by Tim Green
"Prevent!" he yelled to the players around him.
"Prevent!" the players yelled to each other as three extra defensive backs ran out onto the field to replace two linebackers and one defensive lineman.
Gavin signaled in Zone Pinch Man Under to Max. The Redskins were already approaching the line in an attempt to take advantage of the Ruffians' confusion from the late substitution. Max quickly broke the huddle and the Ruffians scrambled for their positions. The Redskins were already at the line.
A hand grabbed Gavin by the shoulder and spun him around.
"God damn it to hell!" White, red in the face, screamed at Gavin above the cheering crowd. "I told you to run that blitz again and you fuckin' send out the prevent!!! Who the hell do you think you are, Collins?"
Gavin was baffled, but nothing could keep him from turning his head away from White to see the play. The quarterback was back in the pocket with what seemed like hours of time. Finally he chose his target and launched the ball. Keith Neil, who was the man under in the zone, leapt up and picked the ball from the air before it could reach the receiver. He tucked the ball and ran it down to the five before one of the Redskins offensive linemen brought him down. The crowd went dead. The Ruffians sideline exploded with cheers. They had won the game. Gavin turned back to White. He had also watched the play.
White turned his attention back to Gavin. As much as he tried, Gavin couldn't keep the grin from his face. White's brow furrowed and his face grew dark.
"Don't you ever . . . and I mean ever, countermand an order of mine. You--you--I'll have your ass on a fuckin' stick!" White said and quickly turned and stalked off.
"Good Lord, Gavin," Step said in his ear, "didn't you hear the man calling for the blitz? That took some balls ... but I gotta admit, you made the right call."
The next day the phone rang just as Clay was heading out the door. He thought it might be Max calling to tell him to come on, so he picked it up.
"Whaaaat?" he said into the phone.
"Clay?" came the gruff voice at the other end of the line.
"Oh, hi, Dad," Clay said. "I thought you were Max. I'm late picking him up."
"Goin' out for a little celebration, huh?" his father said. "Big win requires a big party . . . but I know you got a few minutes to talk to your dad. You had a hell of a game yesterday, son. I was damn proud of you. I tell you, you're playing the best ball of your life. I knew that money wouldn't go to your head. And what a team! I swear, you guys go at it the way we did back when I played: tough, mean, physical, some real ass-kickers ... I love the way you guys hit. You got some coach in that Vance White, the guy's a genius. I think everybody and their mother saw the game up here. I couldn't pay attention to shit on the line today. I fucked up at least two water seals on some suckers' windshields, I can tell you that. But hell, every other minute somebody's comin' up to me on the line and tellin' me how good my kid did. Even the damn boss said somethin' to me!"
"That's great, Dad," Clay said out of respect.
"Yeah, I told 'em all that's why you're gettin' the big money, 'cause you win games. That's what you always did, I told 'em. I told 'em I taught you how to strip the ball carrier when you was just a little guy. Remember that? When I used to tell you to strip 'em when you tackled 'em. It paid off yesterday, by God."
His father chuckled good naturedly to himself. "Uh, Clay . . . there's somethin' we gotta discuss sometime."
"Yeah, Dad?"
"We gotta talk about that business deal I was tellin' you about, you know? When would be a good time to talk about that? Pete and Joe and me are real hot to get started. I tell ya it's a hell of an idea. It's not really any risk for you either. We'll pay you back first thing, and the way I got if figured we can get your money back in less than six months, no kid- din'."
"Dad . . . Dad. Listen," Clay said as patiently as he could, "you and I are gonna sit down and talk about this, but you gotta wait until I get home from the season. I wanna have time to really talk about what you got in mind and see what you got down on paper, O. K.? You told me yourself I gotta be focused in on football, right? You taught me that, otherwise I probably wouldn't even be here right now, you know? So just let me say a quick hi to Ma and go get Max. He gets crazy when I'm late. O. K.?"
There was silence for a moment, and then Mr. Blackwell said, "Yeah, you're right, son . . . and I told those guys that I didn't want to bother you about it right now. I don't know why I let them push me into it. I'm just thinking it would be good to make some extra cash so I could do some nice things for your mother, but we'll talk about all this like you said, when you get home, huh?"
"Thanks, Dad," Clay said, "and thanks for calling."
"O. K., son, here's your mom."
"Clay?"
"Hi, Mom! It's good to hear you."
"It's good to hear you too, honey. Did you get my package?"
"Oh, Ma, I'm sorry I didn't call you! The books are great. I love them!"
His mother cleared her throat, "Well, I'm glad . . . Have you heard from Katie?"
Clay rapped his keys on the countertop. "No, I haven't spoken to her in a while, Ma," he said.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Clay, I know how much she means to you. I don't know what happened, but I'm sure things will work out between you, and when you do speak to her, tell her to give me a call. I miss seeing her."
"O. K., Ma."
"Well, your father's telling me you have someplace to go that you're late for, so I'll get off now and don't worry about calling us, you just have a good time with your friends. I love you, Clay."
"I love you too, Ma."
Chapter EIGHTEEN
cLAY TOOK A BIG BITE out of the ham-and-cheese sandwich he'd made for himself and washed it down with a gulp of Heineken. A blonde with a perfect shape walked up to the buffet table and smiled at him. She was wearing a white halter under a short leather jacket and a short, tight leather mini-skirt. Her face was tan and beautiful. Clay stopped in the middle of his second bite to smile. Mayonnaise oozed from his grin and the girl giggled. Clay laughed too.
"Kinuff a slov, huh?" he said, lettuce spilling out of his mouth.
"Are you a bodyguard?" she asked him.
"Me?" he said after swallowing. "No, I'm a football player. But my best friend on the team is good buddies with Johnny Zero's bodyguard, and he got us backstage passes."
"A football player? Who do you play for?" she asked.
"I play for the Ruffians."
That drew a blank stare.
"I don't know much about football," she said. "I know the Ruffians, but I don't know who you are."
"That's O. K., I like girls who don't like football," he said. Then to himself he said, "You'll say anything."
Max appeared suddenly with a brunette on his arm. "Gina, these guys are football players," Max's girl said.
"I know."
"You two know each other?" Max asked.
"Susan and I are VIP hostesses," Gina said haughtily. "We usually work here for all the big concerts."
"You know Simon?" Max said.
"Yeah, I know who you mean," said Gina, "the big black guy ... he seems cool."
Max gave the girl a wolfish smile and said, "You two should come over to my place tonight. Johnny and Simon, and I think most of the band, are coming."
"Johnny Zero? Really? The whole band?" Gina said, caught off guard.
Clay looked at Max and said, "Really?"
Max nodded and pulled Susan closer.
"Gina, this is Mad Max," Susan said, putting her hand on his chest, obviously impressed.
"And this is Clay Blackwell," Max said, introducing Clay to both of the girls.
"Come on, Gina, you've heard of the Death Squad Defense," Susan said.
"No, I haven't," Gina said.
Susan waved her hand. "Aw, she just doesn't like to be impressed."
Gina's face turned red.
"There's nothing to be impressed about," Max said humbly. "We're just a couple of football pl
ayers out having fun with some friends. So you two will join us?"
There was a rush of screaming and cheering outside the room, and the long-haired Johnny Zero made his way through the door with Simon close behind him, pushing people who weren't part of the band back outside. When the last member of the band had gotten inside, Simon and a couple of other lugs shut the door. Johnny Zero sandwiched himself between two girls on one of the enormous overstuffed couches. Simon grabbed a beer from a tub of ice and walked over to the buffet table.
"Damn!" Simon said to Max. "Reminds me of Saskatchewan."
"I don't remember you pushing anybody around like that on the football field," Max said.
Max and Simon laughed together.
"Simon," Max said, putting his hand on the huge man's shoulder, "you met my buddy Clay. This is Susan and this is a not-so-impressed Gina."
"I seen these girls," Simon said. "Very fine."
"Well," Max said, "we're still on for my place, right?"
"Yeah," Simon said, "Johnny said he couldn't wait to meet you guys. You saw him wearing your Ruffians T-shirt with the skull 'n' dagger, didn't you? The crowd loved it . . . went ape shit. Johnny likes that. Come on over, you gotta meet the guys. They'll want to have a few beers here, then we'll hop on the bus and head on over."
"The whole band?" Clay couldn't help saying.
"Why not?" Simon said with a shrug and led them over to the band.
"Holy shit, Max," Clay said. "I can't believe this! I really can't believe this! Zone Seven! I really can't believe this!"
"O. K., so you can't believe this. What else?" Max said, steering his car onto the freeway. "What did you think I had you help me move all my furniture around for and get all that beer? Did you think I was doing that for my health?"
"No, I just can't really believe they're really coming over to your place," Clay said. "I love this band! I listened to these guys all through college, and I never thought I'd be hanging out with them. It's just unbelievable."
"Yeah, well, speaking of unbelievable," Max said, "how about those two bitches? Did you see the tits on that Susan? I'm all over that, man, I can tell you right now."
Clay seemed not to have heard him.
"Johnny Zero," he said quietly to himself, "I can't believe it."
When Clay was good and drunk, he got up the nerve to talk to Johnny Zero. Johnny was now on Max's couch with the same two girls he'd seen him with at the concert.
"Hi, Clay," Johnny said in his Australian accent, shaking Clay's hand but not getting up. "Ya met my wife, Julie, an' my sheila, Nan, right?"
"Yeah, hi," Clay said, nodding to the two women. He couldn't believe Johnny had remembered his name. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I don't know if I told you at the concert, but me and my buddies in school listened to you guys all the time."
"Well, I thank ya for that, my man," Johnny said. "I gotta admit, I'm kinda a fan o' yours too. When I got 'ere from Australia two years ago, I wanted me a football team ta root for, an since the Ruffians an' my band got the same logo, well, I figured it was meant ta be, eh?"
"Yeah," Clay said, "definitely. It's perfect, huh? That T-shirt looked great. Well, hey, it was really nice meeting you, Johnny, and both of you too."
"Right, Clay, nice meetin you, mate."
Clay smiled and shook hands with the rock star, then faded back into the crowd. When he got safely across the room he looked back to see what Johnny was doing. He was kissing his wife, or his girlfriend, Clay wasn't sure. Clay finished what was left of his beer and looked around for Gina. He was pretty sure he had her, but he had to make sure one of the band members didn't get a clean shot at her or he might be out of luck.
Clay was pushing his way through the crowd toward the kitchen when Susan burst out of Max's bedroom. "Make some toast! Make some toast!" she screamed frantically. Her hair was disheveled and she was dressed in just her bra and panties. She was raving and pushing her way toward the kitchen. "He's bugging out!" she screamed. "Somebody burn some goddamned toast!"
Clay stood staring dumbly with almost everyone else. One of the band members, Clay thought the bass player, pulled some bread from the refrigerator. He ripped right through the wrapper and jammed the bread into the toaster. Clay found his legs and pushed past the dumb crowd into Max's bedroom.
"Oh, my God," Clay said.
Max was lying face up on the bed in his underwear. He looked like he was having some kind of seizure. His body was rigid and his hands were twisted up like a praying mantis. Max was moaning something incoherently. His eyes were bugging out of his head. Clay had no idea what to do. He ran to the bed and put his hand on Max's shoulder.
"Are you O. K., buddy? What's wrong?"
"My friend's dying," was all Clay could think, "and I'm standing here like an idiot."
The bass player rushed in with Susan close behind him. He had two pieces of black toast in his hand and he began jamming them into Max's mouth. Susan was at Max's feet, sobbing hysterically. Max chewed and coughed. The bass player continued to feed him the disgusting toast. Clay stood watching with his mouth open. It seemed like forever, but in a few minutes Max began to relax and come around. Susan stopped sobbing and only cried quietly.
"What happened?" Clay said to her.
"Jesus, he almost O. D.'ed," she said to Clay, pointing to a half-empty glass of orange juice on Max's bed table.
"What?" Clay said.
"We were drinking it," Susan said still crying, "drinking the coke . . ."
"That's why the toast, mate," the bass player said, looking up from his patient. "The cha'coal from tha burnt toast absorbs tha cocaine an keeps ya alive if ya get it quick enough."
The bass player smiled at Clay. Max looked up at Clay too, black crumbs stuck about his face. Clay reached down and brushed the worst of them away with a discarded T-shirt. Max smiled weakly.
"What's up, buddy?" Max said sounding sick.
"You gonna make it?" Clay asked.
Max nodded. "Yeah, I'm O. K.," he said weakly.
Then to the bass player Clay said, "Is he O. K.? Should we take him to the hospital or something?"
"Naw," said the musician, getting up from the bed, "I seen a lot worse than 'im. 'E'll be fine if 'e sleeps it off."
Clay looked down on his friend.
"I almost bought the fuckin' farm there, buddy," Max said in a strained voice. "That's it for this guy. That's the last snort. I'm through with coke, man. I'm through . . ."
"You gonna stay with him?" Clay asked Susan.
Susan nodded and began covering Max with the blanket.
"He's gonna be O. K.?" Clay said again.
"He'll be O. K. now," Susan said, "I'll take care of him."
"Go ahead, Clay," Max said, "I'm all right. I just gotta get some sleep. I'll be O. K., I'm fine."
Clay shrugged. "All right," he said. "Call me in the morning when you get up?"
Max nodded.
"Susan," Clay said, handing her a scrap of paper, "here's my number in case anything happens tonight."
When Clay got back to his apartment, he handed Gina a wine cooler from the fridge and told her to sit down and make herself comfortable. He flicked on MTV and glanced over his shoulder at her before he went into his bedroom.
ttril be right out," he told her, then shut the door and turned the lock quietly.
Clay dialed the phone. It rang four times. The machine picked up. Clay waited for the beep.
"Katie ... are you there? Katie, come on . . . it's me, you've got to talk to me sometime . . . Katie? Well, maybe you're out . . . anyway, I was with Zone Seven tonight and I thought of you. I can think of so many good times we had with these guys on the radio. I was just hanging out with Johnny Zero, and he's just a regular guy . . . Well, anyway, Max and I went to their concert and they all came over to Max's after and the whole time I kept thinking of you . . . well ... I just want you to know that I'm thinking of you. I miss you, Katie. I want to talk to you sometime. I'm still sorry about what
happened. If I got the chance it wouldn't happen again, really. This must be getting kind of old, hearing me on your machine all the time. Well ... I still love you, Kate . . . bye."
Clay hung up the phone. He sat thinking for a while. He yawned and remembered Gina was outside. He considered calling for her to come in, but decided it wasn't nice, so he got up and walked out of the bedroom to get her.
Humphry Lyles sat alone in his office. It was late and there was no one else to be found in the entire building. Beside his desk sat a box full of magazines. He'd sent his secretary out, and she'd gotten about fifty of them. On his desk were five of the fifty. They were all laid out, each one to a different page. The first one was just the contents, which had a small version of the picture that particularly pleased Humphry. The other four made a sequence of pages that constituted an article entitled THE NEW AGE OF THE NFL.
Humphry got up and poured himself a scotch. He stood over the desk, examining the words and pictures from this new perspective. He laughed out loud and gazed up at the painting above the fireplace.
"Who would have guessed it?" he asked the empty room, raising his glass to the painting of the dilapidated storefronts from his childhood.
"I love it," he said out loud, holding up the pages of the article at arm's length. "I really love it."
It was the first picture that kept luring his gaze back again and again. In fact, it was the picture that had kept him in his office until such a late hour. It showed him and Vance White standing together, with their backs against a goal post. White was in coaching gear. Humphry was dressed in a suit and tie, looking like the quintessential owner. White looked hard. His jaw was set and he wore a slight frown. Humphry fancied that he looked hard himself.
"I guess I do," he said to himself.
The shot was taken from a lower angle. Humphry looked every bit as tall as White, he liked that. Both their arms were crossed, and the goal post was lit a bright yellow from the flash. Behind them was the blood- red Alabama sunset.
Humphry checked his watch. It was one-thirty He yawned and stretched. His glass was empty. "One more," he told himself. "Last one, then I'll call it a night."