by Tim Green
"But my dream didn't stop there," Humphry said, raising his voice. "No, my dream went beyond that. I wanted to give this town a winner, and that is what we've got."
Cheers and applause.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like you to look around. You see among you the makings of the finest football team in the country. Let's give our team a hand, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming."
The people went wild.
That same week, the night before their game against the Eagles, Clay drove downtown in the warm fall evening to the Hyatt, where Philadelphia was staying. He'd gotten a call during the week from his former Northern teammate Cooper O'Brien, the Eagles fullback. Clay had always thought Cooper wasn't too bright, and he'd had little contact with him in college. Clay thought it was almost strange that Cooper wanted to meet him for a beer the night before the game. But Clay knew from listening to his teammates that it was kind of an NFL tradition to meet your college buddies for a drink whenever they came into town. So even though he had never been particularly close with Cooper O'Brien, the novelty appealed to him.
Clay pulled up to the main entrance in his shiny new Porsche. He'd gotten a wax job that same day to make sure Cooper would fully appreciate the ride. Cooper was standing in the front waiting when Clay pulled up. He beeped the horn and waved. The players greeted each other with big smiles. Any bystander would have thought that they were close buddies.
"Hey, Coop!" Clay said. "Hop in."
"Hey, Clay! Nice ride, man, I like this," Cooper replied running his hand over the car as he got in.
They shook hands and Clay roared off.
"I thought I'd take you to one of my favorite places," he said. "It doesn't really move until about eleven, but it's a good place and it's close."
"No problem, buddy," said Cooper. "I just figured we could get together and grab a quick beer. I got bed-check at eleven, so I always make sure I'm back by ten-thirty."
Clay took Cooper to the Acapulco Club, where he knew the parking valets and bouncers would recognize him and be deferential. They went in and sat down at the bar.
"So you guys are havin' a hell of a season," Cooper said, raising a beer to his lips.
"Yeah, thanks, Coop," Clay replied, "you too, you guys are in the hunt."
Cooper nodded. "Yeah, it feels good."
The two of them sat in silence for a while, each of them looking around at the relatively quiet nightclub.
"I told you this place doesn't really get going till eleven," Clay said.
"Oh, I don't care about that," Cooper replied, "I like to take it easy on game night anyway."
Clay nodded. "Yeah, me too."
"So what's up with you guys, anyway?" Cooper said from out of nowhere.
Clay laughed lightly. "Whadaya mean?"
Cooper looked around and leaned closer, "Well, I was talking with Tommy when we played in New England last week ..." He looked around again and leaned even closer. "And he says that the word is White might be up to his old tricks again . . ."
Clay looked down and took a swig of his beer. "What kind of crazy shit is that?" he said.
"Aw, don't get pissed or nothin', man," said Cooper. "We were just talking. I mean, you know, the way White takes over and your team is all of a sudden kickin' ass. I guess a bunch of guys on the Patriots and Tommy were thinkin' White could be doin' somethin' illegal. I guess one of those guys played for White in college and said he liked his guys on the shit. Plus they said you guys were geeked for their game. That Dresden guy's like a psycho."
"Seldon would think that," Clay said, " 'cause he's that dumb. You think this team could be usin' drugs, man? What about the testing? Even if just a couple of guys were on somethin', don't you think one of them would get caught?"
Cooper looked blankly at Clay. "Man, I feel kinda stupid," he said. "I didn't even think of that. What a dumb thing. Gee, Clay, you know, I wasn't thinkin'. I didn't mean nothin' by it, you know that."
"No, I know that," Clay said. "It just pisses me off that our team kicks the shit out of the Patriots, and Seldon has to start some shit instead of just admittin' that we got a good team."
"Awww, you know how Tommy is," Cooper said, "He don't mean nothin'."
The two of them sat without saying anything for a while. Clay looked at his watch. "Well," he said, rocking back in his stool, "unless you want another one, I guess I should get going back myself. We've got an eleven o'clock curfew too, and we stay at this dump that's twenty minutes outside the city."
"O. K., man," Cooper replied glumly. "Hey," he said brightening as if with a new idea, "thanks for the beer, buddy."
Clay looked at him warily. "No problem ... no problem at all."
Clay sat at his locker before the game, looking through his game plan. He was dressed in his uniform except for his shoulder pads and jersey and helmet. He began to feel hot. His leg started to twitch, causing his cleated shoe to click click click against the metal of his locker. His skin itched. Without thinking, he reached back and rubbed the sore spot on his ass.
"Fuckin' piss me off," he mumbled to himself. He mumbled a lot to himself before and during the games. He was beginning to feel an anger in him that was just right for playing football. He wasn't nervous; he certainly wasn't scared. He was just pissed off, and he felt like kicking someone's ass.
"Let's kick some fucking ass!" Max cried suddenly.
Everyone looked up. Max was in the middle of the locker room. His fists were clenched and he had no shirt on. Muscles bulged with angry veins in his arms and shoulders and back.
"Are you motherfuckers ready?" Max screamed, spit flying from his mouth.
The faces that met him were angry ones, not at him but angry with him. They mumbled things like "Fuck, yes" "Hell, yes" "Fuckin', A." It was almost time to go out on the field. Every game at this time Max would start cursing and goading them all like the mad leader that he was. He began to circulate around the room. He slapped high fives with Davis Green and Pike and Sick and Ferrone. He shook hands roughly with Ralph and Sky and Doogie and Keith Neil. Max went around the entire room exhorting everyone on the team to fire up. Then he came to Clay. Clay sat still, continuing to stare into his locker. Max reached down and grabbed a firm hold of his shoulder.
"Are you ready too, my brother?" he said in a whisper that made everyone stop what they were doing and stare. It was a bizarre sound, soft: and peaceful. It was like the calm before a storm.
Clay looked over his shoulder. He looked up at Max's bulging red eyes and his almost purple face. There were beads of sweat on his brow. His lips trembled slightly.
Clay's mouth pulled back into a sneer. "I'm gonna rip one of their fuckin' heads off and shit right down their fuckin' throat!"
"That's why we're gonna fuckin' win! 'Cause we're fuckin' violent and we want fuckin' blooooooooood!"
Max screamed the words and then began slamming his head into Clay's locker with a terrific force.
Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash!
Clay blinked. Flecks of blood spattered his face. He looked down at his white T-shirt. It too was splattered with blood.
Crash! Crash! Crash!
"Jesus Christ!" Clay said, jumping to his feet. "Max . . . hey, Max, what the fuck?"
Clay grabbed his friend by the shoulders, pulling him away from the locker. Max struggled and Clay looked around wildly for help. Ralph Scott grabbed Max from the front and put him in a bear hug.
"Ahhhhhhh!" Max screamed, his head now pounding harmlessly against Scott's enormous chest.
"Hey, hey, hey, buddy," Ralph said in his booming voice, "ho, buddy, slow down, easy, buddy . . ."
"Holy shit, Max, you're all blood," Clay said.
Max's forehead was cut in several places, and blood literally poured down his face. He laughed maniacally. "Ha, ha, ha, ha. I fuckin' love blood! Owwwwwww!"
"O. K., you motherfuckers, O. K. I'm O. K," Max said, shaking himself free from Clay and Ralph. "O. K., let's go. It's time. Let's go."
"Let's go, you flickers! Let's go!" Max cried and charged out the locker room doors. The Ruffians followed.
The Ruffians lost the coin toss. Clay smiled. It was better to start on defense first. It was better to start hitting right away. Standing on the sideline watching the offense always made him sick to his stomach. Clay grabbed a cup of water, drank a little, then swished the rest around in his mouth and spat. The defense was gathered together on the thirty-five yard line closest to where the ball would be kicked. Clay hustled over to the group. They were in a circle with Max in the middle.
"Hey, Gavin!" Max shouted. "Coach Collins!"
Gavin looked over. He was standing between Step and Cody Wheat with his headphones already on. The kickoff team lined up and prepared to begin the game. Max waved his arm frantically. "Gavin!" he said, "come break us!"
Collins broke the defensive huddle before they hit the field for the first time in every game. It wasn't something he had instigated. He always waited to be asked. But one of the defensive starters would invariably grab him or motion to him to come do the honors. Gavin handed his headset to Step and walked over. The kickoff team tackled the Eagles runner on the twelve yard line. Gavin walked into the center of the circle and raised his hand. They all reached in to put their hands on his.
"O. K.," Gavin said, "you guys ready for this one?"
"Yes!" came the cry.
"O. K., kick ass on three, ready . . . one, two, three . . ."
"Kick ass!" screamed the entire defense, throwing their hands down and running as one onto the field.
Vance White was standing on the fifty yard line next to Jim Nelan. White looked out of the corner of his eye to see whether or not Nelan had seen what he had. White stared malevolently at Gavin Collins. He tugged on the brim of his hat and murmured something inaudible. Then he spat out an enormous glob of tobacco juice in the direction of Collins.
Clay was one with the game that day. He felt like he couldn't make a mistake. He thrashed and pounded and assaulted anyone who faced him. He spat and cursed and stomped around the field, hitting with a crazed violence he had never known.
At one point, the Ruffians were winning 17-3 and it was third and eight. Clay lined up and hammered into the offensive tackle, trying to knock him back into the quarterback with a power rush. Just before Clay's man banged into the QB, he threw the ball. Clay turned on a dime and raced down field. It was something every D-lineman was supposed to do, pursue the ball after the pass was thrown, but it was also something that was never easy.
Rushing the passer takes a lot of energy, and it is not unusual for a D- lineman to simply turn and watch the play. But since he'd returned from his injury, Clay felt like his energy was unlimited during the game. He never felt himself get tired, and he never let up on a play until the whistle was blown.
Keith Neil picked off the pass, and Clay turned once again, this time to throw a block. He would always look to throw a block on an interception, that was the rule for all defenders. But on this play he felt like a hunter looking for meat. He didn't want to just throw a block, he wanted to hurt someone. Clay sprinted toward the Eagles' line of scrimmage. There was the center, but Clay passed him up. There was the quarterback, he even passed him up. There was something in his mind driving him on. It wasn't something conscious. Then he saw him. The setup was perfect.
It all happened in less than a second. Clay veered toward the Eagles fullback, who was in hot pursuit and who had the angle to bring Neil down from behind. Cooper didn't see Clay until the last instant, and then it was too late. Clay had accelerated his two hundred and seventy-five pounds to its ultimate speed. With precision timing he launched himself headfirst at his former teammate.
Crack!
Clay heard a terrible snap and saw stars. He rolled over on the ground. He was groggy. Cooper lay beside him in a heap, rolling and moaning loudly on the grass, clutching his arm. Clay's helmet had struck him square in the upper arm and snapped the bone like a stick. Clay hit him so hard that he almost knocked himself out. Clay staggered to his feet and made his wobbly way to the end zone with the rest of the defense, who were celebrating Keith Neil's touchdown.
"Sorry, buddy," Clay mumbled as he jogged, "just part of the game."
The game was now out of reach for the Eagles. They were down 24--3 and there wasn't much time left till the end of the game. But Philadelphia would not lie down. They came out after the kickoff and began to throw the ball, moving down field on the Ruffians' prevent defense.
"Fuck this!" Max said in the huddle after another Eagles completion that put them into scoring position. "We're gonna take this fucker out, and I mean out."
His eyes were popping. "I need a fuckin' body," he said, looking wildly at his teammates. "Clay, you owe me, man. I'm callin' Mac Trailer and I want you to pull the tackle and come inside and pick the guard. I want that QB to bleed!"
Clay nodded.
"O. K., Mac Trailer, with a switch, Cover Nine, ready . . ."
"Break!"
As Clay put his hand down in the dirt, he reminded himself that the game was really over. But if Max wanted a big hit, who could blame him? Clay had his big play already today. He couldn't fault Max for wanting to get one too.
Clay eyed the guard who was lined up inside him. Then he looked at the tackle who faced him. The ball was snapped. Clay shot forward into the tackle, latching onto his jersey with both hands. Clay pushed to get him off balance, then yanked and pulled the behemoth with him to the inside. Max ran straight at the guard to get him to set hard, then just before he hit him, Max darted outside at the same instant Clay came crashing down with the combined weight and inertia of his own body plus the offensive tackle's.
Bam!
The three of them went down in a heap. Clay stuck his head up to see Max swinging around free as a bird and accelerate to lay a hit on the quarterback. The QB saw Max coming and dumped off the ball out of bounds. Max was four good steps away from the QB, but he didn't stop even though the ball was thrown. Clay watched in slow motion. Max reared back his elbow like a plank and fired it directly at the quarterback's head as he crashed into him with the full force of his body. The quarterback went down in a motionless heap.
Max stood and raised his hands.
"Owwwwwwww!"
Yellow flags came at Max from all different directions. Then three Eagles offensive linemen were on him. Max swung crazily. Clay struggled to get to his feet. He grabbed the guard who he had just picked off and swung him to the ground again before he could throw a punch at Max. Clay glanced back. Max was kicking a Philadelphia lineman who had fallen to the ground. Then a swarm of bodies engulfed them both. There was a lot of pushing and shoving. The referees finally got to the middle of it. Three of them along with Spike Norris and Sky pulled Max away from the crowd, and the ruckus ceased. The quarterback was taken from the field by two trainers and a doctor. Max was ejected from what was left of the game.
Clay took two beers from his refrigerator.
"Good party, huh?" he said as he fumbled through the drawer for an opener.
There was no response from the other room. Clay kept talking. "It's always good when ya win, I guess ..." he said, popping the caps off.
He stumbled into his living room. The girl--he thought her name was Wendy--was nowhere to be seen. "Shit," he said to himself.
Then he heard giggling from his bedroom. Clay laughed and staggered through the doorway. It was dark except for the light from the bathroom. Clay stumbled on one of her shoes, but caught himself and only spilled a little of the beer.
"Wanna drink?" he asked.
"I want more than that," she said in a quiet, husky voice.
Clay's eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he saw that she was on her knees on top of his bed staring at hi
m. Her pink blouse was still on, but that was all. She had let her dark hair down. It fell past her shoulders and spilled into her opened blouse, drawing his eyes down to her breasts. Clay felt a rush in his loins.
He dropped the bottles to the carpet and stripped himself quickly. Her hands were on him before he reached the bed. She guided him into her mouth. He stood at the edge of the bed with his head tilted back. He ran his hands through her long, silky hair. He reached down and touched her breasts. She moaned and he pushed her gently back on the bed. He climbed on top of her and kissed her neck. His lips moved up to her ear, and he smelled something that made him freeze.
"What's wrong?" she asked after a moment.
Clay was silent. In the dark the smell brought a million images to his mind, and they swirled around in his spinning head. It was a good smell. He liked it, no, he loved it.
"What's wrong?" she asked again.
"Nothing," he said. Then he rolled her roughly over onto her stomach.
"Hey!" she said in a feeble protest.
"Quiet," he murmured in disgust as he thrust himself inside her.
Her perfume was the kind that Katie always wore.
Humphry examined the cork and then tasted the champagne. "You can pour," he told the waiter.
Vance White lit a cigar. The waiter looked up at him but said nothing. Even if he didn't know who White was, he did not look like the kind of person you asked to put out his cigar.
"A toast," Lyles said.
The three of them raised their glasses.
"To a new order in the NFL," said Lyles.
Percy Stone took a quick gulp of wine and picked up his pad to jot down what Lyles had said.
"Do you mind if I turn this on during dinner?" he said, revealing a hand-held tape recorder and setting it on the table. "It'll be a lot easier than having to pull out my pad every time one of you gives me a quote."
"No problem at all," Lyles said. "You don't mind, do you, Vance?"
"No," White said, blowing a plume of smoke into the air, "I don't."