by Tim Green
Clay's black-and-gray uniform wasn't drenched with sweat or soiled with dirt and grass stains. He hadn't played in the game, and the crowd noise, irrelevant to him, made him feel as though he were in a dream. In all his football experiences up to now, the crowd had been a source of inspiration for him. But now he was detached from the energy of the game and had little interest in how it turned out. It was all about whether or not he would play, and if he did, if he'd perform well enough to get himself out of White's doghouse.
Suddenly McGuire, the player who had replaced Clay in the starting line-up, tapped Clay on the shoulder. "Collins wants you," he said.
Clay made his way through a throng of teammates and found Gavin near where the action was.
"Yeah, Coach," Clay said.
"Clay," Collins said, turning to him, "this is a critical time right now. We've got to keep our momentum going, and we can't let them return our score. You take McGuire's place at right end. I already told him, so you just get out there for this series and stay in until I tell you otherwise."
"O. K.," Clay said, his heart now pounding from nerves.
"Clay, I know what you can do," Collins said, looking Clay in the eye. "Just relax and think of your responsibilities and kick some ass."
Collins, busy with many other things, turned away without another word.
Clay buckled his chin strap and adjusted his pads, which had settled from all his standing around. He found Max on the sideline watching the Ruffians kickoff team take the field.
"Max," Clay said to his friend through the din, taken by a fervor that suddenly made him feel a part of it all, "Collins is putting me in with the first team."
When Max turned, Clay saw that his eyes were wide open and on fire with excitement. It looked almost as if Max did not recognize him. The wild look on his face gave Clay an adrenaline rush. He was pumped up to take the field with the Death Squad and Mad Max. As silly as it all had seemed when he was not part of it, now the names seemed to fit Clay's own emotion.
"Time for fucking blood, baby!" Max screamed to him almost incoherently through his mouthpiece. "It's your time, my friend. It's your time to show these motherfuckers what you can do."
Max grabbed Clay by the shoulders and smashed heads with him three or four times, giving them both further rushes of adrenaline. The Ruffians kicked off and three defenders sandwiched the ball carrier on the fifteen yard line. Again the crowd went berserk. Clay and Max and the rest of the Ruffian defense took the field.
Death . . . Death . . . Death . . . went the cheer of the crowd. It was more like a college crowd to chant and cheer. Most NFL stadium crowds were more reserved in their enthusiasm, but until only recently Alabama had known only college football and the fans kept that frenzied atmosphere alive at the Ruffians' home games.
Max called a blitz and the defense broke the huddle. Clay lined up. The ball was snapped and he rushed up field toward the quarterback. He clubbed his blocker and sidestepped him, coming free, but not before Max had shot up through the line unblocked and leveled the quarterback with a crunch that seemed to reverberate across the field. Max was on his feet, both hands in the air, shrieking his war whoop.
"Owwwwwwwww!"
Clay and the rest of the Ruffians defense surrounded him, pounding each other's shoulders and heads in celebration. Clay felt the thrill of being part of it all, and it made him yearn to make a big play like Max had.
Pittsburgh ran a draw on the next play, and the Ruffians defense, expecting another pass, was caught in a blitz. The runner broke through the line and nearly gained a first down before one of the defensive backs could bring him down. It was third and one, a short-yardage play, almost certainly a run.
"Now, let's kick their fucking asses back on this play and make 'em punt," Max implored his teammates in the huddle, and then gave the call. "Okee Bronco Cover One. Ready . . ."
"Break!" shouted the entire defense.
Clay lined up just outside the left end of the Steelers line. Bronco . . . he had to stay outside no matter what. If the ball came his way, it was his job to turn the runner back into the pursuing defense. If Clay let him get outside, he'd have plenty of room to run for the first down.
The ball was snapped and the tight end fired out at Clay. He saw the running back headed his way with a lead blocker in front of him. It was a sweep play right at him. He had to contain. He struck the end with all his might, knocking him backward and off balance. Clay immediately knew that he was in control of his blocker. He had good position to make the outside play. The back dipped to the inside, freezing Clay for an instant. The end, unable to handle Clay, grabbed for his jersey and pulled with all his strength, jarring Clay off balance. The runner saw the weakness created by Clay's awkward position and darted for the sideline, gaining distance on Clay.
In his mind, in that brief instant, Clay could see Gavin Collins in the film meeting. He could see White on the sideline. He could see Max's face in the locker room, the face that had wanted him to succeed so badly. And in that instant Clay knew that he could not fail. He simply could not let it happen, not after all that had happened to him. It was critical that he make the play. The back was already outside him when he dived to his right, throwing his body with all his might and at the same time swinging his right arm like a club, using the full force of his body's momentum as well as all the strength he could muster. His forearm struck the runner directly on the knee cap, leveling him in his tracks.
There was a pop, and Clay saw a flash of white light in his mind like a bolt of lightning. The sound and the flash registered in his brain before the pain. But the pain was soon to follow and it was excruciating. Clay knew that he had hurt himself.
The rest of the defense, in a frenzy of excitement and enthusiasm for the play that would send out the Pittsburgh punt team, rushed toward Clay. They lifted him from the ground and began slapping him and each other in celebration before they realized that Clay was limp. He staggered among them and made his way to the sideline, not wanting to be assisted from the field, as most injured players were. As he stumbled amid his celebrating teammates, he saw Vance White's face. He was actually making his way onto the field to greet Clay. Clay smiled to himself despite the dizzying pain in his elbow. If he had gotten hurt seriously, he had done it while proving to White that he was a player worthy of respect. He could be the player he was expected to be without any help. As he got closer to White, he felt more and more like a hero, sacrificing his body to make a great play that proved his worth as a player. He would be humble to White, and would not try to remind him of his former doubts or animosity. It would be a good way to start over with the head coach.
"You fucking son of a bitch!" White screamed when his face was six inches from Clay's. "Who in the fuck put you out there? I'm the only one that makes changes in my line-up! You almost lost contain on that play, you worthless piece of shit! Who the hell told you you could go out there!"
Clay was too shocked to say a word to White. He just stood there staring dumbly. White adjusted his headphones as if he weren't certain what he was hearing on the other end. Collins, who had heard the tirade through White's microphone on his own headset, informed him that he had put Clay in the game.
"Coach, this is Gavin," he said, "I told him to go in."
White said simply, "I'll settle this with you later, Gavin," and turned to walk away. Then he stopped, turned back to Clay, and said, "You're out of the game, Blackwell, and you don't go back in until I tell you."
Sky and Spike Norris stared uneasily at Clay as White stomped away. From the yelling they heard, they assumed Clay had put himself in the game. It was something everyone knew better than to do. Clay found Sparky and held his limp arm out weakly to the trainer.
"Great play, Clay! That was great!" said Sparky, unaware of what had happened.
"I think I hurt my elbow," Clay said, then plopped himself down on the bench, tears of pain and humiliation clouding his sight.
"Christ, Clay," said his fath
er on the phone, "I've been calling you all damn day. Why didn't you call when camp broke? What the hell's going on with you down there?"
"Hi, Dad" was Clay's only response.
"Hi, Dad? Well, what the hell's going on?" came his father's reply.
"What do you mean?"
"First of all, I haven't heard from you since camp started. That's bullshit. Second, I don't get the games up here on TV, so I check USA Today every Monday to see how you're doing and I don't see a goddamned thing. Nothing. No sacks, no tackles, no assists . . . Then today I read that you broke camp and I see you got one tackle this weekend. One. What the hell's gotten into you? I hope all this money hasn't gone to your head, boy. They'll take that money away real fast if you don't start doing something down there--"
"Is that why you called, Dad?" Clay interrupted. "You worried about the money? Let me tell you something, Dad. I'd give all the money I've got to have things going well down here, but they're not."
"So why the hell not?" asked his father irately. "You got a bad attitude all of a sudden?"
"Dad, listen, I hyperextended my elbow, so you don't have to worry about it for at least five weeks."
"What? You got hurt? When?"
"Against the Steelers." "Well, that explains this weekend, but what the hell happened the first two games?"
"Jesus Christ, Dad, I got my arm in a sling and you want to know why I'm not the superstar down here? IVe played eight damn plays the whole pre-season. Did you ever stop to think how I feel?"
"I knew it. I knew you had some kind of attitude now," his father said. "Can't you think how I feel?" he whined sarcastically.
"Christ," he continued, "It doesn't take a genius to see what's going on. No one sits the third pick of the draft unless something major is wrong. But I can hear it in your voice. You got too fucking big for your britches all of a sudden, and they said no way to that. Well, I don't blame them. You got a bad attitude. I can see that--"
"I don't need this. Good-bye, Dad," Clay said and hung up the phone.
"Fuck you!" he said out loud, punching a pillow on his couch. "Fuck off!"
The phone rang again almost immediately, but Clay would not pick it up.
When Clay spoke with Clancy the next day, the news was not what he wanted to hear.
"Why won't they just trade me?" he asked into the phone.
"Clay, listen to me," Bill Clancy implored. "They're not going to do anything with you. They say they have made a financial commitment to you and will see it out for at least four years."
"But why?" Clay demanded. "How can they even want me around here when the damn head coach is calling me a bust?"
"Clay, first of all, White did not call you a bust. Some cracker reporter implied that you might be a bust, which we both know is absurd. White simply expressed displeasure with you, and we both know that has nothing to do with your talents as a football player."
"But I thought when I agreed to drop the whole thing with the drug that White was going forget it too! What happened to that deal? This guy's acting like a total asshole."
"Clay," said Clancy, talking calmly, "White is an asshole to everyone. You're just overreacting to some bad press."
"Bill, I'm not. I'm telling you, you can ask anyone down here, the guy hates my guts. He's tough to everyone, but me he hates, there's no doubt about that."
"Clay, listen to me," Clancy said sternly. "This is professional football. The object is to make as much money as you possibly can, remember? You will have made almost three million dollars by January. Now, don't you think you can put up with a little grief for that kind of money?"
Clay was silent as he digested what Clancy was saying. He wanted to tell him that it was more than that. He wanted to remind him about his last college game, about the crowd that had screamed for him. He wanted to tell him about countless autumn days in backyards with grass- stained knees, days when he'd dreamed of playing in the NFL. The money wasn't even part of it back then. It was playing, that was the dream. But Clay said nothing.
"Clay, I know that right now it's particularly hard because your whole life is football. You just got out of camp, and now to top it off you'll be on injured reserve for a few weeks. But once you get well, you'll realize that what I'm saying is true. Just trust me, Clay. I haven't let you down this far, have I?"
Clay was silent another moment and then said, "No, you're right. I guess if they want to pay me that much money to criticize me and have me sit the bench, then I can take it. I just wish I could get out of here."
"Well, you can't," Clancy said. "So the best thing to do is ignore the bad and think of the good. Think of that house up there on the lake. You'll be back there before you know it. Besides, I think maybe this whole thing with White will blow over. He's probably just giving you a hard time because you're a rookie. He'll get over it. Now, you get some rest and I'll talk to you in a couple of weeks, O. K.?"
Katie checked the clock for the eighth time. It was still 7:59 A. M. She'd sworn to herself she wouldn't call Clay until eight o'clock.
She told herself she wasn't being silly to wait and straightened a picture of the two of them set on her dresser. She knew he needed rest and suspected he'd be happier to hear from her when he was already awake.
Katie knew Clay set his alarm for eight and that these days he always slept until the last minute. He hated to go to the Ruffians complex, he'd told her that. He was like a non-person since he'd been hurt. He'd go in and get treatment from Sparky, then attend meetings that meant nothing to him. His name was never called. He was never on the film.' The opponents they watched together were meaningless to him. He wouldn't be facing them. Then he'd have to go outside and stand for three hours watching his teammates practice for the upcoming game. Besides an occasional word from Max, who was always busy during practice, no one talked to him. No one had anything to say. Katie knew Clay even preferred being yelled at to having people act as if he wasn't even there.
"But the doctor said it's only for five weeks," she'd reminded him. "It could have been worse, you could have broken it. Then you might have missed the whole season."
"Everything considered, that probably wouldn't have been so bad," Clay had said dejectedly.
Katie sat on the edge of her bed and placed the phone down beside her. She thought about how training camp had ended the day after the Steelers game. Clay told her White was so pleased with his team that he decided to make his final cuts and get them into the regular routine of the season back in Birmingham. Clay had almost made it to the end, but now he was hurt. She frowned. She was sure things would have gotten better if he had stayed healthy.
Katie knew Clay had gone out with Max last night, and he'd sounded low. She usually didn't call him in the morning because she knew he got up and ran out the door, but she couldn't stop thinking all night about how down he'd been on the phone.
Ahhh! 8:00!
" 'ello," Clay's voice sounded rough. Katie checked her clock again. She was right.
"Hi, honey," she said.
Clay cleared his voice abruptly, "Uh-um, oh, hi! How are you?"
"Hi, how are you?" she replied. "Are we always so formal in the morning?" she teased.
"No, no, sorry, I'm glad you called."
"Well," she said, "I know you've got to run, but I worried about you all last night. You know . . . you sounded so down."
In the background Katie thought she heard a cough. "What was that?"
"What? Nothing. Nothing" came Clay's voice. Then he coughed him- self.
"Owwww! Clayyyy, why'd you pinch me?" rang a girl's voice clearly from the other end of the line.
"You son of a bitch!" Katie yelled into the phone. "Who have you got in that room with you! You son of a bitch!"
"Kate, I--"
"How could you, Clay? How could you?" Katie screamed, then slammed down the phone.
"How could he do this to me! To me?" she shrieked to her empty room, pulling her own hair. Her face was crimson, and hot tears began t
o spill down her cheeks.
She picked up her address book from her night table and flung it across the room. Its pages flapped and fluttered wildly, and it crashed against her closet door. She tasted bile in her mouth and she choked on it, almost vomiting. She threw herself facedown on the bed with her hands over her face.
"No . . . no . . . noooooooo . . ."
Her body shook and heaved in convulsions of anger and shame.
Clay, disgusted with himself and humiliated by the unexpected turn of events, ran into the kitchen, where he picked up the phone and frantically dialed Katie's number, but the phone rang and rang without being answered. He felt like shit.
The Ruffians' final pre-season game was at home against Houston. Clay stood in street clothes on the sideline with the handful of other players who had been placed on injured reserve. Some of them were happy just to be on the team and get paid. Others, like Clay, had aspirations of glory and felt miserable because they weren't in on the action. The sell-out crowd was wild with enthusiasm, and the Ruffians did not let them down.
The locker room after the game was crazy. Reporters were everywhere. Players yelled and shrieked and hugged each other in congratulations. There had been a body count of five. White led the team in a prayer. Clay knelt in the corner near the door with the other injured players.
"Dear God," came White's strong voice, "thank you for the gift of victory. Thank you for letting each of these men know what it takes to be a champion. We know that these past games haven't counted for the record, and we pray that in the coming months, you'll give us strength to rise to the challenge ahead of us, and to rise to the standard we have established in this pre-season . . . in Jesus's name . . . Amen."