by Tim Green
After a long interval Clay realized that White and Lyles were waiting to see what his response would be. He looked from the coach to the owner. They both were staring intently. Clay felt constricted. He wished himself away from them, away from the whole situation. Why did he have to be drafted by Birmingham? He could so easily have been chosen by another team. If he had only been honest from the start, and let White know that he wasn't some moronic football-soldier looking for a maniac to lead him into battle. He never should have put on that front. But that was a foolish train of thought. He was here, and he had to do something about it.
But what could he do? Ask for a trade? One thing he did know, he wouldn't play in Birmingham, not for these men. How could he, knowing what he knew? He certainly wouldn't keep using their drug. It had killed Max. Even if it was a freak thing, the point was that it could kill. Clay was not so sure in his mind that it even was a freak incident. What did any of them really know about this drug? It only made sense that something which was apparently so good had serious side effects. Wasn't that the way things were supposed to work? Wasn't that why a person was supposed to do things right in the first place?
And if he stopped using their drug, then he would be right back where he had been in training camp. He had no intentions of going back to that. Life was too short.
WI want to be traded," Clay suddenly blurted out.
Lyles smiled widely and said, "Now, what do you think people would say about me if I were to trade a rookie I had just spent over two million dollars on and who had been the defensive MVP in his eighth game back from a serious injury? I'd be laughed out of the league, and probably tarred and railed out of the state of Alabama." Lyles chuckled as if they were just a couple of good old boys having a laugh. "No," he said, "you're just too valuable to trade, Clay. You're just going to have to get through this personal crisis and pull yourself together like the rest of us."
Clay sat and thought. White continued to stare malevolently. Lyles smiled.
"You have to trade me," Clay said. "I won't play here for you."
Lyles's face grew dark. "Then, son," he said, "you won't play football in the NFL." Then he added, "This team will hold your rights indefinitely, boy, until you recover from your injury."
"I'm not hurt," Clay said.
"Well," Lyles replied with a smile, "history will say that you tried to come back too soon from that elbow, and despite a tremendous showing Sunday, it was reinjured to the point where we don't know if you'll ever make it back. You'll go on our injury list and stay there until you're ninety-nine if need be, boy. No other team can touch you. They can't even give you a physical because you're the property of the Birmingham Ruffians."
White too was smiling now. "Mr. Lyles," he said, delighted to strike a blow at Clay, Tm happy to inform you that from a coaching standpoint, we don't need this piece of shit no matter how good he played on Sunday."
Clay stood up, looked White directly in the eye, and said, "Fuck you."
He turned before White could respond and walked from the room. Behind him he heard the owner shrieking, "Blackwell! Blackwell! You get your ass back here, boy! Where the hell do you think you're going, son?"
Clay slammed the door with a bang that sounded like a shot.
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
IT WASN'T LONG AFTER CLAY had stormed out that Gavin Collins appeared in Humphry Lyles's office as well. Vance White looked up malevolently at him.
"What can I do for you, Gavin?" Lyles asked without offering him a seat.
Gavin looked at White, who was now staring blankly ahead, before saying, "We've got to stop using this drug. I think that it may have had something to do with Max Dresden's death. I think we're into something that's more dangerous than any of us knows."
White laughed mechanically, "Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."
Gavin looked at him to see if he was laughing or pretending to laugh. White continued to stare strangely in front of him.
"I'm really not aware of this whole drug situation in any great detail, Gavin," Lyles said. "So any feelings you've got about it, you'll have to bring up with Vance, and quite frankly, I'd prefer the two of you did that between yourselves."
Gavin looked at him incredulously. "Don't you realize what Pm saying, Mr. Lyles?" he said. "One of our players may have died because he was using this drug! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"First of all," White said abruptly, "Max Dresden died from a cocaine overdose--"
"That's not proven--"
"Second," White said, now glaring at Gavin, "you're way the hell out of bounds by bringing up something like this. If anyone has benefited from this drug, it's you, Collins. You're the defensive coordinator. You're the mastermind of the Death Squad. Mastermind! Ha! Without this drug you're just another token black on an NFL coaching squad."
White smiled as he watched Gavin go tense and clench his fists. "Go ahead," he said menacingly, "make a move. Not only will you never coach again, I'll rip your fucking heart out."
Gavin went cold. He felt a rush to his head. It was all he could do to control himself. "You may have it right about me coaching," he said, "for now. But one thing you got wrong, and you got it wrong bad. If you and I ever go at it, I'll leave you lying in a pool of your own blood."
Gavin turned and walked out.
Clay wanted to make sure that the drug had the capability to kill Max. He called the only man he could think of who he could trust and would have the knowledge to confirm or deny his fears. Dr. Norton had been Clay's family doctor since he could remember. He'd always shown a keen interest in Clay and his success in sports.
When Clay had finished telling Dr. Norton the entire story, there was a moment of silence before the doctor asked, "What was the name of that drug, Clay?"
"Thyall-D."
Clay heard the rustling of paper as the doctor paged through what sounded like a phone book.
"Clay," the doctor said after a minute, "I've spelled that drug in every way I can think of, and I've looked at the most recent supplement to the FDA's list of new drugs. There is no such drug."
"But I know that's it. I took it, I know that's the name," Clay said, frustrated.
"Well, from what you've told me," said Norton, "I would assume this is a black market drug. Many times performance drugs are. This certainly supports what you think happened to your friend. The drug he took, this Thyall-D, certainly hasn't been tested as thoroughly as it should be if it isn't FDA-approved. And if you're right about the drug being a combination of a metabolic steroid and an amphetamine, well, only a fool would use the two of them combined. The steroid itself used over time is enough to cause coronary seizures in even young men. Combining the adverse effects a steroid has on the blood pressure with the obvious stress created by an amphetamine . . . well, it's insane."
There was silence as Clay again considered that his friend was gone forever.
"I don't know what more to tell you," said Dr. Norton. "If your friend displayed signs of a coronary--I'm referring to the soreness in his arm and the constricted feeling in his chest--then it seems almost certain that he was suffering the effects of the performance drug and not the cocaine found in his apartment."
Clay nodded to himself and thanked the doctor. Before he hung up, the doctor said, "Clay, I don't want you to use that drug again. I've known you for a long time, son, and I'd hate to lose you for something as foolish as that."
Clay started to pack his bag. He already had a seat on the first flight out of Birmingham. The phone rang.
"Hello."
"Clay, thank God I've got you," said Bill Clancy on the other end of the line. "What the hell is going on? Clay, come on, talk to me." Clancy sounded more excited than Clay had ever heard. "I just got off the phone with Humphry Lyles. Clay, are you crazy? I'm sorry about your pal, but Clay, have you thought about what you're doing? I told them that I was sure that what happened was just a reaction to your pal's death, but Clay, come on . . ."
When Bill finally stopped talki
ng, Clay allowed a moment of silence before he spoke. "Do you know what happened, Bill?" he asked calmly.
Clancy repeated the version of Max's death that, as Humphry Lyles had said, would be how history remembered it.
"Bill," Clay said, "Max died from that drug. I've been taking the damn thing myself . . . every Sunday, Bill. Every damn Sunday. White wasn't going to let me on the field if I didn't."
"Clay," Clancy said, "I know what you think, Lyles told me what you said to him."
Lyles had told Bill Clancy everything that was said, and called on Clancy to contain Clay Blackwell, threatening to expose Clancy's previous improprieties. Clancy knew containing Clay would be much more difficult than before, but he also knew that he was now in deeper than ever. Payoffs, drugs, and now a death--he wanted no such associations to be made with his name. Any scandal could cost him his business.
"Clay, what happened to Max is horrible, and you should be upset, but they found cocaine in Max's room," Clancy whined. "Everyone knows that cocaine can kill you, even if you're only an occasional user. How can you say that Max's heart attack was caused by the team's drug? It's tested. It's safe."
"How the hell do you know it's tested?" demanded Clay.
"They wouldn't let their players use something that wasn't safe. Come on, Clay, this is the NFL," said Clancy.
"What the hell does that mean? That drug is from the black market. There's no drug like that anyone can buy or prescribe. I spoke with my own doctor. He told me there was no such drug approved by the FDA. He told me that the kind of drug we're using is dangerous, for Christ's sake."
"You spoke to your doctor? Clay," Clancy said, "I thought you gave your word to them that you wouldn't mention this drug to anyone."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Clay asked. "Max is dead. They don't give a shit, and you're worried about my word to them. Anything I promised to them no longer means a damn thing. That's the way it is, Bill. They killed Max, and I have to figure out what to do about it."
"What do you mean, Clay? What is there to do?"
"I'm not sure. I'm out of here, though. I won't play for the Ruffians."
"Clay," Clancy said, "we've already been through this once. They won't trade you. You know that, now more than ever, especially after the way you've been playing."
"Bill, I've been thinking about it. If they won't trade me, I don't think I'll play football."
"Clay, I know you're upset, but you're really not thinking rationally," said Clancy. "Clay, you and I are friends, I can't let you talk like this. If it's just a reaction to the shock of Max's death, that's one thing, but you have to get over it. You've got a job. You've got a contract! What about all the rest of your teammates? You guys are about to go to the playoffs! You can't let everyone else down. What about your Coach Collins there?
What about Max himself? He'd have wanted you to stay in there and win it all . . . for him. You've got to stay, Clay."
There was a long silence before Clay finally said, "I'll have to think about it. O. K.?"
"Sure, Clay," said Clancy. "I know this is a hard time, but that's why I'm here for you ... to think for you when times get tough. "
"I'm still going to New York. I'm going up to the lake. I've got to get away from here right now," Clay said with finality.
Not wanting to lose the ground he knew he'd just gained, Clancy said, "I'll talk to Lyles about it. I'm sure under the circumstances they'll be willing to give you a few days to get over this tragedy. But I'm going to tell them that in all likelihood you'll be in Buffalo on Sunday to play, O. K.?"
"O. K., Bill, whatever you want to say," Clay said, "and Bill . . . thanks."
"No problem. That's what friends are for. I'll call you tomorrow in New York."
When Bill Clancy hung up his phone, he pumped the air with his fists. He was smiling.
Clay was on a plane to Syracuse two hours later. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the Ruffians as fast as he possibly could. The first thing he planned on doing when he got home was to find Katie and talk to her face to face. He would get on his knees if he had to, but he was determined to win her forgiveness. No matter what happened between him and the Ruffians, he was done with life in the fast lane. Max's death made that certain.
When the plane lifted off, Clay felt relieved and suddenly free of the Ruffians, of Vance White and Humphry Lyles and all their lies. He almost ordered a beer, but he wanted to keep his thoughts clear. The first thing he would do when he got off the plane would be to take a cab to his house. He'd say a quick hello to his parents, get the old Bronco from the driveway, and head straight to Katie's dorm. He didn't want to show up with even a hint of alcohol on his breath. He wanted her to know that what he was going to say came from him, and that it was not some drunken self-pity that prompted him to seek her forgiveness.
When Clay arrived home, he was met by a suspicious glare from his father.
"What are you doing home, son?" he asked. "Don't you have practice tomorrow?"
"They gave me a few days off, Dad," Clay said. "You know, 'cause about what happened to Max."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I heard about it," his father said glumly. "That's too bad." He brightened. "Your mom's in the shower, which is good. It'll give you and me a chance to talk. No sense wastin' time moanin'. Come on . . .
"Damn, it's good to see you, son," he said as he led his son into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from the cupboard. "I told all the boys that the first chance you got, you'd kick some ass, and sure as shit, me and the boys all saw you do it down at Mickey's on the satellite dish," he said in an excited tone, referring to Sunday's game.
"That's great, Dad. Look," he said as his father carefully poured two shots of whiskey, "I really can't hang around. I just wanted to say a quick hello to you and Mom and get going. I've got to get up to school and see Katie before she goes to bed. She doesn't know I'm coming."
"Well, just one quick one can't hurt," the father said, ignoring his son.
"Dad, no, I'm sorry, I just can't drink. I--" he stuttered, then said quickly, "It's too close to the playoffs. I gotta cut back--"
He didn't tell his father the real reason, because he wouldn't have wanted to hear it.
"Son of a bitch, that's right!" his father said, slapping his knee. "My boy is gonna be in the playoffs! Well, by damn, I'll drink to that, and I'll have your shot for you."
With that, he downed two quick shots.
Clay's mother appeared suddenly in the kitchen, wrapped in a thick terry-cloth robe. Her hair was dark and glossy and wet and made her look young enough to be his sister. When she saw Clay sitting there unexpectedly, no words had to be spoken between them; she knew he was troubled. Her eyes flickered with a mixture of joy and sorrow. The joy was for seeing him, and the sorrow for the pain she knew he must be feeling. The conflicting emotions brought tears to her eyes. Clay stood abruptly, cutting off his father in mid-sentence. His mother rushed to him, hugging him tightly.
"Oh, my poor baby," she said in a soft voice, rubbing his back to soothe the shudders of sorrow that now shook Clay's large frame. "I'm so sorry . . . I'm so sorry."
The sudden acknowledgment of Max's death made Clay cry again as if for the first time. That he had been sitting there with his father, who had not even mentioned the death, made the telepathy between him and his mother all the more poignant.
"He didn't have to die," Clay sobbed, "he didn't have to."
"I know, honey," his mother said softly, "I know."
Clay's father, overwhelmed with embarrassment and confusion, two emotions that for him quickly converted into anger, mumbled, "Bullshit crying, the damned cokehead asked for it."
Clay wheeled instantly and violently. "Who the hell are you?" he screamed, the tears still clouding his eyes. "Who the hell are you? Who gave you the right to judge?"
Clay's father was stunned at the reproach. "You don't talk to me like that, boy!" the older man bellowed, slamming down an empty shot glass and rising
from the table. "I can still whip your ass from here to fucking Toledo."
The two men moved toward each other. Clay's mother got between them and looked at Clay with pleading eyes.
"No, honey," she said to him, "please."
At that moment Clay felt as though he could pound the very life from his father. That his mother, so good, yet abused and unappreciated, should jump to his father's defense galled him beyond description. His father didn't deserve her loyalty. Yet here she was, protecting him, knowing that later that same night, after his alcoholic haze had thickened, he would berate her, maybe even strike her, for interfering. It was for her only that he swallowed his anger. He turned quickly, grabbed his keys from a drawer, and left through the front door without another word.
It was a good while before Clay began to cool off. He was beginning to feel exhausted. The emotions of the day and the traveling left him spent. He simply wanted to pull off the road and sleep. But he wouldn't. He had to see Katie. That was one thing he had to try to resolve. It was the one thing that he felt would give him something to hang on to. He wanted her back.
As he drove, he began thinking how bizarre it all was. This very morning he had been looking at Max's corpse. Now he was halfway across the country chasing down the girl he loved, who might very well reject him. Max would have cringed at such a venture. But Max was dead, and the way he had done things was no longer something Clay set his sights by. Nevertheless, the whole day seemed like a dream. And as the Bronco rumbled through the dark streets, it would not have surprised Clay to be shaken by the arm and awakened by Max to find himself back in Birmingham, subject to a fine for having overslept the team's Monday morning meeting.
Instead Clay soon found himself winding his way to Katie's dormitory. He parked the truck in the visitors' lot and made his way into the building. A few girls who lived on her floor regarded him silently, and Clay wondered if everyone knew of the rift between them. If so, then he must certainly seem a strange sight. If these girls recognized him, as he suspected they did, they were probably wondering why he wasn't in Birmingham.