by Tim Green
Clay raised his hands high. It was a big play, and he knew the TV would be replaying it again for everyone at home to see several times from several different angles. He shook his fists at the crowd and slapped and butted with his teammates. The crowd came to life. They booed and hissed. They booed even more when the Lions punter came out and shanked one, giving the Ruffians a shot at the end zone with only seconds to go in the first half. Todd Ferrone used the opportunity well by connecting on three straight pass plays that ended with Spencer Clayton shaking his rear end in the end zone after scoring six.
During halftime, White threw a can of Coke against the locker room wall. It exploded, spraying half his team with droplets of the syrupy drink.
"No one knows how much this game means!" he raved. And for the umpteenth time that week he told them, "It's more than just a win . . . it's a loss for a divisional opponent. This game could be the entire season! This game could be the difference between the playoffs, and sitting home on your asses like a bunch of losers!"
He continued, pacing, "Every damned person in America is watching you guys, and they want to see some ass-kicking! How many of their players have been taken off? How many?!"
"Max, how many?" White said, looking wildly at Max, who was looking just as wildly back.
"Not a fuckin' one, Coach," Max said through gritted teeth.
"Damn right," White said. "Now I want you guys to go out there this second half and not just win this game, but knock some of those bastards out of it. I want to see some asses kicked! And if the guys that are out there can't do it, then I promise you I'll get some guys that can!"
The Ruffians burst out for the second half on fire. There were two fifteen-yard penalties against them in the first two minutes of the second half, and it wasn't more than four minutes before Doogie jumped on a pile of Detroit players near the end of a play and a Lion had to be carried from the field. The Ruffians kicked a quick field goal, then hung on to their thirteen-point lead for the entire third quarter. Scoring was no longer their main objective; the infliction of punishment and pain was. Early in the fourth quarter, Tim Tyrone fumbled a Detroit punt, and the Lions scooped it up and ran it in for a score. It made for a more exciting game for the viewers, but everyone on the field knew that the outcome had already been decided. The fumbled punt was just a lucky break. The Ruffians continued to physically pound their opponent in a way that caused White and Nelan to chortle and slap each other high fives on the sideline.
Clay piled up a few tackles, and although it wasn't his best game, he was satisfied at having gotten at least one critical sack on national TV. By the time the game was over, three Lions had been carried from the field. The Ruffians offense had put together a twelve-play drive that made the score 27-14, and the Ruffians defense added icing to the cake when Max forced a fumble that Sky was able to scoop up and carry into the end zone to make the final 34--14.
Clay drained what was left of his beer and signaled the bartender for another. He sat with his back to his friends, who were drunk and rowdy and didn't notice him. Half the team were there at Sportex, almost all the single guys. Max came up with a girl under each arm and tapped Clay on the shoulder.
"This is 'im," Max said to the girl on his right. "This is my buddy, Clay. Now, you can't ass for better 'an him, 'cause Stacy's already got me, and he's the next bes' thing, honey."
Clay had a good buzz on, but Max was stinking drunk. Clay thought he sounded foolish, but neither of the girls seemed to mind.
"Fools themselves," Clay thought, looking at their bleached hair, red lipstick, and tight clothing with a frown.
"Hey, come on, good buddy," Max said drunkenly. "Give theez girls that smile tha' you're so famous for. This is Stacy ... an' this is your date for tonight. . . Clara . . ."
Clay turned back to the bar.
"He's jus' shy," Max whispered loudly to Clara with a wink. He put his hand firmly on the back of Clay's stool and spun him around. "Don' be shy, good buddy," Max said, "theez girls won' hurt you. . . . They might bite a little, but they won' hurt you. Ha, ha, ha . . ."
Max broke out laughing at his own drunken humor. Clay got out oi his seat and brushed past Max.
"Be right back," Max said to the girls with another wink.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said, putting his arm around Clay, who was still headed for the door, "wha's the rush? Where ya goin'P"
Clay stopped and said, "I'm just not in the mood for this shit tonight, Max. It's fuckin' Thanksgiving and I'm goin' home."
Max held his head close to his friend and whispered, "Look, I don' care if you turned fag on me ... it happens, ha, ha, ha . . . but you can't tie my nuts in a knot 'cause you don' wan' any pussy. You're my buddy! You gotta take tha' Clara bitch home so I can hang her fuckin' frien' from my ceiling."
Clay could smell the screwdrivers on Max's breath. "Max," he said, "don't you ever get sick of this?"
"Sick of wha'?" Max said, raising his eyebrows.
"Just all this!" Clay said, waving his hands up in the air. "We play football. We get drunk. We fuck. We play football. We get drunk. . . . It's all we do!"
"You're drunk," Max said flatly.
After rolling his eyes, Clay said, "Look, tell that girl . . . what's her name?"
"Clara."
"Tell Clara I'll pull up the car and give her a ride home so you can hang her friend from your ceiling and fuck her twenty different ways."
"Can't ya jus' come over and get her?" Max pleaded. "Come on. I'd do it for you an' ya know I would."
"O. K.," Clay said, shaking his head, "but I'm not screwing around. I'm leaving, so if she won't go right away, you're on your own."
"Deal!" Max said, patting him on the back.
"Hi, I'm Clay. Could I give you a ride home?" Clay said to the girl named Clara.
"O. K.," Clara said.
"What an idiot," Clay murmured under his breath.
"Come on," he said, and left Max, who was smiling and winking at him uncontrollably, with his girl for the night.
A valet brought up Clay's Porsche and they got in.
"Nice car," Clara said.
Clay guessed she was about nineteen. "Where do you live?" he asked.
"You know where Dumont Street is? Out past the Starlight Mall? I live in the apartments on the corner of Dumont and Boland."
"O. K.," Clay said nodding.
They drove for a while in silence.
"Nice game today," the girl said finally. "Nice sack."
"Thanks."
When they pulled up in front of Clara's building, she asked if he was coming up. Clay shut off the car and followed the girl up the outside stairs to her apartment, which was on the second floor. Clay didn't want to be there, but he didn't want to leave either. There was nothing waiting for him at home. They sat on Clara's couch and she got them each a beer. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp on an end table. She sat close and rested her arm on the back of the couch. Her fingers barely touched Clay's shoulder. He swigged his beer.
"Stacy's my roommate," Clara said. "I think she's staying with your friend Max tonight."
"Yes. I think so," Clay said.
They sat for a while in silence. Clara was looking at him dreamily.
"So, where'd you eat dinner today?" Clay asked.
"Dinner?" she said.
"Yeah, Thanksgiving, you know?"
"Oh, nowhere really, I guess," she said. "Stacy and me were at Sportex watching the game and we just had some nachos. Actually, they were turkey nachos." She giggled.
"Jesus," Clay said, almost to himself, "that's pathetic."
Clara frowned.
"The thing is," Clay said, "is that it's a holiday, and everybody's supposed to be at home, you know ... the whole family thing. It's been that way my whole life. Then all of a sudden this year everybody in the world is eating turkey and pumpkin pie and I'm playing a game, then getting drunk afterward with the guys. I don't know . . . it's just depressing."
They sat quietly for a w
hile just drinking their beer. Clara began to stroke the hair on the back of Clay's head. He reached over and gently cupped her breast. They began to kiss and she reached for his crotch, caressing him through his jeans. He pushed her back on the couch. She stretched her arm and reached up behind her. She fumbled with the light, and the room went dark.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Two AND A HALF WEEKS LATER, Vance White finished the team prayer, then held his hands up for silence. The entire team was gathered around him in the locker room. Most of the players were stripped to the waist, their bare chests beaded with perspiration. Sweat-drenched shoulder pads and filthy jerseys were flung about on the floor. Many of the players were bleeding, and each wore a smile.
"I'm damn proud of you guys today," said White. "You played piss poor last week and it cost us. But the sign of a true champion is when you can come back and play the way you did today. The offense hung in there and kept moving the ball; the defense got it back for us when we needed it.
"I can think of a bunch of you guys who played your ass off today," White continued, "but we had one guy who really stood out, and I want to give him the game ball."
Everyone looked around. Clay stood at the edge of the. Group. His eyes met Ralph Scott's from across the room. Ralph winked at him.
. . . This guy had a ton of tackles today and three quarterback sacks," White said. "One of them caused a fumble that ended up giving us the lead."
He held the game ball high over his head.
"Clay," he said, "come on up here, son, you earned this damn ball."
All the Ruffians hooted and cheered. Those who were near enough clapped Clay on the shoulder or shook his hand. White gave out only one game ball and that was only when the team won. He had never given one immediately following the game.
"Now," White continued when the team had quieted again, "before the press gets in here, I want to say one more thing to you guys. I'm not a guy to look at what other teams do, but we're all thinking it, and I'm gonna say it. If the Vikings lose on Monday night, then we can clinch a playoff spot with a win in Buffalo next week.
"Now, I don't want anyone talking about it. This is just between us, but if they lose, then next week we can make history."
Again the team cheered and slapped high fives among themselves. White turned and left the locker room. The press came streaming in. Most of them headed right for Clay's locker.
When the last question had been asked, Clay looked around to see that besides him and Todd Ferrone, the rest of the team had showered. Only a few even remained in the locker room. Max, always a favorite of the media, was just returning from the showers.
Drying his hair, he said to Clay after the last reporter had departed, "You coming down off that shit yet?"
"What do you mean?" Clay asked.
"You know," Max replied, "the Thyall. Are you feeling it wear off?"
"I'm feelin' a little shitty," said Clay, "nothin' unusual. I'm still pumped up over the game."
"I don't know," Max said, "I must have fuckin' heartburn or something. I feel like shit."
"Couple beers an' you'll be good as new," Clay said, pulling off the last of his uniform. "Or so you always tell me."
Max smiled weakly.
Clay gimped to the showers, taking his time and letting the hot water pound his aching muscles. When he was finished, he combed his hair in the mirror and then came still dripping back out into the locker room. There was no one left now. Even Ferrone had gone.
Max was sitting on a stool in front of Clay's locker, hunched over and breathing heavily. He was clutching his left arm and he looked pale.
"Max," Clay said, ambling up to him with the towel stuck in his ear, "are you O. K.?"
"Yeah, I'm O. K.," Max said, although it was obvious he was in discomfort. "I'm just coming down real hard, that's all. Fuck, it hit me all of a sudden too. I felt a little bad, but now I really feel like shit."
"You look like shit. Maybe I should see if Sparky is still around, or one of the doctors."
"No," Max said. "I'm fine."
Clay shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, and finished toweling himself dry.
When Clay had dressed, the two of them walked slowly through the tunnel that led to the players' parking lot. They passed a gray-haired custodian in a battered blue uniform who was sweeping dust and cigarette butts along the damp concrete tunnel. As they went by, the shabby old man turned to stare at the two younger men, especially the one who looked sick as all hell.
"You know what?" Max said as they sped down the street in Clay's Porsche. "I think I might just head home and lie down for a little while. I feel like if I could rest for an hour of so, I'll be O. K. You wouldn't mind dropping me off, would you?"
Clay looked at his friend warily. "Max, this is really weird. I mean, you not going out to party after a big win? Something must really be wrong."
"Look," Max said in a strained voice, "would you cut me some slack? I told you, I'm just coming down real hard. I feel like shit."
"I feel like shit too," Clay said. "You're the one that told me that's the way it is when the amphetamine wears off"
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm coming down with something, I don't know. Just take me back to my place and cut me some slack, O. K.?"
"Max, it's not that I won't cut you some slack, it's just that if you feel that bad, maybe you should see someone about it. I've got Doc Simon's home phone number. Maybe we should just give him a call," Clay said, referring to the team's physician.
"Oh, sure," Max said. "I'll just call him right up. 'Hello, Doc? Yeah, this is Mad Max, and I'm coming down off that shit we're all on, you know, the Thyall-D, the stuff no one's supposed to talk about, and I just wanted to know if you could give me something for my crash.' Are you fucking crazy? Just ease up and take me home. I'll be O. K."
Max was slumped in the leather seat of the Porsche, looking very pale.
"Well, I'll take you back," Clay said, "but I better see you at The Club by eight, or else I'll know something is wrong."
Max nodded vacantly, and Clay swung his car around to head toward Max's apartment. Actually, when Max slumped out of the car, giving Clay an absent wave and some assurances that he'd see him later on, Clay was kind of relieved. He felt a little down himself, but he was still anxious to get to The Club and celebrate with his teammates. He could tell Max wouldn't be much fun in the state he was in, and he certainly couldn't have fun himself with his best friend swooning at his elbow the entire night.
Tonight would not only be a celebration of a win. For him it would be a celebration of his best game as a pro. He wanted to enjoy it. It was selfish, he admitted. But Max would understand. Hell, Max would be the first one to call him a pussy for worrying.
When Clay walked in the door, he saw the D-line waiting for him at the main bar. Doogie was motioning to him, and he wore a shit-eating smile.
"I don't see Mad Max around," said Doogie. "That's a shame," he continued. "Well, I'm sure he knew that since the rook was the big star today, he was going to finally have to drink with the big boys. He probably didn't want to see the rook embarrass himself."
He didn't attempt to hide the winks between he and Sky and Spike. Clay smiled, aware of the game and happy to be jibbed by his fellow linemen.
"I just hope you three don't plan on standing around all night winking at each other like a couple of fags," Clay said. "All those tackles and sacks I had today made me damn thirsty."
"Oh, ho! So that's the way it is, huh?" said Spike, and he waved to the bartender for a round of drinks.
Within an hour and a half Clay was having a hard time just getting to the bathroom. He bumped into tables and chairs and people. One of them was Gavin Collins.
"Sorry," Clay said sullenly and moved on.
Gavin caught him by the arm. "Can I talk with you?" he said.
Clay was too drunk to hide his surprise. "I gotta piss," he said above the music. "I'll be right back."
When Clay returned, Gavin a
ppeared engrossed in the Sunday night game that was on the enormous screen. Clay hesitated and was about to walk away when Gavin noticed him. He motioned with his head for Clay to follow. He led Clay to the VIP lounge, which was decorated in plush leather and thick green carpet and where a person could be heard without shouting. They sat down in a booth.
"Want a drink?" Gavin asked.
"Sure."
Gavin signaled to a waitress in an aerobics uniform, who took their order and disappeared. Clay sat looking dully at Gavin. He had drunk enough so that he did not feel like he had to talk without first being talked to. After their drinks arrived, Gavin held out his hand across the table.
"Look," Gavin said, looking intently at Clay, "I want to say I'm sorry about the way I've been acting."
Clay was not used to coaches apologizing. When, he recovered, he shook Gavin's hand firmly. "It's O. K.," he said.
"Thanks, but it's not O. K.," said Gavin. "You're not the guy I should have been down on. If anything, you're the only guy I really respect. At least you tried. I guess that's what got me down. I figured after I told you that you could do it on your own, you'd stay away from the drug."
"I would have liked it that way," Clay said, "but I wasn't happy about the idea of riding the bench for my entire career."
"I know, Clay, I know. That's why I regret being so hard on you."
"If anything," Clay said, "I'd think you'd be the guy to do something. You could walk out of here tomorrow if you wanted. They can't hold you like they can me."
Gavin chuckled. "No, huh?" he said. "You think I can just leave? You can leave a hell of a lot easier than me. I've worked my whole life to get a shot in the pros. If I walked away from this job, it'd be the last time I had to worry about working in the NFL. I'd be a black that was given every opportunity but squandered it. No, a guy in my shoes has to just bide his time and hope for the best."
"Like when we get into the playoffs?" Clay said.