Ruffians

by Tim Green

  He knew what football coaches liked in their players. He had been putting his knowledge into effect for the past month. They all came to test him in one way or another, and it didn't matter to Clay what the test was. All he knew was that he was going to do whatever it took to be the best. They liked a guy who was no-nonsense and who would do anything to win. Intelligence was good, but it could be considered dangerous if not coupled with a hearty dose of unquestioning obedience.

  He sat down across the table from Box and Collins, and looked into their eyes, mentally converting himself into the kind of guy he knew they wanted him to be. The men both wore their hair close-cropped to their heads. Although he was heavy with excess weight, Box's posture was ramrod straight. Collins too sat with a stiff back. They both had southern accents. Collins had intense dark brown eyes, almost black, and a military bearing that made Clay think of General Colin Powell. Collins told him to take his time, there was no limit, but to be sure he answered the questions honestly. Clay would have to be careful, though. He knew from Psych 307 that these kind of tests were cross-referenced to pick up inconsistencies. He would have to watch for any questions designed to trip him up.

  "There are no right or wrong answers," said Collins, "just put down the first thing that comes to mind."

  The first question was: Where would you rather be on a Saturday afternoon in a strange city? (A) an art museum (B) a bowling alley (C) at home watching TV (D) in a shopping mall.

  Clay thought an an museum would be his choice, but he knew that was wrong. TV was out, that was too sedentary. Bowling was a sport, so that's what you'd think immediately was what they wanted. But mail shoppers tend to be aggressive people who weren't afraid of crowds. Clsy gazed at the faces of Collins and Box for a hint. Box looked like a guy who had his own bowling ball with his initials engraved on it. Clay chose B.

  "I'm gonna be fuckin' rich," Clay shouted in Lever's ear so he could be heard above the din. They were perched on stools at Nelson's, and the place was crowded and hot. Clay knew it was the kind of night that would leave him smelling of sweat and smoke and beer, and that his throat would hurt from the yelling. He would certainly have a hangover, but he was very happy.

  His test with the Ruffians had gone well. He was sure of that. He had given the kind of answers they wanted, and he felt he had been consistent enough to avoid those designed to keep players from lying.

  He didn't even want to begin to think what he would do with all that money. He just wanted to sit back and get drunk with his friend, and enjoy one of the last few Friday nights he would have at school.

  "Clay," said a very drunk Lever, "you and me forever, huh? Chug."

  Lever tipped his beer to Clay's, and they both up-ended their bottles.

  "Over the fuckin' top!" shouted Lever, slamming the empty bottle on the bar.

  "You know, Lev, I was just thinkin', we gotta enjoy this. All this," said Clay, waving his hand in a broad sweep. "Things are gonna change."

  "Nothin' changes," brayed Lever as he draped his l&rge arm over Clay's shoulder, "only the color of the uniform changes, and if ya go to Denver, that won't even change."

  Clay's eye caught two familiar faces entering the bar, Tom Seldon and Cooper O'Brien. Seldon was a large, lean tight end for New England, and O'Brien was a beefy fullback for Philadelphia. They had both played at Northern when Clay and Lever had been sophomores. Then they got drafted. Now they looked much different. They were polished. Seldon wore gold-rimmed spectacles that gave him the appearance of an attorney. Both wore heavy black leather jackets, ostrich skin boots, and Rolex watches.

  Clay looked down past his tattered jeans at his grimy turf shoes. Lever had a Timex, and Clay wore no watch at all.

  Clay watched the crowds of students turn to stare at the pair of NFL players as they made their way across the floor to the bar. Lever and Clay made room between their stools so they could order drinks. Clay smelled expensive cologne.

  uHey, Tom, hey, Coop," said Lever amiably.

  "Hey, guys," said Clay.

  "What's up?" said Seldon.

  "Hey," O'Brien said to Lever. Then, "Hey, Clay, getting ready for the big time?"

  "Bet your ass," Clay said.

  "What are you guys doing here?" asked Lever.

  "You know," O'Brien said, "just visiting my little sister. She's a freshman here this year, and I told her I'd come. I dragged Tommy with me."

  "I don't know what the fuck we're doing here," said Seldon blandly, "but I can't wait to get my ass out of this cold and get to Hawaii."

  He then turned away. Clay watched him push through the crowd and stop in front of a very nice-looking girl with a spectacular body.

  "You guys going to fuckin' Hawaii?" said Lever. "That's tits."

  "Yeah, a bunch of Tommy's buddies from the Patriots are going out there, so we figured we'd go," said Cooper.

  "Nothin' better to do," he added.

  Seldon reappeared with the girl in close tow. "I'm outa here, Coop," Seldon said with a grin.

  "She got a friend?" asked Cooper.

  Seldon turned to the girl and said something, then he nodded.

  "How about her?" Seldon said, pointing to another girl who wasn't half bad and who was now standing with Seldon's girl and looking at them out of the corner of her eye.

  "Good enough," Cooper said. "Later, guys."

  Clay watched them leave, keeping his eye on the nice tight ass of the girl with Seldon. "What's up?" he asked. "Why you looking at me like that?"

  "Nothing," said Lever, "I was just thinking I could get a mold of that chick's ass and you could take it home."

  "What's the fuckin' deal? I can't look at some nice chick's ass? I can't wait till it's that easy. Just boom, how you doin', let's get outa here. Wham-bam."

  "Ahhh, those girls weren't shit," said Lever, "not next to Katie."

  "They weren't Katie," Clay said, "but I'd still fuck them both."

  "You're drunk."

  "You're drunk too."

  "Yeah, but that's crazy. You wouldn't do those girls. You wouldn't do that to Katie," Lever said.

  "What are you? A knight? Sir fucking Galahad or something?"

  "Aww, don't get pissed. You're talking crazy."

  "What the hell is so crazy about fucking who I want? Did you see those guys? It was like clockwork."

  Lever shook his head and huffed.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "What?"

  "You know what."

  "Hey, it's no big deal, but sometimes I gotta wonder if you know what you got."

  "What?"

  "In a girl like Katie," Lever said. "You don't find a girl like her. She's pretty . . . she's nice . . ."

  "You sound like a fuckin' minister or something," said Clay, taking a chug on his beer. He was so drunk now that his teeth were numb. "She's not goin' anywhere. What, you think I should tie a knot in my dick for the next two years? Hey, Lev, it's no big deal, I'll have a little fun, then Katie'll finish school. We'll get married."

  Lever shook his head. "She'll never go for that!"

  "You think she's gonna know, ya fuckin' dummy?"

  "You're full of shit. I know you love her."

  "Of course I love her. What's that got to do with it? Did you get hit in the head?"

  "Let's talk about something else," Lever said. "You're drunk. Let's talk about football."

  "Let's talk about beer. Chug, you pussy."

  While they were waiting for the bartender to bring them two fresh beers, Clay spotted a nice-looking blonde. It was a good opportunity to show Lever what he was talking about.

  "Lev, be right back," Clay said, getting up from his seat.

  Lever grabbed him by the arm. "What ya doin'?"

  Clay nodded in the blonde's direction. Although the gesture was vague, Lever knew exactly what he meant. The blonde stood out in the crowd.

  "Aww, that's bullshit. We're supposed to be drinking," Lever said.

  "I'm not doin' nothing, I'm just
gonna talk to her for a minute. I'll be right back." Clay shrugged his arm free and pushed his way through the crowd of students toward the girl.

  Katie looked at the clock. It was late. She closed her textbook and rubbed her eyes. She would have preferred to be with Clay, but he and Lever were getting drunk tonight and she had a big exam on Monday. When the two of them set out to get drunk, she was better off staying home. In a funny way, she liked waiting at his apartment for him. It was kind of domestic. She liked waking up in the wee hours of the morning to feel him climbing into bed beside her.

  She used Clay's toothbrush, then pulled on a T-shirt that smelled like him and got into bed. She'd get to sleep so she could get up relatively early. This way she'd have time to get some doughnuts and a paper before she made breakfast. It was something she liked to do when Clay and Lever went out drinking the night before.

  Before she shut out the light, she opened the top drawer of the night table and took out a tattered paperback she had left in his apartment. After reading for half an hour the covers were warm and she hated to get out of bed. She did anyway. She had forgotten to put out a glass of water and three Tylenols for Clay on the bathroom sink. If she didn't do it, odds were that he'd be too drunk to think of it. This way he wouldn't feel so bad in the morning. When she was done, she hurried back across the cold floor and got into bed. She turned off the light, and thinking of how nice it would feel when Clay was next to her, she fell asleep.

  She awoke to the sound of Clay falling into the dresser. Katie looked at the clock. It read: 3:47. Clay righted himself and clumsily began to pull off his clothes. His shirt got stuck coming over his head. He staggered and fell over again, crashing into the closet door. "Shit."

  "Clay?" Katie said sleepily.

  "Hi, honey, damn fuckin' shirt," Clay said in a drunken slur, finally getting free from the shirt and crawling into the bed.

  "Clay, it's almost four," Katie said.

  "Yeah, me an' Lev had a long one. Closed the place, then got some chow." Clay yawned, he was almost asleep.

  Katie snuggled up next to him and rested her head on his chest

  "I'm glad you had fun," she said.

  Together they fell asleep.

  Chapter FOUR

  IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT and the dimly lit room was filled with cigar smoke. Gavin Collins's eyes were bloodshot from the smoke and the late hours they'd kept in the past week preparing for the draft. Clay Blackwell had been the subject of hot debate since Gavin's return to Birmingham almost a month ago. Gavin had reported his findings, and White and Stepinowski confirmed his high opinion of Blackwell after watching some game films that Gavin had brought back. There was no doubt among the staff that Blackwell had the potential to be a dominant defensive end and that he also had the speed and athleticism to occasionally drop into pass coverage. This is exactly the type of player the Ruffians needed if they wanted to change their defensive scheme from play to play without showing their hand to the opposition.

  The debate, however, was about Blackwell's willingness to participate in their "program."

  Two weeks earlier, Gavin had argued, "Vance, Blackwell is. a perfect candidate for the program. He's bright, but he's respectful. Every coach I talked to up there said the same thing: Blackwell responds well to discipline. And let's face it, this kid is so damned impressive physically, so what if he doesn't do the program?"

  "So what! So what?" White bellowed. "Gavin, don't forget this," he continued when he had calmed himself, "we are not here to have a good team, a winning team, or even a playoff team. We are here to win the Super Bowl, to be the world champions. And we are here to do it soon. Not in ten years, or two years. Next year, Collins, next year. Do you understand that?"

  Collins nodded. He was embarrassed. They were sitting in the staff meeting room, and White was lecturing him in front of the rest of the coaches, the scouts, and Mr. Lyles himself as if he were a bad little boy. Well, fuck him.

  "Good. Now, so we're all on the same page . . . does anyone have any second thoughts about this job?" White peered about like a hawk.

  Humphry Lyles gave White an approving look. He liked a tough manager.

  "Fine, then this will be the last time I will have to go over the importance of this program. Mr. Lyles has given me the goal of producing a championship team for him next year. He has put unlimited funds at my disposal to accomplish this goal. I've got the best coaching staff that money can buy." White smiled grimly. "And I made sure each and every one of you not only approved of my program, but that you were enthusiastic about it."

  Gavin tried to get a word in. "Aw, come on, Vance, that's not what I--"

  White silenced him with a cold stare. "I'm saying this for everyone's benefit. Because after this, I don't want our program questioned in any way. If anyone has any reservations, let me know now."

  There was silence and White said, "Good. We all know that having the best staff in the game isn't enough. We know that we also need the finest players, and in this league that is not entirely for sale. We're limited by the draft. So we have to choose carefully and make the best of what we have. I have been successful in the past not by making two or three players great, but by making an entire team great.

  "In my last job, and many of you were there, but for those who were not," he said, looking directly at Collins, "let me assure you that I do things as a team. What is done by one is done by all. Every team member must make the same sacrifices, must be equally dedicated to the team goals. You all know that the way to win football games is with defense and a strong running game. We will have all linemen, linebackers, tight ends, and blocking backs in this program.

  "Here the goal is the Super Bowl, and one of the dedications is for each player to be the very best he can be. Not good"--White was beginning to shout--"not great, but... the very best they can be!"

  With each word, White struck his palm.

  "So, any consideration of Blackwell, or any other draft: pick, will also include their willingness to participate in this program. Gavin, this is the way we will win, with an entire team effort. This program will give us the winning edge."

  There was silence for some time before Collins spoke, tie first cleared his throat. "Well, I think that Blackwell is the type of player that would fit into this program."

  "This is something we have to discuss," said White. "Box has some concerns as to the boy's cooperation."

  Each man in the room turned to look at Box. The scout looked blandly at them and said, "The test didn't give us the answer. The results are erratic. Blackwell didn't fall clearly into the positive category, although he did show some aggressive tendencies. I sent the results back out to Berkeley, and even the doctor who created the test was confused. He said in his opinion, Blackwell was a twenty-five-percent risk. Since I don't believe in taking risks, I wouldn't take the kid."

  The kid, Collins filmed to himself. That "kid" was ten times the player Box had ever been. The test was bullshit and so was Box.

  But Box and White went back all the way to college, when they played together at Alabama. Back then it was White who had looked up to Box. And now Box had his nose so far up White's ass that if White stopped short, Box could taste his food.

  "We both know what it takes to win, Vance," said Box, "and all I can say is that this guy wouldn't have lasted at 'Bama when we were there. He doesn't have it, Vance, I can see it in his eyes."

  "That's bullshit," Collins said.

  The rest of the staff clamored until Stepinowski spoke up:

  "I think the way to solve this problem is simple."

  Everyone was silent.

  "Vance, no one's saying anything against our program. Gavin's just saying that the kid is so good, that he's better than the guys we've got who are already training on the program. And he is that good, let's face it. We've all seen him on film. He's a head-stomper. He's got fire in his ass. Look at these numbers."

  Step held up the file on Blackwell.

  "The kid runs like a li
nebacker, but he's as powerful as any lineman in the league. He's also got enough brains to learn this position, which is really going to be two positions. He's perfect in every respect, so what you want to do is go up there yourself. You know what you want better than anyone. Don't listen to the test, or to Box, or to Gavin. Go up there. Sit down with the kid. Pick his brain."

  The next day Vance flew from Birmingham to Syracuse and arranged to meet Clay at Northern. When Clay arrived, White was in Leary's office discussing him. Both men stopped talking and stood up when Clay walked in.

  "Clay, I'm Vance White," said White, extending his hand.

  "Hi, Coach, nice to meet you," Clay said standing as upright as he possibly could.

  Coach Leary greeted Clay warmly, then led them to a conference room. He shut the door on his way out. Clay sat down and White sat on the other side of the table. They talked for a few minutes about Leary and what a good coach he was. Then White leaned across the table toward Clay.

  "Clay," he said, looking seriously into the boy's eyes, "do you realize how much money we would be investing if we decide to use our first- round pick on you?"

  Clay nodded.

  "Clay, how important a goal is being a great NFL player to you?" White asked.

  "Well, Coach White, it's the most important goal in my life."

  "Very good," White said, smiling. "And would you do anything to accomplish that goal?"

  Clay looked White in the eye and said, "Coach White, I came from a very average family with very average means. Because I worked my ass off, I'm sitting here talking with you today about maybe making millions of dollars. I got here by doing what it takes, by sacrifice, and by going one step beyond what everybody else was willing to do. So when you ask if I would do anything to be a great player, I have to tell you that I always have and I always will."

  White was delighted.

  Vance White entered Humphry's office to find the owner sitting at his desk intently examining a football. Lyles stopped poking the seams and waved him toward the couch. White eased himself into the soft leather chair and exhaled, deeply tired from the long trip to New York and back.