Ruffians

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Ruffians Page 16

by Tim Green


  " 'I can't feel great about today,' said Dresden, 'because the team lost. But this is the type of game I think I can play week in and week out. Hopefully it will help the team to win.'

  "Even if Dresden can repeat his spectacular performance, the Rough Riders outlook at 0-4 is . . ."

  The article gave Max inspiration. If he could have a game like that once, he could do it again. All he needed was the chance, and when he got it, he wanted to be ready. The clipping was something to read every night of training camp before turning in ... to get his mind right. Max tucked the two items carefully into his bag and zipped it shut.

  Chapter TWELVE

  The Ruffians camp was held at a small state college about fifty miles south of Birmingham. In June, Max and Clay had driven out to see the facility where they would be spending the last six weeks of their summer. It was pretty grim. When they arrived after about an hour drive through parched cotton fields, the car was covered with hot dust and they were dying of thirst. They entered what looked like a club house near the playing field and found a drinking fountain. The water was warm and brackish, and did little to revive them.

  They found a custodian in a blue work shirt and pants scraping blistered paint from the trim around the doorway of a nearby dormitory. The old man appeared to be hard of hearing. He didn't answer their calls as they approached him, and he jumped when he finally saw them.

  "Who you?" he demanded. His dark skin was leathery and deep lines of age cut across his face. The nappy hair on his head was short and white.

  "Hi," Clay said in a friendly tone, holding out his hand in an attempt to put the man at ease, "I'm Clay Blackwell and this is Max Dresden. We play for the Ruffians, and we just wanted to get a look around the place since we're gonna be here all next month."

  The old man stared at Clay's hand. One of his eyes was a foggy blue color and the good one seemed to wander. He seemed to look up at Clay. "You with them football players? Not supposed to be here till July."

  "I know, "Clay said. "We just wanted to look around ... at where we're gonna be staying."

  The old man nodded and set his scraping tool down on the brick steps. Without a word he opened the door to the dormitory and stood holding it until they entered. They followed him down a worn hallway to one of the rooms.

  "They all the same," he said, letting them in with a key.

  Max flipped a switch on the wall and an old ceiling fan clanked noisily, circulating the thick, musty air. "Could you let us out on the field?" he asked.

  Again the old man said nothing, but turned and led them out of the dorm through the large old trees down to the football field. There he fumbled with a padlock on the gate. He remained outside the fence watching them as they walked about. The practice field was a bumpy, uneven lot of crabgrass bounded by rusty goal posts and a rusty chain- link fence.

  "My high school field was better than this," Clay said.

  At one end of the field was a large, drab cinder-block building.

  "Let's check it out," Max said. Inside was an empty training room, a large storage garage for equipment, and a large locker room filled with gray rusty lockers. The toilets and showers were laced with black mold. It was cramped and dirty, especially compared to the luxurious setting of the Ruffians complex.

  Clay and Max said nothing as they emerged into the sunlight until they thanked the old man. He nodded, then locked the gate and shuffled away, stooping to pick up an old candy wrapper as he went.

  "Why would we come to a rundown place like this in the middle of nowhere?" Clay finally asked. "It's a shit hole."

  "That's just it," answered Max. "I'm sure White wants us to be here in the middle of nowhere. No distractions, just football. I think it's a damn good idea myself, otherwise we'd be sure to have some assholes sneaking out at night chasing bitches, getting drunk, you know, all that kind of stuff"

  "That's exactly how you like to spend your free time, Max," Clay said.

  "It is, but not during training camp. Camp is time to get your body and your mind in shape for football. This is the perfect place to do it. Last year we lived in the Days Inn off Exit 29, and camp was held at our own complex. Last year we got our ass kicked too. No, this place, as bad as it looks, is perfect. White sure knows what he's doing, huh?"

  "Not if you ask me," Clay grumbled.

  Clay had been back in Birmingham for one exhausting week of training camp when the alarm clock woke him from a deep and dark sleep. The room was pitch black. Clay winced when he sat up and reached for the clock. Every inch of him hurt. He felt a dull throbbing ache all over, and sharp jolts of pain when he moved. His forehead was swollen and chaffed from rubbing against his helmet. His neck was so sore that it hurt to turn his head in any direction.

  Now that Clay was fully awake, the pounding in his head was fierce. His calves and thighs were knotted so tightly that he staggered as he rose from his bed. His arms ached too. Like his stomach and back, they were covered with cuts and bruises. His feet were covered with blisters, and his ankles were raw in places where ankle tape had come in direct contact with his skin, pulling it free in large patches. His fingers were covered with oozing, sticky sores.

  Clay remembered practice the day before. It had been brutal and violent. Even Clay, who was unaccustomed to fighting with his own teammates, had gotten into it with Pike. He had thrown an upper cut under Clay's face mask during a scrimmage play. Clay surprised Pike by kicking his feet out from under him, then pinning him to the ground with his knees. He latched onto Pike's face mask with one hand and pounded the hulking offensive lineman with his free hand for all he was worth. But even though Clay appeared to get the best of Pike, the veteran player had sensed Clay's fingers in his mask and twisted his head sharply down and to the side, crushing the tips of Clay's fingers, which were caught in the bars of the mask.

  Clay rubbed his aching hamstrings and remembered the running. After an already grueling practice White would line his team up across one end of the field and run them in the ninety-degree humid heat until the heavier and less prepared players began to drop from exhaustion. White would never stop the running until at least one player dropped to the steaming turf. In his mind Clay could still see the trainers as they raced to the fallen players, cut free their practice gear with large steel scissors, and packed them in mounds of ice right there on the field.

  Max stirred from his bed but said nothing. He just slipped on a pair of shorts and some thongs, picked up his shaving kit, and headed toward the bathroom down the hall. Clay shuffled to the bureau, flipped on the light, and fumbled with an aspirin bottle. He took three and washed them down with some tepid water he kept by his bedside. There was nothing worse than this. There was no discomfort, or pain, or sleep deprivation as severe as at training camp. And this camp was ten times worse than anything he'd gone through in college. What was most depressing was that they had only just completed their first week, and the end seemed nowhere in sight. Right now the only pleasant thought was that at ten- thirty that night he could go to sleep again.

  The first couple of days, Clay had felt ashamed at how mentally unprepared he was for the punishing routine of training camp. Max seemed to take even the worst conditions in stride, even though he had admitted to Clay that he too had never gone through anything as severe as this. Not that Max was cheerful. He had been in a dark and silent mood since day one. Clay hadn't even tried to talk to him in the last twenty-four hours. He knew Max must have given himself an injection yesterday. Although he was always aggressive, yesterday he had been brutal and plowed his way into three fights during practice. In one, he ripped the helmet off a rookie named Lee and smashed the offensive lineman's nose before his teammates and coaches could pull Max off.

  Vance White thrived on the violence of this type, and although he would always say that he didn't want to see his players fighting each other, everyone knew he loved it. Clay had never seen so many fights during practice.

  Each twenty-four hours of camp seemed like
forty-eight. There was a practice in the morning and in the afternoon. The players would get up at 6:30 and eat breakfast. Then they would get taped and dressed for practice, which started at 8:00. Practice usually ended about 10:15, and then the team ran their sprints. Clay had never fallen out on the sprints, but still he was frequently dizzy after the harsh physical work and would have to stagger into the locker room and guzzle glass after glass of water before he felt steady enough to take a shower.

  Lunch was at 11:00, and immediately afterward meetings began. The players would break up in groups by position. Clay and the rest of the defensive line met with their position coach, Gavin Collins, in an old classroom located in a building next to their dorm. The group would watch the film from the morning's practice, and Collins would correct any errors that the players had made. Everything they did was on film, each individual drill and every team scrimmage period. There was no escape from what the players called "the evil eye." Every mistake, every individual defeat, was captured for all to see on film.

  Clay smiled in spite of his aches when he thought of Collins. The guy was so positive. He never rode his players. Even the free-agent rookies, who everyone knew probably wouldn't make the team, were treated with respect by Collins. Just two days ago during a film session, Doogie, one of Clay's fellow linemen, had berated a rookie that screwed up a pass- rush stunt. Collins stopped the film and turned on the light.

  "O. K.," he said, standing up and fixing a glare on his players, "let's get something straight, Doogie, and the rest of you. No one in this unit calls anyone a piece of shit, or anything like it. I am the only one who says what's right and what's wrong. I'm the one that's gonna determine who among you are gonna make this team, and I'll tell you right now, I don't want anybody who's gonna be negative. We're all gonna make some mistakes. If we do, I'll point them out and we'll correct them, but not in that way. We've got to be a team, and no one benefits from that kind of talk. You understand that, Doogie? Anyone else got a problem with that? Good."

  When the afternoon film meeting was over, the players were given an hour to sleep. There were very few who didn't. The hour nap rejuvenated Clay, but it gave his body time to stiffen. After the rest hour, the players would tape and dress again for another practice at 2:30 that went until 4:45. There was no running after the evening practice, but there was mandatory weight lifting. Dinner was at 6:00, and meetings after dinner went from 7:00 until 10:30.

  The evening meetings began with a team gathering, then offense and defense would split up and go over the new plays that would be put in for the next day's work. When that was done, the team again broke down by position into meetings where the afternoon's practice film was critiqued. When the defensive line was let out of their meeting at 10:30, Clay went straight to bed. If they were lucky enough to have Collins let them out a few minutes earlier than the rest of the team--say, at 10:20 like last night--Clay would hurry to one of the few pay phones in the dorm and call Katie.

  By the morning, his talks with Katie always seemed long ago, and she seemed very far away. Clay found himself constantly reliving their time together at Loon Lake. He longed for the cool tranquillity of the lake, and he longed for Katie's comforting words and caresses. During the last week he had found himself more emotionally devoted to her than he had ever been. When he needed someone, that someone was Kate.

  Max returned from the bathroom clean-shaven and looking fresh. Clay looked like he felt, sore and tired, and he stood staring blankly at the wall.

  "What are you standing there for?" Max said.

  "Oh," Clay started, "I was just thinking of Katie."

  "Humph!" Max snorted. "That's a real smart thing to be thinking of."

  "Hey, Max," Clay said with an angry stare, "seriously . . . what the fuck is your problem?"

  Max glowered, his fists clenching.

  "If I did something to offend you," Clay said in an apologetic tone, "tell me. I'm your friend, remember?"

  Suddenly Max relaxed and looked at his hands, still balled. "No," he said. He sat down on his bunk. The springs squeaked. "No, there's nothing you did. I-I-I just . . ."

  He looked up with a pained expression. He looked back down, burying his face in his hands with a tearless sob that was both angry and sad. Clay stood, frozen by what he was seeing.

  "Clay, I-I don't know," Max shuddered. Staring at the floor, he did not look up. "I don't know what the fuck is happening to me. I feel like I'm crazy or something. I mean, it's good ... the violence, it's good. It's just that I don't feel in control anymore."

  Clay put his hand on Max's shoulder. Max sprang from the bed, knocking Clay's hand off him. He looked at Clay, his eyes wide. He laughed nervously. "I didn't mean it. I'm fine. I shouldn't talk about it. I don't want to talk about it, Clay," Max said. "I'm O. K., really."

  He turned and left the small dorm room.

  After a hot shower that helped relieve some of his stiffness, Clay left the room for breakfast at the school cafeteria. While he was plopping some eggs onto his plate at the buffet, Max passed him on his way out.

  "Hey, buddy," Max said very matter-of-factly.

  Clay did a double-take and was unable to get out a response before Max had disappeared.

  Clay wondered what Max was up to all through breakfast. He was so distracted he almost forgot to eat any bananas. He always ate two bananas at each meal for potassium, which prevented cramping.

  Later, after Clay was taped and putting on his shoulder pads, Max came up behind him and pulled down his jersey. "Ready for another big day?" he said with a cheerful smile and a pat on Clay's shoulder.

  Clay could only search Max's face and smile uncomfortably.

  "Gonna be a hot one," Max said in the same tone before heading out onto the field.

  "It doesn't make sense," Clay said to himself over and over again as he made his last-minute preparations. Grease forehead. Put in mouthpiece. Rub some Flex-All on low back. Sun screen on nose. It was quiet in the locker room. Clay looked at the clock. "Damn."

  He hurried out onto the field. He pulled his gloves on as he ran. He hated to wear the bulky leather gloves in the heat. But it was either that or have hamburger hands.

  He fell into line. He saw White look at his watch, and Clay figured he must have just made it, otherwise he would have heard.

  Clay wondered again about Max. What was the deal? He reached for his toes. He moaned. The stretch wasn't doing anything to relieve the ache.

  Clay reminded himself as he ran mindlessly through agilities that Max had always been tense. But the intense mood swings were bizarre. It had to be the drug.

  Even when the team scrimmage was a full hour into practice, Clay was still pondering his friend's odd behavior during a break between plays.

  Vance White's shrieking brought him back to where he was. "Blackwell, you damned rookie, you damned worthless rookie," he was yelling from the middle of the practice field, "get your ass out here!"

  Clay began to run from the sideline, his muscles aching with the effort. The entire team was staring at him, some with disgust, others with pity. Doogie hawked a loogie and spat it at Clay's feet. Spike Norris, the other inside tackle, frowned. The others stared at him wide-eyed in disbelief. He had let down the D-line. He was the rookie of the bunch and he'd made them all look bad. The first team had been called to scrimmage, and they were all there except Blackwell. They knew White would take it out on the whole first-team defense with some extra running.

  "He must be thinkin' about all that big money, Coach," yelled out Todd Ferrone from the offensive huddle. "Ain't got time to play with us."

  Pike and Sick snickered loudly.

  Clay's ears were burning. When he finally got into the huddle, no one moved. Max, the defensive signal caller, was silent. The offense didn't move either.

  Everyone's eyes were on White. His face was contorted with anger and told them all that they were not continuing until he vented it. His mirrored sunglasses, baseball cap, and whistle gave him the look
of a malicious trooper. He marched over to the defensive huddle. As he approached, Clay felt Keith Neil, the cornerback who stood behind him in the huddle, tap him on the butt and say under his breath, "Stay cool, babe."

  The caring words made Clay feel sick.

  White reached the huddle, wound up, and cracked Clay on the head with his metal clipboard as hard as he possibly could. Clay reeled despite his helmet.

  "You son of a bitch. You worthless piece of shit!" screamed White. "This is a scrimmage! Is this what you'll be doing when we're in a battle? When your teammates are fighting for their lives, you'll be on the sideline daydreaming?"

  Clay staggered and then stood facing White's angry face. He was still dazed and unsure.

  A voice inside Clay was screaming, "Kill this fuck! Rip his fucking throat out! Mash his face into a bloody pulp! No one does that to you! No one!"

  "No!" said another voice. It was one he was more familiar with. "You don't do that. You don't hit a coach any more than you'd hit your own father. You don't do it. It's wrong. It's unacceptable. This is a coach. You do what he says. You take what he gives you. That's the way."

  "Well?" shouted White, who showed no sign of any doubt or fear. He knew exactly what Clay would do.

  Clay thought hard. What was the question . . . ?

  "No," Clay said definitely.

  "No. Damn you, Gavin," White said, turning to Collins, "I want Blackwell off the first team until I say he's back on. You got that? I don't give a shit who he is. I don't give a shit how much money we wasted on him."

  "Yes, Coach," Collins said, and called to the reserves on the sideline, "McGuire! Get your ass out here!"

  McGuire set a speed record getting to the huddle.

  "I don't know why you put him there in the first place," White said in a voice that everyone, even the players on the sideline, could hear. "He doesn't merit any special treatment. He's given absolutely no indication that he's willing to make any sacrifices for this team. He's the most selfish son of a bitch I've seen in all my years of coaching. It wouldn't surprise me if his own damn teammates run his ass out of here.

 

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