by Tim Green
It would be the third "last one."
Chapter NINETEEN
MAX WAS ALREADY IN A BAD MOOD. They had lost yesterday to the Cowboys in overtime. He had dropped an interception that was in his hands. So when he saw the blue slip on the stool in front of his locker, he cursed out loud. "Shit!"
Max had gone the entire season without having to take a piss test. Yes, he knew there was supposed to be no way the drug could be detected. But the test still made him nervous. He seemed to be running low on luck the past couple of weeks. He could just see it. He'd somehow be the one to go down. There'd be something in his body chemistry that would fuck up the masking agent. Maybe the coke he'd done last week? Who could say? All Max knew was that he was going to have to piss in a cup and wait to hear from the league whether or not it came up dirty.
Max picked up the blue slip and headed to the bathroom, where he knew the NFL testing agent would be waiting for him and five other players who had been picked at random.
"Come on," he told himself, "no one has tested positive yet. Someone would have gotten busted before now if the shit didn't work."
During training camp he'd passed the pre-season piss test that everyone had to take. But Max was a survivor, and knowing about the pre-sea- son test he had decided not to take a chance. He had snuck out of camp the night before, gone back to his apartment, and gotten the skinny kid with glasses who washed his car to piss in a bottle for him. After he was assured the kid hadn't used any drugs, Max flipped him a fifty not to ask any questions. Max filled an empty bottle of saline solution with the piss and hid it in his shorts the next morning before the test. He'd even taken the trouble to buy a thermometer and warm the kid's piss to ninety-eight degrees in a basin of hot water right before the test. Then, while the lab coats watched from behind, Max squirted the kid's clean piss into the cup.
That was what made Max worry. Even though he knew others must have passed the test, he had yet to be tested.
At seven o'clock on Friday morning Max sat in the parking lot outside the Ruffians complex. He sat slumped down in his car seat until 7:05, when the equipment manager arrived and opened up the locker room. Max waited a minute, then went in to sit at his locker. From there he could see the door to the training room. It seemed like hours, but it was only ten more minutes before Sparky appeared at the door and fumbled with his keys to open up his room. He turned around suddenly.
"Jesus, Max!" Sparky gasped. "You scared the hell out of me! What are you doing here so early for? You look like hell. You sick?"
"No."
Max pushed his fingers through his unkempt, wavy hair. There were blue circles under his eyes and a few days' growth on his face. "I gotta talk to you, Sparky," he said, looking around.
"Come on in," Sparky said, flicking on the lights.
"This may seem like a funny question," Max said once they were inside Sparky's inner office, "but I gotta know. When do you get the results from the league on those piss tests they gave on Monday morn- ing?"
Sparky sat down and grinned smugly. He examined his fingernails. "Not worried about anything, are you, Max?" he said.
"No, no ... I just wondered about it . . ."
"That's why you're here two hours before the rest of the guys, huh?" Sparky said, still looking over his nails. "You were just curious."
He looked up into Max's eyes. They were bloodshot, but lit with a fire that wiped the grin from Sparky's face. Sparky cleared his throat and sat up straight.
"Don't worry, Max," he said. "I would have heard by now if anything turned up."
Max's fists were clenched, his knuckles white. "You're sure?" he said, gritting his teeth.
"I'm positive, Max," said Sparky. "I'm sure. The league gets the results from the lab on Thursday morning, so I'd hear by now if something was up . . . really."
"O. K.," Max said, smiling a little. "O. K.," he said again in a lighter tone, then turned and walked out.
It was one of those games where the better team was playing down to the level of their inferior opponent. The Ruffians, who were 8-2 and in the playoff hunt, were punishing the 2-8 Browns. The Ruffians had over 400 total yards of offense compared to Cleveland's 120, and three unnecessary roughness penalties against the Ruffians defense accounted for 45 of those yards. Still, there were only a few minutes left in the game, and the Browns, who were only down 10-9, had the ball. All afternoon the Death Squad had denied the Browns a serious drive, but turnovers, stupid mistakes, and two outrageously long field goals by the Browns kicker had kept the game close.
A Ruffians punt had gone awry, and the Browns were taking over at midfield. Their first pass was knocked down by Doogie at the line of scrimmage. The Birmingham crowd went berserk. Doogie strutted around the field with his arms raised. The next play was a draw. Max hammered the ball carrier and drove him back to the line of scrimmage. The ball popped free and the Ruffians scrambled to get it and win the game. Spike Norris came up with the ball. The line judge signaled a first down for the Ruffians. The stadium roared. Ruffians leaped and jumped about, head-butting and high-fiving. There were only forty-two seconds left on the clock.
But the referees were gathering together. They were arguing. The head official appeared from their midst and flicked on the microphone in his lapel.
"The play is being reviewed," squawked the voice over the P. A. The crowd instantly booed. The ref hurried back into the huddle of zebras.
Some of the officials nodded, others shook their heads. After a full minute, the head official emerged from the bunch.
"After further review . . ." came the voice, "the ball was ruled dead. No fumble. Cleveland's ball, third down."
The crowd went animal. They booed and hissed and stamped their feet until it seemed the stadium would collapse.
Max was in a frenzy. "We gotta kill these motherfuckers!" he screamed at his teammates. "We gotta stamp their fucking guts out! They're trying to rob us!"
"Max! Max!" shouted Keith Neil. "The play, get the play."
The Browns were about ready to break their huddle, and Max had still not gotten the play from Gavin on the sideline. Collins was waving his hands wildly, as were the coaches around him to get Max's attention.
"O. K.," said Max after getting the signal, "Double Loop the Gap Cover Two, ready . . . Break!"
The Ruffians lined up hurriedly. The Browns were already on the ball. The clock was running. :36, :35, :34 . . .
The Browns quarterback examined the defense.
"Pass! Pass! Pass!" Max shouted from behind the defensive line, where he stood crouched and ready to go.
The defensive line heard him and wiggled their cleats into the earth, leaning forward with their weight. Max was usually right when he read a pass. Besides, even the dimmest lineman knew the situation. It was third and eight with the clock running down. The Browns had no time-outs and twenty yards to get into good field goal range. Everyone in the stadium knew it would be a pass.
The ball was snapped and the quarterback dropped back. Mike Patterson, the Browns right offensive tackle, gave Sky a pitiful bump and he burst free through the line. He knew he had the screen. He knew it was too easy. Patterson had pounded him all day. Now, on the biggest play of the afternoon, Sky had an open lane to the quarterback. Somewhere in Sky's mind came a voice. The voice said, "Screen, cover the screen. Double Loop, you got screen, it's yours." But that voice was drowned out by another, less familiar voice in Sky's brain:
"Kill that fucking quarterback!"
Sky raced forward at the retreating QB. Back, back went the quarterback. Then, as Sky and Clay and Doogie were all ripping into him at the same time, the QB lofted the ball gently over their heads.
Crunch!
The QB went down, but the running back pulled in the ball and followed his wall of offensive linemen down field for twenty-five yards before Keith Neil could finally bring him down.
Vance White threw down his headphones and his hat at the same time. Then he stomped on them both. Then he fou
nd Gavin Collins and got in his face.
"You never should have been cover two!" he screamed. "What in hell were you in cover two for? Why weren't you in man? You just cost us the fuckin' game, God damn it!"
Gavin was sick when he saw the play, but not because he'd called cover two. That was the right call. Gavin ripped his own headset off and pushed his face forward until his nose almost touched White's.
"That's not what cost the game, God damn it!" Gavin screamed back at him. "I told Sky all week he's got the screen on Double Loop! You know that, I know that, and every goddamned guy on this team knows that! The problem is that the fuckin' guy is so beaned up he can't think straight! The problem wasn't the play, Vance, and you know it! The problem is whatever these guys are on!"
White looked around involuntarily and stepped back with a dumb look on his face. It lasted only a split second. Then he was at Gavin's throat. Nelan grabbed White, and Wheat got hold of Gavin. Step got his bulk in between the two of them.
"God damn it!" cried Step, catching a blow in his shoulder that was meant for Gavin's face. "God damn it! You two take it easy! Vance! . . . Vance!"
Cleveland's field goal team trotted out onto the field. The Birmingham crowd watched with anticipation. No one noticed the squabble between coaches. The ball was snapped, the hold was good, and the Browns kicker popped the ball straight through the uprights to win the game by two. The crowd, like a whipped schoolboy, was quiet and sullen.
Chapter TWENTY
ANDREW BECKER SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM with his two sons, Eric and Seth. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the room was cozy and warm. Andrew and his boys were not tremendous football fans, but they all liked tradition, and Thanksgiving Day meant football and a large family meal. Today they even had something to watch. They couldn't wait to see Clay. Even though the family knew there were problems between Clay and Katie, they still couldn't resist the excitement of watching someone they knew play in a game that they had watched together for the last twenty odd years.
"How about a beer, Dad?" Eric said.
Andrew nodded. "Sure."
"Get me one too, will ya?" Seth said above the voice of Dan Fouts, who was hyping the importance of today's game on the TV. Both Birmingham and Detroit had 8-3 records and were in contention for the playoffs.
Andrew watched Eric disappear into the kitchen just as Katie appeared with a tray of vegetables for the dining room table. Andrew admired her grace as she put down the tray and arranged the red candles in the center piece. Her hair fell into her face and she brushed it behind her ear. She was certainly a pretty girl.
On the TV, Dan Fouts was saying, ". . . for the Ruffians. But certainly one of the bright spots this season has been the way rookie defensive lineman Clay Blackwell has come on to perform. Blackwell was--"
"Hey, Eric!" Seth shouted. "Get in here! They're talking about Clay!"
Andrew saw Katie freeze. Her back was to him now and she stood motionless at the table while the TV commentator talked on and on about how well Clay was doing for a player fresh out of college. Andrew glanced at the screen to see a highlight of Clay sacking the Redskins quarterback. He looked back at his daughter. She was still standing there, listening, he knew. He went into the dining room and put his arms around her. She jumped.
"I didn't know you were there," she said without looking back at her father. "The turkey should be ready by halftime."
"You O. K.?" he asked.
Katie nodded. She was biting her lip. "I just miss him . . . that's all," she said.
Eric's wife came in from the kitchen with a basket of dinner rolls, and Katie wiped her face quickly on her sleeve and returned to the kitchen to help her mother. Andrew forced a smile at Eric's wife and shrugged before returning to the living room.
"Geneane! Get in here!" Ward Blackwell bellowed at first mention of his son's name. He looked over at his father-in-law and brother-in-law, who were sitting on the couch, and smiled apologetically at them. At least he wanted her to see it.
Geneane hurried in from the kitchen with her hair up and her apron on. Her mother and her sister-in-law peeked out from behind her. They were busy trying to get everything ready before the game started, so when it was over they could just sit down and eat. In Geneane's left: hand was a spoon that was dripping brown turkey juice on her white apron. No one noticed.
They watched clips of Clay's best plays and listened to him being praised by the TV commentators. Then Clay himself appeared. He was being interviewed and modestly spreading praise for his team's achievements among his teammates. Clay's family was silent until a Miller beer commercial filled the screen.
"Can you believe it?" Mr. Blackwell said to everyone and no one. "Do you know how much money that little piece was worth? You can't buy that kind of exposure!"
Geneane beamed. Everyone beamed. They were all so proud to see their Clay on TV, and on Thanksgiving Day, no less. The entire country had seen him.
"I wish he could be here with us," Geneane said quietly before turning back into the kitchen to finish her preparations.
Clay felt queasy. It was that pre-game feeling he'd had ever since he was a kid. It never seemed to go away, no matter how many games he played. In fact, it was worse now. For the past seven weeks he hadn't felt that knot in his stomach. He had only felt hot and angry and nasty and hyper. He began to jiggle his left: leg from nerves. He was completely dressed for the game except for his shoulder pads. Everyone around him was hyped. Max was beginning his rage by pounding a locker with his fist. Clay thought he might vomit. A sweat broke out on his upper lip.
"Ten minutes!" Cody Wheat called through the locker room, letting the players know that they should finish whatever pre-game preparations they had to make.
"I must be crazy," Clay said to himself "Things have been going great, and all of a sudden I'm gonna stop doing it? I must be nuts!"
He frantically began pulling the tape and glove off his right hand. He looked up at the clock. "Damn!"
He rummaged quickly through his bag and palmed an unopened needle and a bottle of Thyall in his thickly gloved left hand. The sounds of the locker room were intensifying.
He closed the stall door and pulled his game pants down. He tore open the plastic, popped off the cap, and stuck the needle into the top of the vial, lifting them both to the light so he could measure accurately. Amber fluid bubbled into the syringe. Clay pulled the needle free and pushed some of the drug back out. It shot a fine spray into the air. Just right. He put his left hand on his right hip to steady himself as he twisted around. He chose his spot and stabbed the needle at his buttock . . .
"Three minutes!"
"Shit!" Clay cried, biting his lip in pain.
He'd rushed the shot when he heard the call from Wheat and stabbed the bright needle into a knot that remained under his skin from a previous injection. It hurt like hell! He pulled the needle out, and although he was going to have to run out late for pre-game, he measured his spot more carefully this time and found some virgin skin. Once the needle was in deep, he quickly emptied the syringe into his ass. He felt a hot, stinging rush under his skin. By the time he got back to his locker, his teammates were already milling at the door.
UI don't know what the hell I was thinking," he muttered, chastising himself as he began to frantically retape his hand.
"Time!" called Cody Wheat, opening the doors, releasing a mad rush of drooling snarling Ruffians out into the Pontiac Silverdome.
The buzzing of the lights overhead could be heard above the drone of the crowd. The Lions were already out on the field. Clay jogged out onto the artificial turf. He skirted the Lions and took his place among the Ruffians on the far end of the field. The team was already halfway through their stretch. Clay was glad to see Vance White distracted on the sideline with a TV crew. Only Gavin Collins gave Clay a cold look for his late arrival. It didn't really bother Clay that much. By kickoff he was beginning to feel the effects of his shot.
The Ruffians came out strong,
keeping the Lions pinned down in their own territory for the entire first quarter while they scored a quick ten points of their own. The touchdown came on a long bomb to Tim Tyrone, and the field goal went up after a ten-play drive in which Davis Green chalked up over fifty yards on the ground. Max was having a tremendous game. He was in on almost every tackle and seemed to be shutting down the Lions running game almost single-handedly. Midway through the second quarter, deep in their own territory, Ralph Scott got beat by a blitzing outside linebacker, and Todd Ferrone took a brutal hit that made him cough up the ball. Detroit recovered on the five yard line. Sky got too far up field to contain a QB bootleg, and Detroit scored on the first play.
After another Ruffians offensive drive that sputtered at midfield, Detroit got the ball back on its own eighteen. Clay jogged out onto the field with the rest of the defense and waited for a TV time-out to end. There were only a few minutes left in the half.
Max exhorted his teammates in the huddle. "Let's stuff their fuckin'
ass right here," he said. "Let's get a fuckin' turnover and bring the fucker in for a score ourselves."
Everyone nodded. "Yeah . . . O. K. . . . Let's do it. . ." they said.
"I gotta make a play," Clay told himself. He hadn't even assisted on a tackle so far and he was pissed. He knew everyone was watching the game. Damn! He couldn't believe he'd waited so long to give himself a boost. He had to make a play.
Twice Detroit ran the ball, but the most they could get was five yards. Third and five meant pass. Clay pinned back his ears and jumped on the second "hut," taking a chance by anticipating the count. The gamble paid off. Clay raced by the offensive tackle. There was only the running back between him and the quarterback. Clay barreled down on the runner, lowering his shoulder in order to blast him right back into the QB. The back crouched down at the last instant to cut out Clay's knees. Clay saw the quarterback's arm rear back to throw the ball and he sprang. The back just clipped his feet, but it only flipped Clay's legs up, propelling his head down into the quarterback's shoulder that much quicker. With a crunch they both went down in a heap before the quarterback could release the ball. Clay was up in an instant. The crowd got strangely quiet, but the Ruffians on the field were making noise enough.