Ruffians

by Tim Green

  "How do you feel?" The voice was subdued, sad.

  Clay stood up so he could look Gavin in the eye. "I feel like shit," he said.

  "Me too," returned Collins. He seemed to examine the turf for a while before saying, "But you know something? We still got a job to do, so let's take about a three-hour break from feeling sorry and kick somebody's ass. Know what I mean?"

  Clay shrugged and looked at him blandly.

  "I'm not bullshitting," Gavin said seriously. "We're here, both of us, so we might as well do our jobs. We got a whole lot of guys around us who are damn good people depending on us both."

  Clay looked from Collins up past the confines of the stadium to the gloomy sky. The sleet made him blink. He looked back to Gavin. "I guess so," he said.

  "Have a good one, Clay," Gavin said, then patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

  Clay watched him go. Gavin passed by White, who was also strolling through the ranks. It was as though neither existed for the other.

  When the team emerged for the kickoff, the capacity crowd filled the stadium with boos.

  "Welcome to Buffalo," Keith Neil shouted to Clay above the din.

  The entire defense was gathered under one of the goal posts. They were pelted with sleet and insults while they waited to be introduced. When his name was called, Clay ran out onto the field and into the sea of his waiting teammates. Most of them were geeked, their eyes bulging.

  "Let's kill! . . . Fuck them! . . . Kick ass!" came the angry spit and cries from all around him.

  The kickoff set the tone for the entire game. The Bills return man fumbled and bumbled the ball, then finally advanced ten yards before a swarm of Ruffians drove him into the turf. The ball popped out, but the Bills recovered fifteen yards farther up the field. The weather made it a game of slipping and sliding and mistakes. After two stalled scoreless drives by both teams, Spencer Clayton fumbled a punt and gave Buffalo the ball on the Ruffians ten. Wheat and Nelan had to restrain White from running out onto the field and bashing the already shaken Clayton.

  "We gotta hold them to a field goal! No touchdown!" cried Doogie in the huddle. The rest of the defense agreed.

  Clay looked over to the sideline at Gavin Collins. He was cool and calm, apparently in no rush, as he signaled the play in to Don Wallace, Max's replacement as inside linebacker.

  "Double Okee Cover Six Split," said Wallace, "ready . . .

  "Break!"

  Clay lined up on the outside shoulder of Ike Newwal, the Bills All- Pro offensive tackle. Above, the announcers in the TV booth were heralding the match-up as the ultimate battle in the trenches. Newwal was an enormous man and a grizzled veteran of thirteen NFL campaigns. Clay was quick, fast, strong, and aggressive. So far everyone watching the match-up had been disappointed. Newwal had pushed Clay around pretty well for the first two series.

  Clay felt listless and weak. He looked up from his stance at the face of Ike Newwal. His nose was twisted and covered with ugly freckles. His eyes were large and heavy-lidded. He had a twisted smile. Clay didn't want to be there. The ball was snapped anyway. Newwal drove Clay well clear of the runner and the Bills gained six yards. Doogie had to make the tackle from the back side.

  "What the fuck is up with you?" Doogie demanded in the huddle.

  "This is the fbckin' playoffs if we win this one. Does that mean anything to you? Don't let that fucker run right over you!"

  Clay took the rebuff in silence, looking straight ahead and waiting to hear the next play.

  The Bills QB rolled out to pass. Newwal stuffed Clay at the line. All he was able to do was watch as the ball floated between Keith Neil and Wallace into the hands of the Buffalo tight end for a touchdown. The crowd's cheer was deafening as the Bills celebrated in the end zone.

  White was waiting on the sideline. He started to shriek at Clay before he got there. Again, Nelan and Wheat each had an arm tightly grasped.

  "Fuckin' dammit!" White cried. "You gotta contain that roll-out, you fuckin' shithead Blackwell!"

  "Bring your ass right here!" White screamed, grabbing Clay's arm as he tried to edge past him toward the bench.

  Clay looked down into the coach's face. It was almost purple with rage, and Clay thought that White might have a heart attack of his own. He smiled at the thought.

  "What the fuck are you smilin' at, son? Do you realize what this game means? Get your head out of your ass, boy!" White said, "or I'll put in McGuire!

  "Are you on the program, Blackwell?" White yelled two inches from Clay's face. "Are you with it? 'Cause you don't look with it, and if I have to, I'll give you a fucking booster at halftime, personally."

  "I'm on," Clay said blandly, not because he was afraid of White anymore or because he believed White meant what he said, but simply because he wanted to end this bullshit and go sit down on the bench.

  White had an unsure, dazed look in his eye, so Clay simply walked away. By now everyone knew that even at his worst, Clay would hold up better against Newwal than McGuire even if they gave McGuire ten shots of Thyall. And anyway, if they pulled him, well, Clay didn't give two shits. White quickly turned his frenzy on the special-teams coach for only getting the kickoff back to the twenty-three yard line.

  "Do you think our fucking offense can score from there all fucking day!" White screamed in the man's face before pacing back down the sideline to where Nelan was signaling in the offensive play.

  Ferrone dropped back on the very first play and heaved a long ball to Tim Tyrone, who caught it and ran to the Bills thirty before being cut off by the pursuit. The Ruffians cheered among themselves on the sideline. Clay watched from the bench as Spike Norris and Sky slapped each other high fives. The offense was shut down for the next three plays, and the field goal unit ran out. Clay didn't even bother to get up to see if the kick was good. Part of him wanted to put on a show for his family and friends, but it wasn't happening. When he saw three light up the visitors' side of the big board, Clay sighed, buckled his helmet, and got to his feet.

  The defense was able to keep the Bills out of the end zone, but their consistent running game behind Newwal was enough to get them into field goal range and kick a long one to go ahead 10-3.

  When the Ruffians got the ball back, Davis Green went on a seven- play rampage that put the Ruffians again deep into Buffalo territory. With only seconds to go in the half, Todd Ferrone hit Davis on a delay pattern in the end zone and tied the score at ten all. The Ruffians went into the locker room at halftime with all the momentum on their side.

  White stood on a chair so that even the players in the back could see and hear him clearly. His voice was almost completely shot from screaming. It rattled and squeaked and sounded as if it hurt so much to talk that Clay would have felt sorry for another man.

  "I don't give a fuck about anything!" White rasped. "This game is the most important thing I've ever experienced in my fuckin' life! And if you don't feel that way right now, then get the fuck out of this room!"

  He looked around at his silent players, glaring.

  "I want each of you to look into yourselves right now. Look!" he said, pounding his palm with his fist and then pointing. "What do you see? Do you see a man? A man that can accomplish greatness? Or do you see a fucking coward that doesn't even deserve to fuckin' be alive and that should be crawling around in some hole of shit somewhere?

  "I want men to go back out there with me!" White yelled. "I want men that have pride! And guts! I want men that love to hit! And men that love fucking pain! That's what this is all about, you know! Pain! Now, let's get our asses out there and make those scummy motherfuckers hurt like they never hurt before!"

  White's descent from his chair as he spoke his last words signaled that it was the end of his halftime speech. The team bellowed in agreement. They were all talking at once and moving for the door.

  "This is it, this is it. . . Kill those fuckers . . . Pain, it's all about pain .. .

  Win, baby, we gotta win this . . . Come on, you fu
ckers, let's do it . . . Playoffs, baby, we're takin' it all the way . . ."

  Clay was the last one to leave the locker room, and he ambled out slowly. The dampness had set in and made his entire body stiff. He honestly didn't give a shit. That was how he felt and no matter what he said to himself, he couldn't get pumped up. He wouldn't use the drug again even if it meant he would get the shit pounded out of him for the rest of his career. He was wet and cold, and he was tired. He wanted to go home, and he wanted everything that had happened with Max to be just a shitty dream. He felt certain now that it had been a mistake to come back.

  The Ruffians took control right from the start of the second half. They received the ball and Clayton brought it back to the fifty. Ferrone and the offense pounded down the rest of the field and got to the Bills one. But on a pass play to a wide-open Tim Tyrone, Ferrone's hand slipped on the ball and it flipped up through the air. A Bills lineman grabbed the wayward pass and rumbled to the fifteen before he was caught by Pike, who proceeded to try to pull the ball free from the lucky lineman's hands. A fight ensued and it was five full minutes before the officials gained control. Yellow flags were everywhere, but they offset each other. Apparently in the spirit of modern football the refs chalked it up to good violence and ejected none of the perpetrators from the game.

  For the entire third quarter, both teams moved the ball well, but critical turnovers prevented any points from being scored. In the early minutes of the fourth quarter the Bills put together a running drive behind Newwal that got them into field goal range. This time there were no Buffalo turnovers, and the Bills went up 13-10.

  Clay jogged over to the sideline and was happy to see White spending his wrath on Sky, who had just missed blocking the kick. Clay slipped back to the bench and slumped down for a breather. The shock of having no lift from the drug was having an exhausting effect on him.

  He sat breathing heavily with his head down when Gavin Collins appeared. "Clay," he said firmly, "Clay, you gotta give me more than you're giving right now . . . Clay?"

  Clay looked up. His eyes were bloodshot from a week of little sleep. His face was haggard and unshaven, and his fatigue made him look even worse.

  "Listen, you gotta give me more, man," Collins said, kneeling down in front of Clay. Tve been doing everything I can all game long to help cover for you. I know Newwal is a tough son of a bitch, but you gotta help stop that weak-side run. I know you can do it, Clay."

  Clay looked Gavin in the eye and said, "I can't help it. Winning this game is everything they want. I can't help not giving a shit. They don't deserve to win this and have everyone talk about how wonderful they are. They're scum. They killed Max, they're fucking everybody--"

  "Hey, Clay," Collins said firmly, "you gotta snap outa this, man. Look around you. Look at these guys . . ."

  Clay looked around the sideline. Sky and Doogie and Spike were gathered anxiously in a group, rooting and watching for the offense to put them back ahead or at least tie the game. Sky had his hand on Spike's shoulder pad, and the tension of his nervous grip made his knuckles white. Keith Neil was sitting on the bench having the trainers tightly wrap a bad hamstring so he could finish the game. He winced with pain as every loop was pulled tightly against his damaged muscle. Then Clay saw Davis Green limp off the field, bleeding from his nose and staggering from exhaustion, but refusing the attention of the team doctor, who wanted to look at him. All he would do was rest a play and go back in for more punishment, "O. K.," Clay said to Gavin. "I'll try, I really will ... for you, and these guys. I'll try . . ."

  Both of them looked up as the Ruffians sideline erupted with cheers. The Ruffians had scored on a reverse pass with Tyrone running the reverse to the left while Ferrone jogged nonchalantly and unnoticed into the end zone, where Tyrone hit him with the touchdown pass. After the extra point, the Ruffians held the lead by four.

  Clay played better through the entire fourth quarter, but he still didn't feel like he was all there. It was enough, though, to dissuade the Bills from running his way on almost every play as they had earlier. The Ruffians were holding their lead. With only a few minutes left in which to score a winning touchdown, the Bills began to move the ball with a series of runs and passes that seemed to outguess everything Gavin Collins could think of. When the Ruffians blitzed, the Bills ran a screen. When the Ruffians went to short-yardage defense on third and inches, the Bills threw a twenty-yard pass. With a little less than a minute to play, the Bills were sitting first and goal on the Ruffians ten yard line.

  The first play was a pass. The Ruffians were in a blitz, and the Bills quarterback had to dump it off to a running back. The Ruffians swarmed him and punished him. The next play would be a run. That was where the Bills had gotten the majority of their yardage all afternoon, and they would surely go back to it when it counted.

  "Come on," Clay told himself as the Bills came to the line and their quarterback started his cadence, "snap out of it! This is it! This is the whole game! This is the playoffs! Do it, Clay! Do it!"

  The ball was snapped, and Newwal surged off the line straight at Clay. He was a split second slow off the ball and braced up against him, but Newwal pushed him back four yards, enough to get the runner to the one yard line before Clay could bring him down by the ankles.

  "Shit!" Clay said out loud from under the pile of bodies.

  As Newwal got up, he used Clay's back to push himself off the turf. Clay swung his arm around, knocking Newwal off balance. Newwal stepped toward Clay with his hands in fists. Three Ruffians were on him instantly, and the pushing and shoving and swinging began. The crowd booed and cheered. As the refs broke up the commotion, Newwal, who was now restrained by two officials and two Bills players, pointed a gnarled finger at Clay and shouted, "You pay for that, rookie! I'm kicking your fuckin' ass now! We're comin' at you! We're comin' right over your sorry ass!"

  "Fuck yourself." Clay shouted back.

  Newwal tried to break free, but they had him good.

  "That's it!" cried another ref, waving his hands in Clay's face. "That's enough now. Get back to your huddle and let's play ball!"

  Clay was pumped. He almost forgot all about Max and White and the whole thing. He was pissed and he had an adrenaline rush of his own. It came from him, and it reminded him of what the game was about. The game he loved.

  He could play the game anyway the asshole Newwal liked.

  The Bills came to the line. It was third and one at the one. The Ruffians were in goal-line defense, and Clay hunkered down as low as he could to meet Newwal's challenge. They would come right at him. Newwal was their game winner, their bread and butter. Newwal had handled him all game. But Clay was pissed off, and that made a difference. The ball was hiked and Newwal surged at him. This time Clay was lower and got off the ball quicker, so it was almost a stalemate and the runner was only able to push an extra half yard to make it fourth and goal from the one foot line. Clay and Newwal continued to push at each other after the play was blown dead. Whistles blared as Newwal took a shot at Clay with an upper cut. Clay grabbed Newwal's mask and twisted it, trying to rip his head off at the neck. Again players from both teams and the officials had to separate the two of them.

  "You're not going to throw him out?" Clay cried at the official. "You had to see him take that shot! Are you fucking blind?"

  "That's enough of that, son," said the official pompously, "just play the game--"

  "What's the matter, rookie?" yelled Newwal before the refs could quiet him. "Want me out of the game so we don't ram this ball right up your ass this next play?"

  Clay flipped him the bird. A ref saw it and scowled. The Bills had called time-out to stop the clock at twenty-seven seconds and give them time to consider the play that would either win or lose the game for them.

  Clay knew that it would come right at him. He also knew that with only a foot, it would be almost impossible to stop Newwal from advancing enough to prevent the score. It wasn't that Clay wasn't confident, but he knew that the ot
her player outweighed him by almost fifty pounds. Clay had one thing better than anyone, though: quickness. If he could focus and get the jump on Newwal, he could get into the backfield and make the play before the runner ever hit the line.

  Then Clay felt like he was hit with a one-two punch. The first thought that hit him was of Lyles and White. He could see them sitting there in the owner's office, smugly explaining to him the cruel and corrupt ways of their world. The image made him determined to simply lie down and let the Bills run right over him for the score. He could actually envision himself doing it. The Ruffians dream would be ruined.

  The second thought that hit him was just as powerful. It was on him like a flash. It was as though Clay's mind had skipped a beat from all the previous games, and Max, filled with energy and violence and life, his face red and his brow dripping with sweat, was giving him the same exhorting he would always give.

  "Kill 'em, Clayboy! Kick their fuckin' ass! We gotta win!"

  Then it was gone, and Wallace was calling the play.

  Clay lined up, dazed from confusion and exhaustion and stress. The quarterback started his cadence, and if it was a short one, the Bills would have won the game. Clay was still thinking. Then he did it. He slid down into the gap between Newwal and his guard and looked intently at the ball instead of the men in front of him. When it moved, he would move. It was in the quarterback's rhythm, and it was just a slight tightening by the center of his grip on the ball. Clay took off!

  The ball was snapped and both teams rushed at each other from across a very narrow space. The players came low and hard. They swung arms and fists and helmets and shoulders at one another. The crack of pads filled the cold, wet air. Clay got his jump and he twisted his shoulders ever so slightly to just avoid a full collision with both Newwal and the guard.

  Clay dipped and accelerated. He was in! Before he could think, he collided with the ball carrier with a crack. The runner spun and churned like an animal with no head and no sense for stopping. Clay clutched his jersey and got a hold. His fingernails tore, but he held on for the split second it took for several other Ruffians to get there. The ball carrier went down under a pile of black helmets. He was two feet short of the goal line.