Hail Mary

by C. C. Galloway

  Michael felt himself coloring at Murray’s well-deserved rebuke. As the team’s defensive captain, Murray looked out for all of “his players.” Due to the league’s rules along with their egos, players frequently failed to mention any physical ailments to their coaches or the trainers for fear of being replaced, particularly veteran players who were watching the recent draft selections, biding their time until it was their chance for their professional debut. In this case, the Tide had drafted Tamar Johnston to replace Campbell. But not until retirement. Certainly, no sooner.

  “If there is something wrong with him, I’m not aware of it,” Michael said.

  Murray looked him up and down before evidently deciding he was telling the truth. “You’re a lot of things, Santiago, but you’re not a liar. If I noticed how slow he was in practice, you can damn well guarantee Coach picked up on it. If Campbell doesn’t perform at his optimum best tomorrow, Johnson will not waste a second running Coach’s ear off about how he should be starting in his place. Think about it.”

  “What the fuck do you want me to do about it, Murray? Ask him if he’s feeling alright? Jesus.”

  “What I want and what I’ll settle for are two different things. Tomorrow when we’re dressing and you and Campbell are warming up, subtly try and feel him out. Fuck, I don’t know. Tell him you’re sore as shit from all that extra bullshit you do and see if he says anything. Look, you know me. I won’t out him. I won’t tell anyone, but if something’s wrong, you and I need to be prepared to defend the line and the wide-outs tomorrow and minimize Campbell as much as we can. That’s all.”

  Picking up his weights again, he said, “Alright. I’ll see what I can do, but you should know, Campbell and I don’t talk much.”

  “Of course you don’t, Mr. Silent. Talking to you is like paying taxes for other people. Something only to be done out of necessity and then with the least amount of effort as humanly possible so that no one will notice what you’re doing.”

  Michael continued with his reps, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “You know, the City of Brotherly Love has a lot of exceptional restaurants. If you joined us tonight at one of Philadelphia’s fine establishments, you might have the opportunity to use the speech muscles you keep under lock and key.”

  “And I’d want to do that why? So I can hear all you fools talk about how awesome each of you are. How many chicks’ numbers you’ve received since we landed? How everyone’s gonna fuck someone up tomorrow for the Eagles? It sounds fascinating, but I’d rather trim my toe nails.”

  Murray laughed, his chuckle having the same boom-like quality as his voice, amplifying throughout the gym.

  “Cynical, much? Seriously, Santiago, you have no idea what we talk about at dinner because you can never be bothered to come. You don’t know anything about your teammates.”

  “I know exactly what I need to know, which is what everyone’s position is and how they play.”

  Murray shook his head. “If you didn’t make more than me, I’d almost feel sorry for you, Santiago. With a world view like yours, you’re going to end up a lonely, bitter man. Your teammates are a lot more than the sum of their parts on the field. If you took five minutes, you’d know that. You might even decide you liked them. I know, actually enjoying something is so not who you are, but your career is a gift numerous men would kill for. You should appreciate it because before you know it, retirement will be staring you in the face, unblinking and unrelenting. You should think about it now and think what you want your future to look like.”

  “First Dr. Phil and now Oprah. Thanks for the pep talk, Murray, but I’m doing just fine on my own. So, unless you want to discuss my performance on the field, why don’t we just call it a night?”

  Murray inhaled a deep breath and then spoke. “Because you’re younger than me, I’m going to ignore the blatant hostility in your tone and chalk it up to professional jealousy. No one’s saying you need to make your teammates your best friends. Hell, no one on this team is anyone who’s going to stand up for me at my yet-to-be-planned wedding. The point is, we’re in this city together, tonight, all away from home and if you gave your teammates half a chance, you might find out they’re not as bad as or as self-centered as you think. You might surprise yourself and have a halfway decent time. You know I know my way through the culinary experience in this town.”

  Michael considered him briefly before responding. “Johnson’s an asshole.”

  “Hell, yes, he’s an asshole. Everybody knows it. You ever think that maybe if you came out and socialized with him, you’d be able to put the little monster in his place and remind him that he’s a fucking rookie who isn’t fit to tie your cleats? You ever consider how much pure fun you could have fucking with that little douche bag? You could have a helluva time totally messing with him. And because it’d be coming from you, he wouldn’t expect it nor know how to handle it. Shit. That might possibly be the most entertaining event I have yet to experience.”

  The visual Murray planted in his mind held a certain appeal, but hanging out with his teammates had never been a part of his social life. Fuck, he’d never had a social life.

  And he liked it that way. Things were better the way they were. No changes. No additions. No female distractions. No girlfriends. No expectations outside of his professional career and the goals set by him, his coaches, and his teammates. That was enough. It had to be.

  “I’m going to finish my workout, but you enjoy yourself,” Michael said, turning away, deliberately telling Murray their meeting was over.

  “You change your mind, you’ve got my cell. Text me and I’ll tell you where we’re at. Don’t worry, I won’t hold my breath,” Murray said as Michael watched him in the mirrors exit.

  As his captain, Michael’s relationship with Murray was complicated. Murray was one of the toughest teammates Michael had ever played with. He demanded a lot of himself and his teammates, which he respected the hell out of. For years, he’d been trying to convince Michael to socialize with him and others, but it wasn’t his way. Never had been, never would be.

  Mary would love him, he thought, hating the fact that she’d immediately popped into his head after the short respite Murray’d provided. If this continued and she still distracted him from the task at hand tomorrow, he was seriously screwed. Not since he was an adolescent had he been unable to completely put something out of his mind, especially when he needed to perform on the field. Ever since he’d left her the night before, it was as though Mary had dug in and planted herself firmly at the forefront of his cerebral cortex and refused to budge.

  During the entire flight to Philadelphia, he’d mentally replayed all the offensive plays the Eagles held in their arsenal and the expected defensive calls. But bit by bit, her expressions and her face would pop in, intruding, reminding him of his behavior the previous night.

  Stubborn, beautiful female.

  Chapter 5

  Sunday afternoon, Michael realized at the beginning of the third quarter against the Eagles that they had their work cut out for them. The Tide was down twenty-seven to ten, not an insurmountable lead, but given the way Philly was playing and the Tide’s own serious errors, it felt like forty-five to three. The team needed to put this one in the “W” category any way they could, be it solid, beautiful, or ugly. The Eagles were doing everything to prevent it, from the never-ending blitzes against Johansen, to their special teams having already blocked two punts. The Eagles were locked in a battle for the top spot in the NFC East division while the Tide was battling to stay alive in the NFC West. It was do-or-die for the Tide. They had to win this game in order for them to have any hope of post-season action. A loss would almost certainly eliminate any hope for reaching the playoffs.

  Lincoln Financial Field, home to the Eagles, was loud with rambunctious, happy fans full of nachos, hot dogs, and beer. Late October in Philadelphia was only slightly milder than late October in Wisconsin. A few degrees shy of freezing.

  All the Tide p
layers on the sidelines were in full pads, moving up and down, some jumping in place, while others had their hands buried in their hand warmers, all in order to work off their tension and contain as much heat as possible. Most wore their long team coats over their uniforms to ward off the snow and the chill. It was the kind of chill that seeped into your bones and did not let go until you were underneath a long, hot shower. Or a soft, willing woman.

  In order to prevent his hamstrings and quads from tightening up, Michael refused to sit; instead, he roamed up and down the sidelines as the Tide’s Special Teams went in for yet another punt. He hated the fact he could only control what happened when he was on the field and couldn’t do a damn thing about Johansen’s mental breakdown.

  He stood off to the side and behind the other players and coaches, fully avoiding Murray and Johansen. His two teammates were a train wreck looking for a place to happen. It didn’t look like any fists would be raised but with those two, anything was possible. Including a knock-down, drag-out brawl on the sidelines. He hoped like hell that Murray and Johansen could keep it together for the last thirty minutes. If they were going to go at it, he wanted them to wait until the cameras were off. Fucking press would have a field day with an intra-team fight between their struggling quarterback and defensive captain.

  “Sack up, Johansen. Get your fucking head in the game and get a fucking first down. Remember first downs? It’s where you move the ball at least ten yards in three plays,” Murray criticized the Tide’s veteran quarterback.

  Johansen spit out his water, glared at Murray, but remained silent.

  “What? You forgot what a first down looks like?” Murray continued. “My guys are fucking exhausted. If you want us to have any hope of holding them from here on out, you’ve got to score and take some time off the clock.”

  Murray was right. The Eagles offensive line was starting to manhandle the Tide’s defense, a defense that was exhausted due to the numerous three-and-outs Johansen and the rest of the offense had put up. The team’s last first down had come late in the first quarter. Johansen needed to engineer a comeback that started with at least a six minute drive down the field. It was the only way they’d be able to catch their breath in order to terrorize the Eagles’ offense.

  None of the players were meeting each others’ eyes. The half time break hadn’t been great since they were behind and had gotten there because they were sloppy, slow, and sluggish. In addition to Johansen and the offense not having a first down since late in the first quarter, the defense had given up over three hundred yards in the first half alone, a stat that mortified Michael. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d allowed that much yardage this early. They were lucky the score wasn’t worse, like sixty-four to zero, but it was bad enough. If they mimicked their actions from the first half, they were sure to head home with a big, fat, loss, something everyone wanted to avoid and more importantly, needed to avoid.

  Michael and Murray prepared to run back on the field and lead their defense when Murray left Johansen with a parting shot.

  “It’s time you fucking earned your paycheck,” he proclaimed, punctuating each word with a jab to Johansen’s chest. Johansen’s restraint impressed Michael. If Murray had been riding his ass like that, there would have been blood, regardless of the fact that they were in the middle of the game. While he agreed with Murray’s sentiment, he wasn’t sure about the timing of his advice. Johansen seemed like a man on the edge the last few weeks. In the five years Michael had played with him, his signature style was to play with his emotions close to the surface. In the past, he’d typically fired up the sidelines with his fire. This season, he had about as much fire as a vacant church lot.

  Still, in the face of Murray’s attack, Johansen kept his cool. Anyone watching at home would only see the Tide’s defensive captain giving words of advice to his beleaguered quarterback. No one would see the tension or hear the words that demonstrated how far from encouragement they were.

  “We’ll do our job. You do yours.” The only noticeable sign Murray’s words had any effect was the tightening of Johansen’s jaw as he watched the defense take the field.

  Michael followed Murray out onto the field and lined up on the right side of the defensive line.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  It was the Eagles’ first down on their own thirty-four yard line. They had four wide-outs and one running back, no fullbacks and no tight ends. Higgins, the Tide’s defensive coordinator, called for a full penetration blitz on the Eagle’s quarterback.

  As a defensive end, Michael played on the outside edge of the defensive line. He was prepared to attack Harrison or stop any offensive runs to the outer edges of the line of scrimmage depending on the call. Campbell, the veteran defensive end, took his place on the left side. The Tide had drafted Tamar Johnson to replace Campbell within the next couple of years, but until then, Campbell showed up every week with everything he had. That was the only kind of intensity Michael respected.

  As soon as Ball, the Philadelphia Center, flipped the ball to Harrison, Michael took off like a rocket, blasting around the right side of the offense to penetrate and sack Harrison. He loved this. The rush. The fight. The blitz. None of their offensive linemen could stop him and he nearly succeeded, but narrowly missed at the last second as Harrison was able to get the ball off and aim it towards his running back, Tyrese Bradshaw, who let it slip through his fingers.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  There was no excuse for letting that happen. A rookie mistake he’d never even made as a rookie.

  On Second and Ten, same play, but this time, Michael flew around the offensive line, and sacked Harrison for a loss of seven yards. The play quieted the crowd and all around him, his teammates congratulated themselves. DiPalma was clapping his hands enthusiastically on the sideline and the other coaches were nodding their heads, trying to maintain the optimism generated by the play. There were momentum-changing plays that electrified the team, energizing them. This qualified as one.

  Even so, no one approached him to congratulate him, slap his ass, or chest bump with him. They knew better. Murray was the only one who dared comment.

  “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Let’s go rip off the rest of Harrison’s nuts.”

  On Third and Seventeen, Santiago penetrated the offensive line and caused a fumble that Campbell immediately recovered. Johansen converted the fumble into a touchdown and the Tide ended up pulling it out, twenty-four to twenty-one in the final three minutes of the fourth quarter.

  “Helluva game, Santiago,” Murray congratulated him as they headed towards the locker room.

  “I should have had that last interception.”

  “Look. Every game has one or more plays that could have been improved on. We won and that’s all that counts. Enjoy it.”

  Michael’s icy silence was his only response.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  After the conclusion of the Tide’s game against the Eagles, Mary laced up her sneakers and searched for Max’s new leash. She’d had it earlier in the afternoon, but seemed to have misplaced it. Calleigh had called and was on her way over for an evening walk. Knowing Calleigh, it would be more run/walk than walking, but Mary was looking forward to it. She’d spent the afternoon with her rear glued to the couch. It wasn’t her fault one of the four televised football games was the Tide’s game against the Eagles, was it? She’d practically been forced to watch it. In her deepest heart, she knew it wasn’t so much the Tide that held her interest captive, but the Tide’s right defensive end. At least that was what she told herself as she found her eyes focused on the sidelines whenever the station would cut over to the uniformed players in grey pants and navy jerseys, searching for any sign of number thirty-nine.

  She hadn’t been disappointed. Michael was single handedly responsible for three sacks and one fumble recovery. Despite his successful plays, every time the station’s camera tracked him to the sidelines, none of his teammates engaged in celebrations with him. No ass slapp
ing. No chest bumping. Not even the basic, retro high five. No one talked to, or even approached him. It saddened her he appeared to have devoted his life to a sport and a team he received no joy from.

  Calleigh’s text announced she was outside waiting. After recovering the leash in the bathroom, Mary and Max joined her at the bottom of the building’s steps.

  “Hey you.”

  “Hey yourself. Hi, mister. I think you know I brought you something.” As Max nosed his way up and down the side of Calleigh’s pants, she withdrew a heart sized dog treat from her jacket pocket Max practically jumped once it entered his field of vision.

  “You are too good to him. You know that, right?”

  “Max deserves to be spoiled. And what exactly are you talking about? I’ve never known you to not make sure Max gets a treat after every single walk and even after every time you let him out.”

  “True enough. I can’t help it. He’s my baby.”

  The rain had stopped and they set off turning left on Northwest Twenty-Third to trek up to Burnside, over to Twenty-First and back to Mary’s apartment. The streets on a Sunday night were characteristically quiet as though they too were trying to rejuvenate and prepare for the week ahead.

  “How was your week?” Mary asked.

  “I’ve had better. I had two DHS calls, one on Monday and a second one on Tuesday. Then on Thursday Lauren called me up and floated the idea of going to Mexico for Christmas. Mexico, for God’s sakes.”

  “What’s wrong with Mexico?”