Ruffians

by Tim Green

Percy Stone looked and dressed like an Ivy Leaguer, right down to his tortoiseshell glasses. White figured he had never put the pads on in his life, and he would just as soon slit Stone's throat as have dinner with him. But judging from the smile that appeared to be almost hurting Lyles's face, he knew it was best to be pleasant. White had been featured in Sports Illustrated many times before. It had lost its thrill for him. Still, he had no intentions of raining on Humphry's parade.

  "So," said Stone, "how did this all happen? I mean, how did the Ruffians go from the shithouse to the penthouse in just two years of existence? It's unheard of."

  Lyles's eyes were brilliant with excitement. He inhaled as if to speak, but then threw up his hands and looked at White for help.

  "It's simple," White said, looking impassively at Stone. "It's as simple as where you always find greatness."

  Stone couldn't help his mystified look. Despite perennial dealings with football coaches he could never get used to their sometimes strange phrases.

  "Greatness is where success is," White continued, "and Mr. Lyles has been a success in everything he does. He knows what winning is about. He knows what it takes. That's as simple an answer as I can give you."

  He knew from past experience that one of the surest ways to get all the credit was to give it to someone else. Writers loved to think they were heralding some unsung hero.

  "I'm not saying that Mr. Lyles isn't a tremendous success. Of course, we all know he is," Stone said with a smile. "But almost every man who can afford a professional franchise at this level is a success. Still, no one has ever taken an expansion team in this short a time and made it a contender."

  "If you're trying to say that it's me, you're wrong," White said, giving them both what his wife would recognize as a false smile. "This is Mr. Lyles's organization. He's the reason."

  "Oh, come on now, Vance," interjected Lyles. "I admit that picking you was the best and most important decision I made for my team, but you've got to take credit for what you've done with these boys."

  White shrugged and smiled as meekly as he could. The waiter took their orders and poured them each more wine.

  "What is it that you've done, Vance?" Stone asked after taking a sip.

  "I just believe in old-fashioned hard work and discipline," White said from behind cold and impassive eyes. "I run my training camps like boot camp. I run my game plan like it's a battle, and I look at each season like it's a war to be won."

  Percy smiled. This was good stuff.

  "But like I said before," White continued, "everything comes from Mr. Lyles. It's his team. He's given me the best facilities and the ability to pick the best staff that money can buy. He went out and got every free agent my staff wanted to sign, and he got every rookie into training camp. That's why we're in the penthouse."

  White sucked on his cigar. Deep in the tip of ashes a dull orange ember came to life.

  "What we really have," Lyles said, "is something like the A1 Davis/John Madden team of the seventies. Remember I talked about a new order?"

  Stone nodded. Of course he remembered.

  "Well, that's part of what I meant. Humphry Lyles and Vance White are the owner/coach success team of the nineties."

  Humphry almost felt embarrassed for the way he was talking. But he knew that he'd have no regrets once he saw it in print. The three of them ate and drank into the evening. With the passing of time, each story the other told about his counterpart became even more flattering and embellished. Finally, despite being nearly drunk, Percy Stone couldn't stand it anymore and he had a cab called.

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  CLAY WOKE UP ONLY FIFTEEN MINUTES before they started closing down the pre-game buffet. He liked to get as much sleep as possible. The hotel room was empty. Max had awoken over an hour ago and was probably sitting in the dining room reading the paper and having some coffee. Clay drew back the curtain and looked out the window. The weather was damp, the sky gray. He could just make out the Washington Monument through the mist.

  "Shit," he said, letting the curtain fall back.

  He took a quick hot shower, then wiped the mirror with a towel. He hurriedly brushed his teeth, checking his watch all the while. His hair needed a quick brushing too. Clay fumbled in his bag, pulled out his brush, and ran it through his hair. He set the brush down on the white countertop.

  "Son of a bitch," he said, picking the brush back up and holding it to the light. "Son of a bitch," he said again, this time pulling a wad of dark hair from the brush. He cleaned it out good, then ran it through his wet hair again. "Son of a bitch!"

  The brush was filled with hair. Clay looked in the mirror and pulled his hair up off his forehead. His hairline looked O. K. He tried to see the top of his head. He couldn't.

  ttMy damn hair is falling out," he said pulling the new hair out of the brush with a stunned look on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror again. He looked O. K. Except . . .

  "Jesus."

  He noticed for the first time how many pimples there really were on his back and shoulders. He turned as far around as he could, still looking in the mirror. He tried to remember when he'd gotten them all. He knew he had a few zits, most of the guys did. But he was suddenly realizing his whole back was covered with festering acne. He hurriedly pulled on a T- shirt to cover himself. He couldn't remember the last time he felt self- conscious about the way he looked. He started to fuss with his hair again, then he checked his watch.

  "Shit, I better get going if I want to eat," he told himself.

  Max was right where Clay thought he'd be. Clay filled a plate with toast and eggs and fruit and two baked potatoes just before the waiters took away the trays. He sat down next to Max and poured himself some orange juice. Max looked up from his paper.

  "You ready?" he asked. "It says here that their O-line is concerned with your outside pass rush, but they think the Hogs can handle you as far as the run game goes. What a crock of shit! I bet they don't get a hundred yards on the ground today, even though they prob--"

  "Max," Clay interrupted, "I gotta ask you something."

  Max looked at his friend. Clay looked around then leaned closer.

  "Is your hair coming out or anything?" Clay said.

  Max set the paper down. He too looked around. One of the waiters asked Clay if he would like coffee. When he'd gone, Max said, "Yeah, of course. You're gonna lose a little hair with this shit, but it's no big deal. I'm thinned out a little, but it's not like I'm bald or anything."

  "Could you go bald? Could I go bald, I mean?" Clay said.

  "Well . . Max said, "I guess you could ... not that you will. I wouldn't worry about it. Most guys I've known lose a little hair, it's no big deal."

  "Most guys ... but did anyone ever lose all their hair, or go bald up top?"

  "Come on, man, we got a big game today," Max said. "What the hell are you worried about this all of a sudden for?"

  " 'Cause I just noticed it, that's why," Clay said. "I'm standing there in the mirror, and I notice all this hair in my brush. Then I look in the mirror and I realize that my whole back is zitted out. On the way down here in the elevator I started feeling my balls to make sure they didn't start shrinking on me."

  Max laughed with delight, "Ha, ha, ha . . . you're worried about your damn balls . . . relax, will ya? Whatever happens won't last. A couple months after the season you'll be back to normal, so I wouldn't worry about it."

  "Yeah," Clay said, "but what about next year? They'll want us training with this stuff in the off-season too, you know."

  "Sure, but not right away," Max replied. "They'll have us take a couple of months off to give it a rest before they kick back into high gear. We won't start hitting the weights hard until about April. Come on, man! We got a game today. This is a big one!"

  Clay ate his meal in silence.

  The team bus took them past the Capitol and the Supreme Court. The drizzle had turned to rain. Clay rested his head against the window. Every minute or so he'd wipe a
clear spot on the steamy glass to get a better view of the city. Max was right. Today was a big game. The Redskins were 7-1, one game in front of Birmingham. A win for the Ruffians would put them in a good playoff position; a loss would put them behind the Redskins, Giants, and Falcons. But as big as this game was, Clay was distracted by his experience with the hairbrush. He was sick over it. He didn't want to lose his hair. He was only twenty-two years old! He ran his hand over his head. Without thinking, he put his hand inside his shirt and picked at a scab on his shoulder.

  When the bus arrived at the stadium, Clay hurried through the rain and into the stadium tunnel. He shivered from the cold and stamped the water off his shoes when he reached dry concrete. The locker room was damp. It made him think of a basement that had been cheaply remade as a living space. The carpet was worn and the cinder-block walls were painted with a thick blue paint that had begun to chip. The sour smell of the place made him wish he were anywhere else.

  Clay sat down and began to stuff his pants with the appropriate pads.

  Davis Green had a boom box a few lockers down, and Clay's leg jiggled involuntarily to the rap. When his pants were ready, Clay checked the air in his helmet and tugged the straps on his shoulder pads to make sure they were snug. Next he pulled off his socks and went in to have Sparky tape his ankles. When they were bound tightly with white medical tape, Clay returned to his locker and discreetly shoved a vial of Thyall and a fresh needle from his bag into his pocket before heading to the bathroom. When he got halfway there, he stopped.

  "Damn," he said to himself, "I don't want to use this shit. I don't feel like it, I really don't."

  He continued to himself, "I feel like shit. But maybe that's exactly why I should take it. If I feel like shit, I'll probably play like shit. It'd be tough to run wild out there all afternoon without a little juice."

  Someone put their hand on Clay's shoulder, and he turned around to see White standing there. "You don't look too ready to play," White said. He was smiling like a shark.

  With a solemn face Clay said, "I'll be ready."

  "Good, we need you," White said, patting Clay roughly on the shoulder before walking away.

  The steamy mist that seemed to be rising from the field was actually a low cloud cover. It obscured Clay's vision. He wiped a clod of mud from his cheek with a cold, wet finger. His heart hammered in his chest. It was almost frightening how fast it was beating, but Clay didn't have time for fear. He was in a dog fight. Washington had one of the biggest and most physical offensive lines in the league, and his bad elbow was acting up. He'd caught it between the guard and the running back one play and hyperextended it against the joint. The cold and wet probably did nothing to help. Clay was a wounded animal driven to fury by his pain.

  "Fucks! Fucks and shits!" he cursed.

  "What's that?" Keith Neil asked him as they both joined the huddle.

  "These motherfuckers, that's all," Clay said with a wave of his hand.

  The Ruffians were down by six points and it was late in the third quarter, but the Redskins were backed up deep in their own territory on the four yard line.

  "O. K., O. K., O. K.," Max said, "huddle your asses up! That was a hell of a play, Sky . . . Now listen to me, we can't let these fuckers out of the hole. We got 'em where we want 'em, third and long. We make this play and we get a rest while our offense shoves it up their ass for the lead."

  He looked over the bowed heads of his teammates at the sideline. Gavin Collins made a series of hand motions, and Max said, "O. K., Blue Hornet Blitz Cover Six Man, ready . . .

  "Break!"

  Clay thought quickly of what his assignment was. Blue Hornet put him in a stunt with Spike Norris. On the snap, Clay would crash down inside at the guard. Spike would take a jab step at the center, then loop around to Clay's outside. The outside 'backer would use up the tackle with his blitz, and if the running back blocked weak to cover the other outside 'backer's blitz, Spike would come free. That is as long as Clay wiped out the guard.

  "I can take this fucker out," Clay said to Spike as the Redskins broke their huddle and approached the line. "So if you want, you can bag the jab step and come right away."

  Spike looked at Clay. His face was muddy and blood streamed freely down both sides of his nose from a split in his skin directly between his eyes. Spike smiled. Even in the gloomy mist his gold front tooth gleamed.

  "My man, you get me a sack and I'll buy you a cold case," Spike said.

  The Redskins were at the line. Clay put his fingers on the ground, and they sank into the mud up to his second digit. He wiggled his feet down into the slop to try to get some kind of traction. He snorted and blew a wad of snot from his nose that stuck to his mask. The center wagged his head from side to side, assessing the front, then barking out the protection scheme. The quarterback checked the secondary alignment and started his cadence.

  "Red sixty-seven . . . red sixty-seven . . . down, hut hut hut!"

  Clay exploded from his stance, spewing mud in all directions. He hit the guard like a freight train, grabbing tightly onto his jersey at the armpits. There wasn't much cloth to grab, but Clay got hold of some skin, which made the guard all the easier to pull with him. Clay was aware that Spike's form was looping outside of him. The center, not slowed down at all without Spike's jab step, was waiting for Clay and he dived with all his might into Clay's knees. He felt his legs go out from under him. His right hand slipped off the guard, who was trying desperately to pull free so he could get a hit on Spike, but his left hand held true and the guard tumbled over with him. Clay was sandwiched between two players and lying face up in the cold mud. From the corner of his eye he saw Spike crash into the QB, but not before he had dumped off the pass.

  Most players would have still been on the ground, but Clay was already in motion, twisting to free himself from the pile and scrambling to his feet despite the slop. The pass was complete to the tight end, and as Clay accelerated down field, he saw Max hurl himself at the Redskin receiver from behind. A deft cut left Max nothing but air. The tight end straight-armed Keith Neil, who'd lost his footing. Neil fell uselessly to the ground, leaving only a cornerback between the tight end and eighty- five yards of open turf. The cornerback dived at the tight end's feet, trying to bring him down by taking out his legs. It wasn't enough to bring him down, but it was enough to slow him up. Clay churned toward him and slammed into him from behind with such a violent hit that the tight end's head whiplashed back and the ball popped free. Doogie, who was also in hot pursuit, dived on the ball and slid ten feet with the ball in his hands, all the way to the RufFians' sideline and out of bounds.

  Clay got up and raised one fist. "Owwwwwww!" he cried.

  His teammates hit him like a wave. They had seen the hit. The tight end was still lying at his feet.

  "Owwwwwww!" they cried, slapping Clay's hands and shoulders.

  Max raced up and slammed his helmet into Clay's, butting heads again and again. The Ruffians made their way to the sidelines amid the cheering offensive players who were taking the field. Everyone wanted a piece of Clay. The crowd was almost silent. Clay could clearly hear his name being announced as the one who'd made the tackle. Doogie strutted up and down the sideline with his recovered fumble raised in one hand over his head.

  On the sideline everyone took the opportunity to shake Clay's hand and tell him, "Great play." The offense ran the ball on the first play and gained four yards. The clock ran out, ending the third quarter. There was a time-out on the field and everyone on the sideline relaxed. Clay went to the bench and pulled a rain poncho over his helmet and shoulders. He got a cup of water from the drink table and swished the mud out of his mouth. When he turned around Gavin Collins was standing in front of him. Gavin was bundled in rain gear. His hood covered the large headphones he wore, and the only thing on him that seemed to be wet was the brim of his hat. Gavin looked at Clay coolly, reaching past him for a cup of Gatorade.

  "Nice play," Gavin said.

  "Than
ks."

  "Ya know," Gavin said, "you could've made it even if you didn't stick that needle in your ass."

  Clay wasn't going to say anything, but Gavin lingered.

  "What do you care?" Clay said finally.

  Gavin put his hand on Clay's forearm and gave it a firm but gentle squeeze. "I care," he said, then turned away and headed toward Step and Wheat, who were conferring with each other on the edge of the field.

  There was only a minute to go in the game. Clay's play had enabled the Ruffians to take a one-point lead, and they'd held it through the entire fourth quarter. The Redskins had the ball on their own thirty yard line. The clock was stopped. It was third and ten. Gavin looked down at his clipboard. He needed something good, but something they hadn't used all day. He signaled a Lightning Safety Blitz out to Max. The Ruffians defense broke their huddle at the same time as the Redskins. The crowd roared for their team to get into field goal range. Gavin changed his mind. He gestured frantically to Max. He yelled at the top of his lungs. Cody and Step saw what he was trying to do and they joined in. No one could hear them.

  The quarterback started his cadence and the ball was snapped. Gavin leaned toward the field, willing his line to get to the quarterback. The Redskins picked up the blitz.

  "Shit," Gavin said as the unmolested QB launched the ball through the air. He heard White curse at the same time over his headphones. The tight end was wide open across the middle, and the ball was headed straight for his numbers.

  Max flashed like a bullet from nowhere and struck the tight end just as he reached out and grabbed the ball.

  Whack!

  Gavin heard the sweet sound clearly from the sideline and watched the ball bounce harmlessly to the ground.

  Yaaaaaa!

  Gavin had to lift the headphones away from his ear. His fellow coaches had erupted with joy. The phones slipped down over his ears and around his neck. Gavin looked down at his clipboard. Fourth and ten, late in the game . . . Gavin had plotted every possible game situation during the week and gave himself a group of the best alternatives from which he could quickly choose from. He looked wildly around him.