by James Ross
“Take it to the bank!” Pork Chop shouted. He had just crammed a handful of Doritos into his mouth and spewed crumbs out of his mouth. The cheesy residue coated his fingers.
“Dat wuz uh good run,” Tuey butted in.
“Yeah, but did you see who made the call?” Fred asked as he looked up from the scorecards momentarily.
“It was that same referee that blew that call last week,” BT chimed in. He noticed things like that since he had officiated in the past.
“It sure was!” Elia yelled out. “He must be on the take.”
A saddened look enveloped Tuey’s face. He recognized the referee. “Dat’s uh good frien’ uh mine.”
“The guy that runs that bait and tackle shop in the bottom,” Paul said.
Tuey nodded his head. “Dat be Suds, Slugs, an’ Sinkas.”
“Yeah, that’s the name of it,” Dr. DV said.
“He ought to keep selling beer ’cause he doesn’t know squat about football,” Captain Jer volunteered. “Even the Japanese can see that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“It looks to me like he’s fixing the games,” Pork Chop interrupted.
Tuey was moved by the comment. “Nah, my frien’ D. Wayne wouldn’t do nuttin’ like dat.” He pushed a Vienna sausage and cracker into his mouth as Pork Chop licked his fingers. “Dat sho’ wuz uh good run though.”
Captain Jer raised the beer can to his lips but stopped short of taking a drink. He had to pause for a second as a slight hiccup escaped from his mouth. “What do you know about football?” Tuey glared in Jerry’s direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Twenty Years Earlier . . . New York City, December 1987
The annual Mr. Swineskin Trophy, the most cherished college football award in the country, is handed out yearly to the most deserving player in the nation, at least according to the legions of sportswriters and media types providing coverage. Sitting atop the base of the trophy was a gold-plated football. Above that was the gold-plated bust of Jay “Tubby” Scheelze mounted over the laces. The sheer weight of the trophy was an astonishing twenty-six pounds.
In the years following the end of World War I, football had emerged as a popular sport and gripped the nation. The journalists on the East Coast had been following the escapades of an Ivy League football player who had nearly eaten his way off of the playing field. At five foot seven he was dumpy as football players go. With short, stubby legs he could not run very fast either. However the player had a block of marble for a head. To intimidate the opposition he literally ate and drank everything that he could grab and stuff into his mouth. His weight ballooned up to nearly three hundred pounds. The nickname that he had acquired wasn’t flattering, but it sure was better than being called a lard-ass.
When it was time to score the coach always called his number and Jay “Tubby” Scheelze literally bowled his way into the end zone. One touchdown became two and two became forty-one. Pictures of him dragging opposing players and knocking them into the first row of the stands swept the country. So the Mr. Swineskin Trophy was born. As the years passed the trophy annually went to the best college football player in the nation as determined by the press.
This year, 1987, was no different. The top two candidates for the prized trophy were a black, star running back from a large Midwestern university with impressive credentials. His name was WeWildapheet Ulisees O’Tweety, nicknamed Tuey. His chief rival was the son of a Unites States senator who played for an Ivy League institution. Johnny Frank Lynne, otherwise known as “Talkin’ Johnny,” was a quarterback who lacked size, arm, and mobility. However, he was a darling of the media and had padded his stats with a plethora of quarterback sneaks for touchdowns.
An event-filled weekend was planned for the honorees. The award winner was always announced between the end of the college football season and start of the college bowl games. The college players flew into JFK airport in New York City. For Tuey it was the first time he had been on a plane by himself. On all the other flights he had taken he was with his coaches and teammates. The minute he stepped off the plane and walked into the airport runway camera flashbulbs nearly blinded him. Reporters thrust microphones in his direction. It was an eye-opening occasion for the black, running back from the Midwest.
The event organizers hustled Tuey to a waiting limousine. He was driven to the downtown athletic club and was honored with the other nominees during a Friday night, coat-and-tie ceremony where the college stars got any opportunity to meet all of the past award winners. Even though four nominees attended the banquet, everyone in the nation knew that it was a two-horse race. The top two candidates were Tuey O’Tweety and Johnny Frank Lynne. And a lot of handicappers were betting on a large contingent of East Coast votes going to Talkin’ Johnny.
The next day, Saturday afternoon, the award presentation took place. The 1987 Mr. Swineskin trophy for the best college football player in the land went to Johnny Frank Lynne in what was considered a “stuff-the-ballot-box” fiasco. The East Coast body of sportswriters won out. They got their “home boy.” And to say that politics had nothing do with the award would be a misnomer.
“Talkin’ Johnny’s” press conference that immediately followed would have produced a riot had it taken place anywhere other than on the turf of the home grown poster child. “Can you explain how you happened to get the trophy when eighteen of your twenty-one touchdowns came on quarterback sneaks?” one announced asked.
The light-haired kid that couldn’t grow a mustache replied, “This award is to be shared with my teammates.” He flashed his winning smile across the room.
“But Tuey O’Tweety had four touchdown runs over ninety yards and three more over eighty yards. He was responsible for forty-four touchdowns from running, receiving, or throwing. How could your sneaks have more importance?”
“You’d have to poll the voters. Maybe it’s because our team won.”
“Could it be possible that your dad, Senator Lynne from Massachusetts, had influence over the media?”
“Oh, come on,” Talkin’ Johnny pleaded. “That would be too far-fetched. This award is about football achievements and all of my teammates.” He struggled to raise the twenty-six pound trophy above his head for all of the flashing light bulbs.
“Is that implying that Tuey O’Tweety didn’t accomplish enough on the gridiron?”
“He was a good candidate. He had a spectacular season. You’d have to ask the voters.”
And so it was over and over and over. Tuey O’Tweety got on the plane and went home empty handed. What followed was even more devastating. In a New Years’ Day bowl game he was carted off the field with a career ending leg injury. His hopes of playing pro ball were gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Curt walked up to the table in the back where the boys had congregated. “I’s knows aw ’bout football an’ white America fixin’ tings,” Tuey blurted back to Captain Jer.
“Yeah, right,” Captain Jer said sarcastically as the beer can went back to his lips.
“You must have been too busy flying planes back then,” Curt interrupted. Captain Jer gave him a puzzled look. “Tuey almost won the Mr. Swineskin trophy when he played college football.”
“What’s that?” the uninformed retired pilot said.
The guys around the table started laughing. “You’ve never heard of the Mr. Swineskin trophy?” Pork Chop asked.
“Heck, we oughta be asking for this guys’ autograph,” Fred said as he handed his scorecard and a pencil to Tuey. “He’s a legend!”
“At least in college football,” Pork Chop followed. He rubbed the rest of the cheese crumbs off of his hands and turned to Tuey. “I didn’t know that was you!”
The hubbub of the moment embarrassed Tuey. Modestly he begged out of the attention. With a grin he replied, “Dat wuz uh long time ago.”
“Long time ago or not, you should have won the trophy,” Curt said as he voiced his opinion.
“Yeah!” Fred followed. “You were rob
bed.”
“It sho’ wuz fun back den.”
“So you better show him a little more respect, Captain Jer,” Curt said as Captain Jer mumbled something inaudible under his breath.
Dr. DV had spent his early years on the Wyoming-Colorado line close to Nebraska. He was a big fan of the Cornhuskers. The mention of Tuey’s name caused him to become star-struck as he reached out to shake Tuey’s hand. Before anyone could blink he put a pad of paper and pen in front of the ex-college star wanting an autograph as all of the attention at the back table shifted to Tuey.
“Why don’t you come in with an eight by ten next week for him to sign?” Captain Jer said as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. He had become an afterthought as his drunken one-liners became background noise.
The door to the clubhouse opened and a five foot nine knockout walked through the door. Dressed in dark blue culottes and a colorful patterned blouse, Ginny Slater wiggled the fingers of her left hand into a golf glove. It had been several weeks since Curt had seen his golf date. She looked different than she had on the day they had met. Her hair was pulled back and worn in a braid. A white visor with Titleist scrolled across the front in bold, black letters adorned her head. Curt abruptly turned away from the boys and gave his full attention to the tan, long-legged female. “I thought you worked all of the time,” he said.
The comment puzzled Ginny. “I do! What do you mean?”
“The tan.”
She laughed. “You can pay for that now. Ten minutes on an electric beach can make up for an afternoon by the pool.” He walked up to Ginny and welcomed her to his second home.
“What’s got into him?” Fred whispered at the back table to the rest of the guys.
“Just take a look,” Elia said as he ogled the statuesque younger woman. Quickly he shut off his electric razor and slipped it quietly into his travel purse. “Curt’s no dummy.”
Pork Chop had his back to the front door. He sniffed the air. He closed his eye and let his nose inhale several puffs. “I can tell something beautiful is in the room by the smell.” His nose pointed high in the air as he tilted his head back and took a series of small whiffs. “That’s heavenly.”
As far as Scottie P was concerned her entrance created as much excitement as a golf umbrella. He had no interest in Ginny and kept his attention on the college football game that was being broadcast. Paco seemed to be pre-occupied with cleaning his nails with a golf tee while Tuey dug the last Vienna sausage out of the can and deposited it in his mouth.
But Curt’s energy level had been turned up a notch. “Can I load your clubs for you?” he asked Ginny.
“Sure. They’re in my trunk,” she said as she reached into her pocket for her keys. “Let me pop it open.”
Curt opened the front door as Ginny reached outside with her keys and pressed the remote on her key chain. He continued to her BMW to get her clubs.
“What the heck is wrong with him?” Pork Chop complained at the back table to the other guys. It was if he had lost his best friend. “Look at that.”
“I’ve never known him to even golf with a woman,” Fred commented.
The smug look on Elia’s face remained. “Like I said a few minutes ago . . . take a look at her.” The boys shifted their attention back to Ginny. “Quit looking at Curt and start looking at what’s making him act that way.” He sniffed the air again. As the boys watched him he broke into a smile.
“Maybe that is good for him,” Pork Chop conceded. “He needs something to help him get over all of that cancer stuff.”
“I guarantee you something that smells that good and looks that nice will do it every time,” Elia said. He watched out the window as Curt loaded Ginny’s bag on the back of a golf cart and jumped the steps two at a time.
“We’re all set,” Curt announced as he bounded through the door. Ginny had gotten some bottled water from Julie. She adjusted her visor and headed for the door.
“I can’t believe it!” BT shouted from the back table.
Curt and Ginny stopped in their tracks. “What?” Curt asked. The yelp was so loud he thought that something catastrophic had happened.
“I won!” BT shouted. “I won!”
“You won what?” Curt yelled across the room.
BT held the cap to a twenty ounce cola bottle. “I always get that combination of letters that looks like a foreign word. This time I got one that says if I buy one I get one free!” He held the cap in the air for everyone to see. “That’s the first thing I’ve won in a couple decades!”
Curt held his hand to his face pinching the top of his nose. With his thumb he rubbed one eyebrow and with his forefinger he rubbed his other eyebrow. Then he started laughing. “Come on, Ginny. Let’s get to the first tee before somebody takes the wrapper off a candy bar and wins a dollar.” They exited the door and headed for their cart.
Maybe the best time of the year to play golf around St. Louis was the middle of October. The leaves were turning on the trees and the colorful background made for an artist’s dream. The temperature was ideal. There was no humidity and little wind. After Curt pulled up to the first tee, Ginny wasted no time jumping out of the cart and walking up to the men’s tees. She placed her tee in the ground, assumed a perfect stance, and laced one long down the middle. She turned to Curt. “Chase that one big boy.”
Curt couldn’t help but marvel at the athletic ability. Male or female, she could play the game. His major objective was to not embarrass himself. During chemotherapy treatments he hadn’t had an opportunity to keep his game real sharp. “I’m not one to make excuses,” he said as he got behind the ball and looked down the fairway, “but I haven’t played too much lately.”
“And you think that I have?”
He got a mild surprise a moment later when his drive carried past hers. It gave him a slightly smug feeling of accomplishment.
The course didn’t have too many golfers on it. “Where is everybody on a day like this?” Ginny asked a few holes later.
“At this time of year everybody tries to tee off early and get done by lunch. A lot of the guys want to watch football games. Some go to the wineries. Some take bike rides. There’s too much other stuff going on before winter hits.” St. Louis was foreign to her so Curt thought that he’d give her a heads-up on the other things that people did in the area.
“That makes it nice for us then. It seems like we have our own private country club out here today,” Ginny commented. She enjoyed the brisk pace of play.
“As far as I’m concerned that is the way golf was designed to be played. It wouldn’t bother me one bit if we got done in less than three hours,” Curt said.
“Me either,” Ginny replied. “There are not enough hours in the day for me.”
Curt thought that the door was opened for some prying. “What exactly do you do?”
“I can’t tell you,” Ginny said.
“Oh, top secret, huh?”
Ginny smiled. The topic had come up with virtually everyone who entered her life. She enjoyed her secretive side. After a shrug she said, “I don’t know about that, but what I do is the government’s business and no one else’s.” She stood over a four foot putt and blasted it into the back of the cup.
“So you’re going to be evasive,” Curt said as he put the flag into the hole.
“Not intentionally,” Ginny said as they reached the cart. She put her putter into her golf bag, “but I’m not going to compromise what we’re working on by talking about it.” She got into the cart. “There’s too much at stake . . . both for the government and me.”
“You mean you could lose your job?”
Ginny twisted the top off of her bottled water and took a sip. “Sure.”
“So you’re some sort of V.I.P,” Curt said as he continued prying.
Ginny thought that she would throw him a little meat left on the bone. “Look, we live in a nasty world. There’s a lot of crap that goes on.”
“Tell me about it,” Curt agreed, “
and I’m not so sure that the government isn’t a paid participant and responsible for part of it.”
“There’s corruption everywhere and you and I aren’t going to be the parties responsible for stopping it,” Ginny said as Curt inched the cart to a stop at the next tee box.
“And you don’t think that brings on an ethical conflict?” Curt tried to get under her skin a little in an attempt to get her to open up.
“Look, I’ve got a great job. Very demanding. With lots of perks. Great salary, bonus, retirement, pension, benefits,” Ginny said as she defended herself.
“Paid for by the taxpayer’s money,” Curt said as he stood his ground.
Ginny liked the verbal sparring. It made her think on her feet . . . something that she was very skilled at doing. “And I’m responsible to my bosses not an individual taxpayer. That’s who I have to answer to.” She reached over and put her tee in the ground.
Curt took one more stab hoping that his persistence would pay off. “Come on. You can trust me. Why don’t you just tell me what you do?”
Perturbed, Ginny replied, “First off it’s none of your business.” She gave him a look that let him know she wasn’t about to violate her oath to the government. “And secondly, you really don’t need to know.”
Curt found the mystique surrounding this woman challenging, yet attractive. “Well pardon me for asking,” he replied sarcastically silently hoping that the disappointment in his voice might sway her a little.
Once again she gave him a look that seemed to stare right through him. She slowly shook her head. “Uh-uh. That won’t work either, big boy.” She loved to intimidate. “Besides,” she paused, “if I told you, I might have to kill you.”
Curt glanced at her out of the side of his eye. Intuitively he came to a quick conclusion that he had better drop the subject. There would be a time down the road when it would be broached again. He grabbed a set of binoculars with a range finder, placed them to his eyes, and stared at the flag. “It’s a hundred and forty-six yards to the pin,” Curt said in an effort to help club her.