by Tim Green
"Un-fuckin'-believable," Clay mumbled as he rose and pushed his way out the door.
He was thirty feet down the tunnel when he heard Gavin Collins say, ttClay! Wait up a minute"
Collins was still in his coaching gear and he still clutched his game- plan clipboard in his left hand. "How you doin', buddy?" he said when he caught up.
Clay looked at him to see if he was serious. "O. K., I guess," he said finally.
"Well, I just wanted to tell you to hang in there. I mean, I know things are tough right now, real tough ... but stick with it. Injury is part of the game . . ." Collins said, glancing to see that no one else was around, "and stay clean too, huh? I mean, things can only get better. I'm still behind you, O. K.?"
Collins held out his hand and Clay shook it.
"O. K.," Clay said blandly, "thanks."
"O. K.," said Gavin, "well, see you."
He turned and, after glancing around once more, walked away.
Clay watched him go back into the locker room. He stood alone for a moment, frowning. "Don't worry. Don't worry?" Clay said to himself with a bitter chuckle.
"Bullshit," he said out loud, then turned and walked away.
Clay retched in his toilet, spraying vomit on the white porcelain rim. He heaved until there was nothing left, then lay back on the tile floor to catch his breath. He looked up at the lights. They spun slowly around. He blinked. They still spun, so he rolled over and crawled to his knees, finally rising to his feet. He staggered into his bedroom. Out on the coffee table he could see the almost empty bottle of schnapps standing next to an overturned glass. The sight made him start to heave.
He flopped onto his bed and propped himself up against the headboard. He pulled his clothes off clumsily, struggling with his boots. When he was naked, he pulled up the covers and picked up the phone. He carefully punched the number of Katie's apartment.
"Hello . . ." came her voice.
"Katie, Katie, I'm sorry, honey, please lis--"
" . . . this is Katie. I'm not home right now, but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you when I return."
Beeeeeep.
Clay cleared his throat. He tried to clear his mind. "Katie, honey . . . this is Clay. Are you there? Listen, honey," he said, "I'm sorry . . . Katie, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, honey. It was a mistake. I was an asshole. I'm a fool. I promise, honey. Just talk to me ... I need to just talk to you. I promise it will never happen again . . . never . . . honey? Are you there? I start practicing again on Wednesday. I need to talk to you about something. You're the only one I can talk to. Please pick up, honey ... I'm sorry."
The machine beeped off, and Clay listened until there was a dial tone. He left the phone off the hook and lay back in his bed. He was sick, not only from drinking, but from what he'd just done. It must have been the twentieth time he'd spoken to that machine, and he knew he was beginning to sound pathetic. He was sick of everything. He was sick of his life. He lay there. The room turned slowly and there was a constant buzzing in his ears.
"I could leave," he said out loud. "I could just leave here."
He knew that wasn't possible. It was possible, but he wouldn't. This was what his whole life had been about, playing in the NFL. It was what he'd dreamed of. It was who he was. Everyone from his hometown knew Clay Blackwell. Everyone knew him as a football player. But beyond what everyone else thought, it was how he thought of himself. It was even how Katie thought of him.
"She thinks you're shit," he said out loud to remind himself. "Better face up to it. She's gone, man, so stop makin' an ass out of yourself and stop callin'."
Clay was silent while he digested that idea.
"Hey, did ya hear about Clay Blackwell?" he said aloud suddenly, in a voice that was not his own.
"Yeah," he answered himself, "he's a bust. A fuckin' bust!"
"Yeah, and all that guy had goin' for him too. What a fuckin' loser."
He was silent for a while, thinking and spinning.
"What's a fucking drug?" Clay said. "What's that to me? What do I really care?"
He thought about what it would be like, to have his life back again. To be Clay Blackwell again. He struggled with the idea that Clay Blackwell wouldn't use a drug.
"Face it, pal," he finally said out loud. "Without the drug there is no Clay Blackwell. You don't exist anymore, so it's kind of irrelevant, huh?"
He reached over and fumbled open the night table drawer. He pulled out the phone book and opened it to the yellow pages. B, C, D, P . . .
Paint . . . Photographers . . . Physicians . . . Crowley . . . Adler . . . Baxter . . . Bolton . . . Borne!
Clay tore out the page and threw the book across the room. He laid the page neatly over his wallet on top of his night table. He turned out the light and rolled over to sleep.
On Tuesday afternoon, Vance White was in his dark office watching film of the Raiders, his team's upcoming opponent. His players had the day off, but there were no days off for a coach, not during the season anyway. He saw a big hole in Art Shell's nickel defense and smiled to himself.
"I'll bury that big coon," he murmured to himself, exhaling a big drag from his cigarette.
His intercom buzzed and a timid female voice said, "Coach White, I know you said not to be disturbed, but there's a Dr. Borne on the line and he insists you'll want to talk to him. I didn't know what to do."
"Fine!" White barked, disconnecting his secretary and punching the blinking line. "I don't like telling anyone any goddamned thing twice!" he bellowed.
"Vance, before you say anything, listen," Borne said in a quavering voice, "I know you'll want to hear this . . ."
"Go, damnit!"
"It's Clay Blackwell," Borne said. "He just left my office . . . with the drug! He made me promise I'd tell you."
"You told me. Now don't ever call here again," White said and hung up the phone.
Vance White began running the film again. The orange ember flared every minute or so as he smoked his butt down to a tiny roach. On his last drag he held the smoke as if he were holding his breath, then blew it out through his nose and his mouth, filling the air with his smoke and the maniacal laughter of a prison guard who has clubbed a smart-ass inmate into submission.
On Wednesday afternoon Clay was moved from the injured-reserve list directly into the starting line-up. White gave Gavin the news right before they went out to practice. Gavin had all afternoon during practice to speculate what had happened. It was possible that Humphry Lyles had had enough of White's military bullshit and put an end to Clay's condemnation. But he noticed as practice wore on that Clay wouldn't make eye contact with him, even when he spoke directly to him. Gavin began to fear the worst.
After practice the defensive line had a half hour film session. When it was over, Gavin said, "O. K., you guys, good work today. Tomorrow we're going to work hard on our nickel stunts, so a couple of you guys may want to go over your game plans tonight at home. You know who I mean . . . Sky . . ."
His players busted out laughing and kidded Sky, who took it all in stride.
"Clay," Gavin said as they filed out of the meeting room, "stick around a minute. I want to talk to you."
Clay sat down and watched as his teammates left the room. Doogie and McGuire threw him sidelong glances. It was curious and irritating enough to them that he was back in the starting line-up, and now he was being held after for God only knew what.
When they were gone Gavin crossed the small room and shut the door. Pulling up a chair, he sat down in front of Clay. He had never seen the blank stare from Clay that met him now. Gavin started to speak, then hesitated. Clay sat motionless, waiting. Even his eyes were dull.
"I think it's great that you're back in the line-up," Gavin finally said.
Clay nodded.
"Clay, I want to ask you what happened. You know all along I've been pulling for you, and I've told you what I think of the moral position you took. I admire it. And now with Vance suddenly putting you back on the first te
am, well, I'm sure it's because Mr. Lyles has had enough of it. I guess I just wanted to hear it from you, I mean what happened ... I hope you don't mind."
Clay snorted through his nose and shook his head. His smile was grim and contemptuous.
"What's funny?" Gavin asked, annoyed.
Clay sat staring at his hands, turning them over and over as if to find an answer. He snorted again, then looked up. Finally he spoke. "You've got to be kidding me, Gavin, you really do. I've been shat on since I got here. Yeah, you said you were behind me and all that. You even put me in the game that time, but the fact is that when it came right down to it, you went along with this shit just like everyone else. So now I decide to join the fuckin' club and you get off on this morality shit like you and I were in some kind of fraternity together, and we got some secret pledge to be the good guys. Well, before you go telling me the way you think things oughta be, you just remember that you were going along with this shit long before I was."
Gavin's face flushed with anger. "Listen, Clay," he said quietly, "I might be able to do something about this situation for both of us, but not right now. I'm lucky just to be here at all. There's a big difference between having to keep quiet to keep your job and using some drug to make you play better."
Clay chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. "O. K., Gavin, if that's how you're going to look at it, then you and I really don't have anything else to talk about, do we?"
Gavin sat silently, searching for something more to say. Clay got up and left the room.
Chapter FIFTEEN
THE RUFFIANS HAD BEGUN what people were calling a miracle season. At 3-1 the team was creating a national stir, and their game with the 4--0 L. A. Raiders was nationally televised. If the Ruffians could win, they would be legitimate. If they lost, maybe they were just a flash in the pan. If anyone could match up to the Ruffians' physical challenge, experts said it was the Raiders.
There was only 2:47 left in the game. The Ruffians were down by four points and they needed the ball back. Max's eyes were wide. They were crazed eyes and they held the attention of every player in the huddle. The crowd roared for the Death Squad.
"Listen," Max barked, "someone's gotta make a play. We gotta stop 'em here. Third and fifteen, they're gonna pass. We need a big play."
He looked from face to face, stopping at Clay. "You been kicking that guy's ass all game," Max said, leaning his head gear toward his friend. "Can you get us one? Can you get the quarterback?"
"I'll get the fucker," Clay said, spit flying from around the edges of his mouthpiece. "Call a Mac Trailer, and use up the guard for me. I've been pounding this guy's outside all day, and if you can use up the guard, I'll up and under the motherfucker and nail that fuck."
Max grinned. "Keith, if we go Mac Trailer, we'll have to cover man- on-man. Can you guys give us four seconds?"
"Three fuckin' seconds," Clay said, "give me three."
"We got you," Keith replied. The other defensive backs nodded.
"O. K., Mac Trailer Cover Six Man, ready . . ."
"Break!"
Clay walked to the line and eyed the Raiders' offense. Louis Lewis jogged to the line with his teammates. Clay looked up his six-feet-seven, three-hundred-twenty-pound frame and sneered. "Buckle up, motherfucker," he said under his breath.
Lewis eyed him warily. Clay had been racing around his outside all game and had already gotten to the quarterback several times, even sacking him once. Lewis shifted his weight back on his heels. Clay saw it and grinned. He jabbed his cleats into the earth in a sprinter's stance. His legs quivered in anticipation. His head shuddered. He could feel his heart deep in his constricted chest pounding wildly like some berserk clock. The entire stadium swam in noise. Clay felt like he would explode.
"Make the play. Make the play. Make the play," he mumbled to himself. "Hurt that fuckin' quarterback."
He glanced back. Max was lined up inside of him, grinning wildly.
"Three forty-seven blue . . ." called the Raiders' quarterback, "three forty-seven blue . . . Hut, Hut!"
Lewis flinched on the second hut and Clay sprang from his stance. Lewis lurched, backpedaling to keep Clay boxed out of the pocket. Clay was fast, he was beating him to the corner. Lewis stabbed hard with his long arms at Clay's torso. The shot was strong enough to knock Clay off his feet, but Lewis's hands whiffed through the air. Clay clubbed the giant's inside shoulder with his fist, knocking him off balance and stepping deftly to the inside. The guard was still on the line of scrimmage with Max's helmet buried under his chin. The lane to the quarterback was clear.
Without missing a step, Clay headed straight for him. Like a giant bird, he spread open his arms just as the quarterback saw him. He tried to step away, but Clay's arms wrapped him up. The step saved the quarterback from taking the full blow of Clay's helmet in his ribs, but as Clay's body rocketed through the air, his arms brought the opponent with him. Clay whipped his body around in midair, almost gracefully lifting the quarterback up and then slamming him viciously to the ground.
Cheers and foot-stamping erupted as though the stadium was falling in. Clay was on his feet, hands raised over his victim.
"Owwwwwww!" he bellowed.
Max came at him first, butting heads viciously, then bursting out in his own war cry. Then came Doogie and Sky and Norris, butting heads and slapping high fives.
"Owwwwwww!" they cried.
Clay jogged to the sideline to the tumult of a crowd that was cheering just for him. The rest of the defense jostled and slapped him as he made his way. Clay looked up at the large screen on the scoreboard. He saw the replay and himself sacking the quarterback once again.
Clay's heavy helmet hung from his hand. He stood at the edge of the field with the rest of his team. He was on edge. The Raiders punted the ball, and Tim Tyrone returned it ten yards to the Ruffians forty-seven yard line. The field position was good, but the Ruffians had used up all their time-outs.
Ferrone dropped back to pass and completed an underneath route to Clayton. They got five yards, but the clock ran down to the two-minute warning.
Clay watched Gavin Collins make his way through the defensive players, congratulating them and saying, "We're gonna win this. We're gonna win this."
The two-minute warning ended.
Ferrone handed off to Davis Green on an off-tackle play, and Green was stuffed at the line of scrimmage.
When Gavin got to Clay, he turned abruptly and made his way back down the sideline to where White and the entire staff had clustered to urge their offense into the end zone for the winning points.
"Did you see that?" Clay said, poking Max in the arm.
"I know," Max said, "I can't fuckin' believe we ran the ball with only two minutes left."
"Not that," Clay said. "Collins, did you see Collins? The guy was hand pumping everyone on the D, then he gets to me, the fuckin' guy who made the play, and he just walks away."
"Collins? Shit, man, we need a touch!"
The offense lined up quickly since the clock was running, and Ferrone threw a wild pass that deflected off the hands of Tim Tyrone. The clock was stopped, but it was fourth and five, and the Ruffians had more than forty yards to the end zone. Ferrone took three drop steps as if to pass, then sprinted up the middle of the line. He got seven yards and the first down. The crowd went wild.
"Holy shit! Holy shit!" Max yelled, pounding Clay's shoulder with his fist. "What balls, a fuckin' quarterback draw! What balls!"
Ferrone lined the offense up instantly. The clock was at 1:18 and running down. The ball was snapped and Ferrone dropped back again. Again he threw a wild ball. The clock stopped at 1:09. The offense huddled. They came to the line. Ferrone dropped back again. No one was open. A Raider burst through the line. Ferrone scrambled. Another defender broke loose in the backfield. Ferrone ran from the pocket, gesturing wildly for his receivers to adjust and get open somehow. Just as the defenders were going to bring him down, Ferrone ducked and doubled back. Pike was waiting
for the closest pursuer and laid him out with a vicious forearm to the head. The crowd "ooohed." Ferrone ran all the way across the field and just before he was brought down he launched the ball. Tyrone caught it on the five and was smashed to the ground.
The crowd was on its feet.
"Hurry! Hurry!" cried the players from the sideline. The clock read :54 and was running down. By the time the offense was lined up the clock read :36. Ferrone hiked the ball and threw it into the ground, stopping it at :33.
"They can't run it now," Clay said.
"They can't," said Max, "and I bet they will. White's got brass balls."
The offense broke the huddle and jogged up to the line. Ferrone dropped back, this time five full steps, then sprinted up the middle of line. Raiders flew at him from every direction. He was stopped at the one. The Raiders sat on the pile to keep Ferrone down. Referees frantically tried to clear them out so the Ruffians could get lined up. Ferrone finally popped up. :09 seconds were on the clock, :08, :07 . . .
Ferrone hiked the ball and threw it into the turf. Three seconds remained on the clock. The Ruffians had one play to win the game. Ferrone ran halfway to the sideline to get the call, then nodding, ran back to his huddle. The Ruffians came to the line. The crowd roared and Ferrone waved his hands down to quiet the crowd so his linemen could hear the count. The ball was snapped. The line surged forward. Ferrone handed the ball to Davis Green, who launched himself through the air.
"Touchdown!" Clay screamed, hugging Max and Norris and Sky all at once.
"Touchdown! Owwwwwww!" they screamed together and jumped up and down like schoolboys.
Players and coaches alike all ran onto the field and swarmed Ferrone and the entire offense. The noise was deafening.
After the reporters had asked the reborn Clay Blackwell their last question, he shuffled wearily to the showers. By the time he got back, most of the team had dressed and gone. Only a few TV cameras remained at Ferrone's locker. Max sat in his locker, wet hair slicked back, waiting for his friend. Clay slumped to his stool.
"Auuuugh," Clay moaned.
Max chuckled. "Coming down?" he said.