The Throwback Special

by Chris Bachelder

  The men gave Adam a hearty greeting. They said they knew he’d make it. Where had he been?

  “Don’t ask,” Adam said, taking off his wet jacket and pumping the keg with vigor.

  “We waited as long as we could,” Trent said.

  “Seriously,” Gary said, “where were you?”

  “I mean it,” Adam said. “Do not ask.”

  “Get yourself a beer, Adam,” Gil said, though Adam already held a full cup in his trembling hand.

  “What did I miss?” Adam said. “Why are we in here? Why is Fancy Drum in the hallway? Who’s L.T.?”

  After the knock on the door, someone had bumped Carl’s projector, and the phone had toppled inside the shoe box. Derek, though, had memorized his options: Perry, Terry, Kenny. Rick, Clint, Ken. He knew, when he thought about it, that he wanted to be in the Redskins huddle. In his experience that huddle was a grave and sacred gathering. Something happened in there, and he wanted to be a part of it. While nobody seemed to be listening, Derek chose Clint Didier. He announced it quietly, to nobody, and Steven recorded it.

  “Almost Indian summer weather here in mid-November,” Vince said in a terrible Frank Gifford impersonation.

  “You sound Chinese,” Jeff said.

  “Gil, you do it,” Vince said. “Gil’s is great.”

  “Why is Carl wearing Burt?” Adam said. “Is there any pizza left, or did Trent eat it all? Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  Someone tapped Derek on the leg. He looked down to see Randy, sitting glumly in the orange chair. Randy tapped him again, and Derek leaned over.

  “You’ll wear the black gloves,” he said confidentially.

  “What?”

  “Didier wears the black gloves,” Randy said, holding up the backs of his hands.

  It was not clear to Derek whether or to what extent this despondent liar with the tragic socks was aware of Derek’s intense ambivalence about the racial implications of the lottery. Did Randy get it? Was he trying to fold Derek gently back into the community? This glum bankrupt with the patchy beard—he was either offering something to Derek, something humane and real, or he was just fetishizing sports gear.

  “And the elbow pad on your right arm,” Randy said.

  Derek nodded, involuntarily cupping his elbow with the palm of his hand.

  •

  “WHAT DID I MISS?” Adam said. “Who’s still on the board? How does that projector even work? Is this really what we’re doing this year?”

  Myron chose center Rick Donnalley, and the men snorted and oinked. Adam chose Giants cornerback Perry Williams. Charles selected Giants safety Terry Kinard, who lines up deep downfield and cannot really even be identified in extant video of the play. Peter chose what sounded like Giants safety Kenny Hill.

  “I’ll see all three of you in Vegas,” said Chad, who earlier with the thirteenth pick had selected Giants left cornerback Mark Haynes. “Vegas” was the name given to the hotel room shared by the defensive backs, presumably because their distance from the sack, their relative unimportance in the play, constituted a license for debauchery and mischief.

  There were just two balls remaining in the pillowcase, Trent’s and Fat Michael’s, and one player remaining on the board, Redskins right guard Ken Huff, traditionally a very late selection because he fails to block linebacker Harry Carson, who then chases Theismann into the pulverizing embrace of Taylor. The men at this late juncture considered the possibilities. The next man selected would be forced to take Huff, and the final man would be Theismann. Trent would have made a decent Theismann as recently as last year, but now his weight was an issue in terms not only of verisimilitude, of course, but also of agility. The man who plays Theismann must be nimble and adroit; he must step up into the pocket to avoid the man playing Harry Carson, then he must crumple convincingly when mounted by the man playing Taylor. You had to be fairly athletic and dexterous to suffer a simulated compound comminuted fracture, and everyone knew that Trent would have been a terrible Theismann. There had been unconvincing Theismanns in the past—Tommy always came to mind, as well as George—but perhaps none who had seemed so clearly unfit to play the role. The rain tapped the windows.

  Trent bit his lip, dropped his glistening forearm into the pillowcase. The room was quiet as he drew out a ball, then read his own name. His ensuing gestures and expressions of disappointment were pretty obviously feigned. Similarly relieved, the men all looked at Fat Michael. His body was so excellent that he could tuck in his shirt, and he had. He looked like one of the figures cavorting athletically on ancient Greek earthenware. What would it mean to break Fat Michael, to cut him down, albeit ceremonially? Some of the men realized that they had wished for the wrong thing, that Trent might have been the preferable option.

  Fat Michael appeared to blanch, though it could have been the sconce light that Carl turned on after shutting down the projector. Theismann’s iconic helmet was produced from a duffel bag in the corner, and it was passed hand over hand across the room to Fat Michael. Following custom, Fat Michael put the helmet on, and the men cheered and whistled, slapping his shoulders and the top of his head. With just its single crossbar, the face mask did not mask Fat Michael’s face. Everyone could see it. He made his way around one queen-size bed and over the second. The men parted, making room for him to pass. He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the fan.

  “And guys,” Trent said.

  “Hey, guys,” Trent said.

  “And guys, remember,” Trent said, “if history offers us any lesson at all, it is this: do not hang your jerseys on the sprinklers!”

  The men bellowed merrily at Andy, who, a decade earlier, had been the protagonist of the year the sprinkler went off. The misadventure had been a kind of gift to the community, and Andy was subsequently regarded as a major donor. Those who were close enough to punch him in the arm punched him in the arm.

  Out in the hallway Fancy Drum was gone.

  - 3 -

  NIGHT

  THE DEFENSIVE BACKFIELD WAS IN ROOM 212 (Vegas). The defensive line was in 256. The touchers were in Room 324. The offensive line was in 432 (the Sty). The receivers and tight ends were in 440. The linebackers were in 560 (the Fracture Compound).

  Gear exchange was a chaotic and inefficient and lengthy and primitive process. Over the years there had been several sensible, even elegant, proposals for a more orderly exchange, but each had been ignored. As they did every year after the lottery, the men now roamed hallways with helmets, shoulder pads, and uniforms, searching for the men who required their gear, as well as for the roaming men who had the gear that they required. The cumbersome burden of the equipment was essential to the rite, as was the notion of quest, as was the act of bestowal, as was the inebriated sociability among fellow wanderers. “I hate to say it about my own kid,” Nate told Vince in the stairwell, “but he’s about the sickliest little thing I’ve ever seen.” In the fifth-floor hallway, Robert, having received downstairs the pristine Jeff Bostic gear from Randy, bestowed his Harry Carson gear upon Nate. “Carson,” Nate said, wiping his palms on his pants. Robert could hardly expect Nate to notice the mended chinstrap. In fact, if Nate noticed the chinstrap, it would probably mean Robert had not repaired it well. And he had repaired it well. When Robert was a child, his father had told him that there is never a need to draw attention to one’s own accomplishments. People notice a job done well, his father had said, but in Robert’s experience that had not been true. What people notice is tardiness, failure, moth damage. Robert’s father had been a corporate whistleblower who was pilloried in the press. He now lived alone in rural Illinois, where he sat erectly in a folding chair, listening to police scanners. He carted around an oxygen tank, but still had the power to humiliate Robert.

  Nate pinched the Carson jersey at the shoulders, and extended it in front of him. Then with both hands he held the jersey to his nose, and inhaled. He nodded, tossed the jersey over his shoulder. Robert handed Nate the shoulder pads, which Nate cl
acked twice with his knuckles, and placed on the floor. Next, Robert extended the pants, the interior pockets of which Nate examined for knee, thigh, and hip pads. Finally, Robert handed Nate the helmet, upside down, the chinstrap curled inside like an hors d’oeuvre in a bowl. The long hallways seemed somehow not to be uniformly lit. There were, along the corridor, small patches of darkness. Around a corner came the grave murmurs of bestowal, the clacking of pads. The vending alcove clicked and hummed. The elevator rumbled. Nate peered down into the helmet. He gripped the chinstrap, rubbing its soft interior with his thumb.

  Startled, Robert began to back away. “What you’ve got to keep in mind, Nate,” Robert said, imitating Steven, walking backward rapidly toward the elevator, feeling, for reasons he did not fully understand, shame, “is that Harry Carson is from South Carolina.”

  JEFF SAT on the floor of the vending alcove, talking on the phone to his son.

  “Is this the one where you’re trying to escape the frigid caverns?” Jeff said.

  “Dad, no,” his son said. “This is the one where the mutated zoo animals have escaped.”

  “And you try to catch them?”

  “They seek dominion, Dad.”

  “What?”

  “Bam! You— Oh, no, my boots. What?”

  “Do you catch the animals?”

  “They’re mutants, Dad. You shoot them with lava.”

  “So you’re pretty good?”

  “Oh, God, I hate this parking garage.”

  “What are you—do you have me on speakerphone?”

  “That is not good.”

  “Who else is there?”

  “That right there is the very worst one.”

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “I think Mom’s taking us— Crap! Uh-oh.”

  “Taking you where?”

  “To . . . Grandma’s.”

  “What about Christmas?”

  “Shit. Gored again. You messed me up, Dad.”

  “What about Christmas?”

  “Dad, I told you, I think we’re going to Grandma’s.”

  In the machines there were rows and rows of snacks and candy. There they were, in full sight, bright and satisfying and twenty-five percent larger. The vending alcove operated by the honor system. Jeff was bound by his honor not to tip the machine over and smash it open with his Gary Clark helmet.

  THE FIGURE AT THE FAR END of the fourth-floor hallway seemed inhuman in its shape and movement. It was Myron. Chad had bestowed upon him the Rick Donnalley gear, but Myron had yet to bestow his Leonard Marshall gear upon Vince, whom he could not find. Thus Myron was one of several men who trudged a long hallway with two bulky sets of gear and a faraway look in his eyes. When he slowly emerged from silhouette, the men in their doorways could see that his face had a startled look, and that two helmets hung like decapitated heads from his hooked fingers. After some confusion and misinformation, Steven explained to the tight ends that the Gorgon was a type of monster, and that the Medusa was the name of a specific Gorgon. Also, that Perseus had beheaded Medusa, though Perseus had not beheaded Medusa in a giant maze.

  And where was Fat Michael?

  He was in the stairwell between the second and third floors, hiding from Peter, who was searching for him.

  Why?

  To give him the Theismann gear.

  No, why was he hiding?

  It’s difficult to say.

  Was it unusual for the man selected to play Theismann to hide in the stairwell?

  No.

  Did hiding remind Fat Michael of anything from childhood?

  There was a boy he used to hide from with some frequency. The boy had a metal leg brace, and Fat Michael could always hear it creaking and thumping as the boy climbed the front porch of the foster home. He hid beneath his bed as the boy rang the doorbell.

  Why did he hide?

  He didn’t want to see that boy.

  Did Fat Michael like his nickname?

  No. Would you?

  How was Fat Michael passing the time in the stairwell?

  He was lining up the bodies of dead ladybugs. There were nine. Then some light stretching.

  Would Fat Michael have come this weekend if his missing dog had not returned late last night, smelling like garbage?

  It’s difficult to say.

  Would Peter ever find Fat Michael?

  Yes, Gil would eventually tip him off.

  What would Peter say to Fat Michael?

  He would say that everyone should play Theismann once. He would say it’s hard to explain, but it’s an intense experience. What he would mean was that it’s powerful to relinquish control, particularly for those men, like Fat Michael, who are determined never to relinquish control.

  Why did Peter always wear that mouthguard?

  It made him feel safe.

  What would Fat Michael say?

  He would say not to call him that.

  What else would he say?

  He would ask Peter about the drought and a new operating system.

  Would he apologize?

  There would be no need.

  Would he clack the shoulder pads with his fist?

  Yes.

  Would anyone else join them there?

  Terence, a guy from Prestige Vista Solutions.

  What would the men’s voices sound like in that stairwell?

  Hushed and loud at the same time.

  CHAD WALKED ALONG the fourth-floor hallway. He had no shadow, and his feet made no sound as he walked. The hotel had transformed his sense of scale and reference. Chad had ceased being a discrete unit of biological meaning. It felt okay. The sound from Room 414 may or may not have been a cat.

  It was not yet late, but many guests had already hung their lewd Do Not Disturb signs from their door handles. Chad thought of them as Do Not Disturb signs, though in fact they did not say Do Not Disturb. There were no words on the signs at all. At some point in the history of hospitality, it occurred to Chad, the Do Not Disturb sign had become symbolic, metaphorical. It no longer utilized the crude and literal three-word injunction that ineluctably suggested wanton acts within. These signs on the fourth floor featured a sprig of bamboo leaning evocatively against a lurid stack of polished black wellness stones. This ideograph, as it turned out, was no less prurient than the old imperative, though it was no doubt more sensual than carnal. Moving noiselessly through the hall, imagining the varieties of intercourse to his port and starboard, Chad collected the signs from the door handles as he passed.

  In an attempt to avoid Andy and Nate, Chad stepped into an elevator containing Andy and Nate.

  “We were just looking for you,” Andy said.

  “Me, too,” Chad said as the doors closed.

  The men were quiet as the elevator dropped slowly toward the lobby. Andy took a long, slow drink from his red cup. Nate stared at the illuminated number above the doors, confirming the descent. Chad looked down at the shoes his wife disliked so forcefully. His wife’s contempt for the shoes was in fact their primary feature, more salient than their color, style, material, or comfort. He could not even see the shoes anymore. He could see only that face she made. The shoes were haunted. Why did she insist on expressing her disdain for these shoes? Or put another way, why did he continue to wear them? On the floor was a sticky note that read 45 DAYS. Chad felt trapped. The elevator stopped on the first floor, and the men got out. Standing on the floral carpet, Chad suffered that fleeting vertiginous wobble that health experts in an Internet anxiety forum had diagnosed as either an inner ear malady or multiple sclerosis. Nate felt it, too, an unpleasant dipping sensation, his assiduously untested hypothesis having always been that the operations of the elevator create tremors and vibrations in the hallway area in the immediate vicinity of the shaft.

  Without speaking or conferring in any way, the men turned and walked down the hallway toward the side exit of the hotel, and it seemed to each man that their pace slowed as they neared the door. Outside the exit, the
re was a picnic table next to a dumpster, and it was there that these three men traditionally convened for a post-lottery smoke. During the year, however, Chad had quit smoking, and he had yet to tell Nate and Andy. He did not know Nate and Andy well. He saw them once a year, and these nighttime smokes by the hotel dumpster were the sole basis of their friendship. They had created sub-tradition, sub-community. Chad had not quite articulated this to himself, but he felt that it would be inhospitable not to smoke at the picnic table with Andy and Nate. It would perhaps be construed as a renunciation, or as a claim of superiority or judgment. Because he saw them only one weekend per year, it might seem to them that the reason he had quit smoking was that he no longer desired their friendship, when in fact there had been other reasons that he had quit smoking cigarettes. He did not want the other men to think that he did not value their company, though in truth he valued their company only very slightly.

  Nate, also, had quit smoking nine months ago, but was reluctant, obviously, to tell Chad and Andy. For Nate there was something distasteful, almost shameful, in quitting. Doctors and schoolchildren and righteous billboards were always exhorting him to quit, and even though they were right, Nate found repugnant the notion that he must capitulate. It made him feel like a child, and he hated being made to feel like a child—though he supposed that Charles would say that nobody can make you feel anything. He had wanted to quit, of course, but to quit was to obey, to be good instead of bad, and he did not want to admit to annual smoking friends that he had surrendered.

  Andy had also quit smoking during the year, but he simply could not find a way to tell Chad and Nate. Andy had quit smoking numerous times in the past—in fact, a year ago when they had smoked beside the dumpster, Andy had not previously smoked in six months—and he had become sheepish about the very attempt to quit. He was reluctant to tell the other two because he did not want to see the knowing smirks, the nods, the raised eyebrows of men who very well knew he could never really quit. “Let us know how that works out for you,” one of them might say. “Good luck with that,” the other might say, though in fact it was difficult to imagine either Chad or Nate saying such things. The three men moved toward the exit door with lassitude and dread. They might never reach the door. A desk clerk watching the men on closed-circuit television might have thought they were demonstrating one of the paradoxes of motion, though the desk clerk was not watching the monitor but instead reading Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. Each man, it is true, was also beginning to crave a cigarette.