what seemed like a very long time. Then his mother seemed to return to herself. She let him go, and together they stripped the rest of the line and hurried into the house.
It wasn't until he was in college that he finally understood what his mother had meant.
The difference had been the books. One day, when he was finished with his football career, Clay dreamed that he might become a teacher; maybe he could even learn to write. He'd be free from materialism and greed. He dreamed of living a simple life someday. He could go into some easygoing business or teach, and spend his summers in some remote lake house in the mountains. Yet his father's training and his internal drive to succeed ran deep, and there were other things he would have to do before he could ever rest.
For now, out of habit, he hid the books, hefted the bag, and went back downstairs.
"Thanks, Lev," said Clay. He hopped out of Lever's Impala and climbed into a rust bucket of his own.
Clay had been offered a new truck by an alum who gave him a summer job, but he didn't take it. He wanted to, but he had come as far as he had because he did things the right way. His coaches had specifically warned the entire team to avoid such scandals. And now it wouldn't be long before he could buy anything he wanted. He could buy a car and a truck, for that matter.
Clay watched Lever go into their apartment while the Bronco's engine turned over: and over. Finally it caught, and he maneuvered the ancient truck out of the lot faster than was safe. He was going to see Katie. Even though he had only been gone two days, he was in a hurry. He wanted to let her in on Bill Clancy's prediction.
Clay had met Katie when she was only a freshman. He had been eyeing her lean figure and long dark hair from across a smoky bar all night. When a drunken upper classman began to harass her, Clay had intervened. The scene ended with Clay popping the other guy in the nose and gallantly walking Katie and her shaken friends back to their dorm on a snowy winter night.
"Hi, honey!" she said at the door with a kiss and a hug. "How did it go?"
"Awesome," Clay said, flopping down on her couch.
"I knew it would. How couldn't it after all that work?"
"The best part is what Bill just told me."
"You spoke to him?"
"This morning, at home. I would like to introduce, you to America's next young millionaire," he said with a mock bow.
Katie giggled and slapped his shoulder. "What did he say?"
"After I told him my forty time, which by the way was a meager four- six-three, he said I was a first-rounder for sure."
Katie's face was serious when she said, "Clay, I'm really happy. You really deserve it." She moved closer to kiss him softly. She kissed him again.
"Thanks, honey," he said quietly between kisses.
"Miss me?" she asked in a low, throaty voice.
Clay gently untucked her shirt and slid his warm hands up her back to undo her bra. "Always," he murmured, "I always miss you, Kate. I mi:** everything about you . . ."
He moved his hands to her breasts. Together their breathing giew heavy. Katie stood, bringing Clay to his feet so as not to break their kiss as she undid her jeans and wriggled out of them. When Clay too was wearing only his shin, Katie lay back on the coach, arching her body as she gently pulled him down on top of her.
Humphry Lyles and his mother had a formal dinner together in the large and elegant dining room. Humphry spoke very little during the meal. His thoughts were on just what he had gone through to acquire the Ruffians.
When the NFL had announced its expansion to thirty-two teams in 1990, it included a franchise in Birmingham, Humphry's base of operations. He promptly went to work. The franchise was not to be had for money alone, but would be awarded to the man who could exert the most political pressure on the governor of Alabama. The NFL commissioner would accept the governor's recommendation on just which outstanding citizen of the state would be allowed to purchase the hundred- million-dollar franchise.
Humphry Lyles set out to put the governor in his pocket. He hired three private detectives, all retired FBI agents, and had them not only tail the good governor around the clock, but make penetrating inquiries into his past. Humphry knew when to spend money, and his men were the best money could buy. It took them only three weeks to get what Humphry needed. He then made an appointment with the governor.
"Jack," said Humphry, sitting across from the man, staring almost complacently out onto the lawn surrounding the governor's mansion, "I've come to tel
l you that I will gladly accept your recommendation to the National Football League as the franchise owner in Birmingham."
The governor looked in amazement and disgust at Humphry. "Mr. Lyles," he said, grinning with condescension and malice, "I'm glad that you're here. As a man who obviously never played the game of football, and knows absolutely nothing about it, you will be glad to know that tomorrow I am putting the first professional team in the history of this great state in the hands of someone infinitely more qualified than yourself."
Humphry smiled pleasantly at the slight and caressed the envelope in his lap.
"Of course, you don't know him personally," continued the governor, "but you have heard of Bennington Winthrop, of the Mobile Winthrops? Yes, well, Benjy and I were both Theta Chi's during our stint at Auburn . . . and with the Winthrop name, and with the fact that Benjy was himself a varsity letterman, I'm sure you understand that I really had no need to consider any other candidates for this honorable recommendation."
"Yes, when all the facts are considered, there really is only one person you could recommend," Humphry said, and tossed the envelope onto the governor's desk.
"Do consider these facts . . . Jack."
"Mr. Lyles," the governor said as he stood, now red in the face and motioning toward the door, "I will not be insulted with bribes by a man who is not even a gentleman. Good day, sir!"
"Jack, there's a hundred thousand dollars in cash in that envelope to ease the pain," Humphry said with simple innocence.
"I am appalled, sir! Now do leave!"
"Of course, please make my recommendation tomorrow, Jack, and do make sure you dispose of the documents and photographs in with that money. Of course, I'll keep my copies safe, but I'd hate to see someone get a hold of your set. Really, Jack, you gentlemen do disgust me. That child in New Orleans could not have been thirteen. And that harbor contract for your friend Brandon Wilde? My, my. Well, I guess you really needed that horse farm, though. After all, where else could you send your family while you play in New Orleans?"