by Tim Green
The room was silent.
Mark Stepinowski, the linebacker coach and the oldest among them, leaned forward, pushing his enormous gut into the edge of the table. Stepinowski had coached with White for fifteen years and was the only one on the staff who seemed to have no fear whatsoever of his boss. Like White, Stepinowski's hair was gray and closely trimmed. He rubbed his face with both hands as if to waken himself His heavy jowls shook as he said, "You know, Vance, Gavin's absolutely right. If you've still got your heart set on not making substitutions that would give away the defense, we've got to get a guy that can slide from one position to the other, and to be honest, there aren't too many players in this league that could do it."
"How about Clay Blackwell?" said Collins.
"Have to use our number one to get a fish that big," drawled Co
"I saw him at the combines," Wheat added, "impressive."
"He was the guy reading a book in the Dome," said Jim Nelan, the offensive line coach, a burly man with sausage fingers and a deep, powerful voice. "I can't see a guy like that working in our system. Besides, both Vargass from Notre Dame and Simms from Alabama are rated higher than Blackwell."
"Those guys are tackles, though," Stepinowski said, "we need more of an end."
"That's right. I'm sorry, Jim," said Collins in the least offensive way he knew how, "but if I'm going to run this defense, I've got to be the one to make that call."
"Let me tell you something you damned . . . damned . . . you son of a bitch," the big man stammered, pointing his thick finger. "I've been in this system with Vance for three years, and it's three more than you, so if I say he won't fit in, I know what--"
"Wait a damned minute!" said White. "Just hold it. Hold it, Jimmy. Gavin, let me set you straight on one thing first of all. I run this team. I run the offense, and I run the defense. I don't care what your title is, you work for me. Second, and I don't want to drag this out into some shit- eating contest about who's right and who's wrong, so just listen. The thing Jimmy's referring to is this kid's character. I don't want you, or any of you, to forget our program. I won't have any panty-waists who fit the bill physically but don't have what it takes to win. I'm not drafting one damn player out of college that won't train under our program."
"Why don't I go up and give him a personality test?" Collins suggested. "They're supposed to tell us if the players have got what we want."
"Step?" White said, looking at Stepinowski quizzically.
"I think it's a good idea, Vance," said Step.
"O. K., Gavin," White said, "Box gets back from L. A. on Thursday. Take him with you. We'll see what the test shows before we even talk any more about this."
Later that same morning, Max Dresden, who lived in a luxury apartment building located not far from downtown Birmingham, reached out from under his covers to stop the clock from buzzing. The radio alone couldn't wake Max, he needed the buzzer. It was ten-thirty, and he had to hurry. Without looking, he felt with his foot for another warm body under his covers. She was still there, all right. Quietly Max slid out of the bed and stood over the covered form of what he remembered as a very satisfying young woman. Abruptly Max stooped and heaved his side of the bed up in the air. The girl rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a thud. A muffled shriek came from within the wrap of covers.
Max laughed until tears were streaming down his face. When she finally freed herself from the covers, the young woman gave him a dirty look that made him laugh harder.
"It's not funny, you bastard!" said the girl, pulling on her panties. "I'm leaving."
Max howled. He only wished someone else was there to share this fun with.
"That's the idea, you dumb bitch."
Instead of getting right into the shower, Max watched the angry girl dress to make sure she didn't steal anything. His wallet was in the bathroom, so there wasn't much to take. But on the wall Max had hung his football jerseys from college, the Canadian league, the USFL, and the Ruffians, and he couldn't replace them. Last night the girl had remarked about how impressive the collection was, and Max now worried that she might take them just to fuck with him.
When she was safely outside his door, she shouted, "You son of a bitch! I--"
Max cut her off with the slam of his door. He stepped into the shower and whistled contentedly as he cleaned himself thoroughly. Max was a middle linebacker who had always been obsessed with playing professional football. His first year out of a small state college in Ohio, he was cut from the Saskatchewan Rough Riders. He returned to Cleveland, his hometown, and worked nights as a bouncer so he could train during the day at a downtown gym. He had little money and lived in a condemned building. He spent what little money he had on food because it was imperative to his training.
His bed was a mattress set up on cinder blocks. The place had no heat or electricity, but it still had running water. To stave off the winter cold, Max slept in his street clothes: jeans, a wool sweater, Timberline boots, a black ski mask, and a green army jacket. This environment toughened Max to the hard realities of life. He knew that he would get no breaks that he didn't make for himself.
When the owner of the gym approached Max about using steroids, he listened, thinking that he may finally have hit on the key that would get him in the professional football door. He trained for six months under the tutelage of the gym owner, and gained thirty-five pounds of muscle. He became strong as a bull, fast as a cat. When Max returned to Saskatchewan the following season, he began his career as a professional player. The night he received his first paycheck, Max bought himself a bottle of Yukon Jack to celebrate, and then a whore.
He played for a year in Canada, then a year with the USFL's Arizona Wranglers. When the league folded, he returned to Canada, where a scout from the Seattle Seahawks happened to be at a Saskatchewan game and noticed him. He was given a tryout the following season and made the team. After three years in Seattle, he was picked up by the Ruffians in a supplemental draft. This allowed the expansion team to pick various "unprotected" players from other existing teams.
Most players detested having to leave their original team for a lowly expansion club, but Max had been strictly a backup player and what he wanted most was to be a starter in the NFL. An expansion team, he figured, was just the right place to get that opportunity.
His first season with the Ruffians was spent on injured reserve. He blew out his knee in the first pre-season game on the first kickoff of the game. Because of this, he knew that the odds were against his making the team the following year. Coaches had an innate dislike for players who spent an entire season on injured reserve. They were bad luck. When Humphry Lyles fired the original coaching staff, Max bought another bottle of Yukon. He knew that the new staff would have no preconceptions, and would judge him entirely on his efforts and performance.
When he first arrived at the Ruffians camp, Max was given an address outside downtown Birmingham and told to report to the office of a Dr. Borne. The midrise office building was newly built, and Borne's spacious office was on the top floor and had a great view of the city. As Max sat in the waiting room, he examined a plastic model of the bone structure of the foot. He looked up from the foot to see a young nurse staring at him, and he winked at her before she could look away. Max made a mental note to get her number before he left. He had always had a special fondness for nurses in bed. They had good knowledge of the human body, and he liked that. This one looked cheap with her bleached blond hair and her long red nails and matching lipstick, but he liked that too. Besides, she was tall, and her breasts were large.
Max didn't expend much effort chasing after women. In a rugged way, he was very handsome, and although he had been with women that fit into the "take home to mother" category, he was more apt to wake up next to a cheap-looking girl. Not ugly. Max was very selective and he felt that pretty girls were less likely to have any
venereal diseases, so he only went with real lookers. But he did almost all of his socializing in nightclubs, and most of the lookers were the cheap ones with the tight, skimpy clothes and the high-heeled pumps. He liked it that way too because it was easier to treat them with ambivalence, taking them home after a night of sex and never even bothering to ask for their phone number. When he treated a nice girl that way, he always felt wrong.
Max suspected it was no coincidence that the young nurse was the one to lead him to an exam room and take his blood pressure. He gave her a wolfish smile and asked for her number, promising her dinner and a night on the town. She was writing it down when the doctor came into the room and she blushed. After quickly giving Max the scrap of paper, she hurried out of the room.
"Well, congratulations," the doctor said. "Boy, I know a lot of people have asked, but you're the first one I've seen get that phone number."
The doctor was in his mid-forties but dressed in the fashionable clothes of a twenty-year-old. His polo shirt was open and he wore a gold chain that sat in a bush of chest hair. He was tanned but going bald, and his comical appearance annoyed Max. Doctors were supposed to wear hush puppies and corduroys. But Max wasn't one to complain. The exclusive office and the obviously successful doctor were a far cry from Max's experiences in Cleveland, before his days as a pro. When he had gotten a steroid prescription then, the doctor's office had been seedy and the doctor himself had smelled of Wild Turkey. So who was he to complain just because Dr. Borne was a little too trendy?
But now, as a pro, he was accustomed to seeing doctors who played a lot of golf and drove European cars as a matter of course. Most of them, however, weren't jock sniffers. This one was, though. Max could spot a jock sniffer a mile away, and he also knew how to deal with them.
"I hope that's not the private stock," Max said, knowing the complimentary joke would make the guy feel like they were old and dear friends.
The doctor laughed. "No, I don't mess with the help. My wife would catch on too easily. I'm too sly for that."
I bet you are, Max thought, and stuffed the phone number into his jeans.
"Max, I'm Kyle Borne. Call me Kyle."
"Sure thing, Kyle," Max said, dropping the doctor stuff with no problem.
"Great. Boy, I'm sure glad to be helping you guys out. Not that you need it. I mean, it's tough to get started being an expansion team and all that. Boy, let me tell you, I know what it is to play on a lousy team. 'Course, I didn't really play much after high school, but we had some rough seasons and I know how it is."
Max gave the doctor an interested and serious look while he thought about what a fool the guy was. He let him run his course because he knew that he must have his nose up someone's ass or else he wouldn't be a part of something like this. If it was Vance White whom the doctor knew, it was better to have Borne tell White about what a swell guy Max was, rather than have Max treat him as he would any other sniffer.
After a few nifty stories of his successes on the field, Borne finally got down to business. He gave Max a once-over kind of physical and took his weight. He then made some calculations on a prescription pad.
"Ever used something like this?" he asked Max, taking a box from one of his cupboards.
"Yeah. A while ago I used some Debol," Max said.
"Any problems?"
"No. Nothing unusual. A little acne on my back, my balls shrunk a little, nothing noticeable. It didn't thin my hair--that I was pretty damn happy about."
The doctor looked up. "No, it didn't, did it? Any rectal bleeding, blood in your urine, unusual lower abdominal pains?"
"No, nothing like that."
"Good. Now, like I said, I'm glad to help you guys out, but I want you to remember something for me, O. K.?"
Max nodded. "Sure."
"O. K. I want you to think of me as your friend. Really, no bullshit, and if you have any problems at all with this prescription, you let me know. You can call me any time. Now, I don't mean to worry you. I spoke with a representative from the company that makes this drug, and he's assured me that it's as safe as any simple steroid. They've done plenty of tests and had no problems, but if you experience anything unusual, you just let me know."
"No problem, Kyle," Max said.
"Great." Kyle smiled, his teeth were perfect. "When you used Debol, did you take it orally?"
"Nope, used the old hypo . . . the needle."
"Good, this Thyall-D is only injectable, stomach lining can't take it. Since you're familiar, I won't bore you with the details. You'll take one three-cc injection every week. You can shoot it in your buttock, or if you want an instant effect, it can go right into a vein in your arm."
"No veins for me," Max said, "I'd feel like a junkie."
Borne nodded, not knowing whether or not Max was being serious, then continued. "Now remember, this drug has three agents: the steroid, a masking agent so you don't have to worry about it showing up on any test, and an amphetamine. It's got a kick to it, I'll say that. So use it before you go into a heavy weight workout. That will give the drug a good opportunity to run itself down a little bit. I wouldn't do it before I was going someplace where I didn't want to be irritable and hyper and, well, violent. During the season, you'll use it on game day. There's five one-hundred-milliliter bottles in this box and fifty syringes. Just make sure you stay sterilized and dispose of your needles properly."
"Sure."
"Here, here's a bottle of alcohol and some cotton," the doctor said, handing it over. "Well, look, Max, it was a pleasure meeting you. Listen, why don't you give me a call some time? We could go out for a few drinks."
"Sure, Kyle, sounds great," Max said.
The doctor gave Max a card on which he had written his home number. Max left: the office without trying to get another look at the nurse-- he had plenty of time for that later. At that moment he only wanted to get out of the office and into his car. He wanted to put some fast miles between him and his new pal Kyle. Just cruise. He just felt kind of cramped and uneasy. The steroid business had bothered him less in Cleveland, where the whole scene had kind of fit. But it didn't fit here. This was a legitimate doctor, no seedy quack. Yet the whole thing had gone off like it was perfectly O. K. I'm your friend, the guy said, call mc any time, maybe we'll hit the links at my club, bang my nurse if yo i like.
And it is O. K., Max, you pussy, he told himself. You're getting soft. Eight years ago you'd have been impressed as hell with this setup, and happy to have some real professional guidance with this steroid routine. Lighten your load, friend, you wanted the big time, and here it is.
Max stepped into an express elevator that looked like it would take him down fast.
He continued thinking to himself. The Ruffians wouldn't let their players use something that hadn't been tested and found safe. That's what the doc said, it was perfectly O. K. An NFL franchise certainly knows how to protect its investments.
It was these thoughts that comforted Max as he rocketed downward, suspiciously eyeing the package in his hand.
He was glad to emerge into the sunlight of a bright spring day. The sun made him feel good to be alive. He now lived well, drove a Porsche 928, and stayed in an exclusive apartment building. He spent the money he made on nice clothes and exotic vacations, and women. He gave little thought to the future, and didn't intend to until he was out of the league. The new opportunity in front of him now was all he was going to think about. It was all he had to think about. He had money to spend and the job he had always dreamed of. He whistled a tune as he unlocked the car door, slid into the black Porsche, and sped off.
Chapter THREE
THE NORTHERN UNIVERSITY FOOTBALL FACILITY was a recent addition to the university. It was built with money that the athletic department had piled up from the three years of bowl-game money and with contributions from various jock hounds and earnest alums. The Northern players called the facility the Taj Mahal. They had everything there that college players could dream of, from a plush locker room
and playing fields to hot tubs, TV lounges, and racquetball courts. The coaches' offices were also there, and that was where Clay met Gavin Collins and a scout that Gavin called simply Box.
Collins was impressed with Clay from the moment he saw him. He liked his size and the way Clay's body swayed from side to side as he walked into the room where they had been watching game films. Gavin felt he could tell if a player was quick just by the way he walked. Gavin also knew he was quick because he had just seen him run down a wide receiver on the film. He also noticed Clay's alert eyes and the slight tension in his face.
"Clay, I' m Gavin Collins from the Birmingham Ruffians, and this is Box, our head scout."
Clay thought it was an unusual nickname, but then so was Lever. In Box's case, the name fit. The man was squarely built--even his head and hands were block-like. His features were twisted and damaged, probably from years of play in the NFL. Most scouts were former players who had performed well and loyally for a team. When their bodies were worn down to the point where they were no longer of any value and they had no other place to go, they were sometimes made into scouts. A scout was the lowest man on the totem pole in an NFL organization. They didn't make much money, and what they thought of a player often mattered very little to the coaches, who have ideas of their own.
Box only nodded as Clay shook both men's hands and said, "Nice to meet you."
Clay didn't bother trying to remember the names of the men. He saw men like them almost every day. Since the combines, scouts and coaches from every team haunted his days with workouts. Bill Clancy said that it was important to give everyone a good impression, so Clay was amiable and performed with a smile on his face. He had Bill Clancy's advice in mind as he sat down to take the test.
Clay's only goal was to be drafted as high as he possibly could. Birmingham had the third pick, so if they chose him instead of, say, San Francisco, who picked twenty-fifth, the difference in salary and signing bonus would likely be over two million dollars. And for two million dollars Clay felt he could give them the answers they wanted.