The Throwback Special

by Chris Bachelder

  Though everyone was quiet, Trent, as commissioner, called for everyone to be quiet. He placed the DVD in his laptop, and a menu materialized, whirring. Trent pressed play. The keyboard was hot to the touch. The television screen flickered for a moment, and then upon it appeared an aerial image of the Jefferson Memorial, stolid and columned, lit up from the inside at night. Far beyond the memorial there were headlights moving quickly across a dark highway, and more than one man thought to wonder who was driving those cars on that night, and what had become of them. A caption beneath the memorial read, “Live from Washington, D.C.” The font was blocky and guileless, naked in its pride and enthusiasm, and it worked upon the men in ways they did not comprehend. The volume was too low, but the men could hear Frank Gifford say that it was almost Indian summer weather here in mid-November. “Turn it up,” every man said, and Trent turned it up. The men could hear the bleat of the referee’s whistle, indicating that the ball was ready for play.

  THE MEN WOULD WATCH the play repeatedly. For over an hour the men would watch the five-second play, remembering, for a moment, as always, exactly where they were. The men would see that a play is what happens when two plays meet. The men would study this choreography of chaos and ruin. They would see, some of them, that hair on a mammoth is not progressive in any cosmic sense. Each man would see exactly where he would line up in his huddle. Steven would see, as he had seen many times before, the white towel tucked into the left side of Art Monk’s waistband. He would see that Monk, lined up wide at the numbers to the left side of the formation, has his right leg forward in his stance. He would also see that Gary Clark, lined up at the numbers wide right, has his left foot forward, and he would whisper it loudly to Jeff, who would pretend not to hear him as he would see Clark disappear into the dark on a sprint route, or a seam route, or a skinny post, or a corner route. Jeff and others would be forced to assume that players who left the frame of the television camera continued to exist. Derek would see Didier doing what Didier does—that protracted series of ineffectual stutter steps against Giants linebacker Byron Hunt, whom George would see. The defensive backs would see nothing. The men would be reminded by play-by-play announcer Frank Gifford that language, always, is insufficient. “First and ten . . . Riggins . . . flea flicker . . . back to Theismann.” The linemen would see the rout, the tattered pocket, blue overwhelming white. They would see the devastating pincer movement executed by Carson and Taylor. Gil would see, over and over, the majestic footwork of Redskins right tackle Mark May, who takes one step forward to sell the run, then slides back to seal the pocket and rebuff the hard outside rush of Curtis McGriff. Every time, over and over, knowing, as May must, that he cannot prevent the catastrophe, but doing his job simply because it’s his job, pushing that rock forever. Randy, the erstwhile optician, would see that as Donnie Warren he could die for all of their sins. Tommy would see but not understand that John Riggins, whatever his virtues, is not a cunning agent of dissimulation. A mechanical actor, Riggins fails to deceive the defense, fails to divert the advance of the linebackers upon the quarterback. He turns his shoulders back to Theismann immediately upon receiving the handoff. He is not stealthy, not persuasive. It is a clumsy sleight, this Throwback Special. (As Andy remarked one year in film study—either Andy or Adam—you can’t expect subtlety from a guy called the Diesel.) Nate would see that the fake run makes linebacker Harry Carson charge. Trent would see that right guard Ken Huff misses Carson as he charges. Fat Michael, the orphan, would see that the charging Carson, missed by Huff, misses Theismann, makes him step up into the pocket. Fat Michael would try to control his heart rate through deep, yogic breathing. The men would see once again that if Carson had just made the tackle, Theismann’s leg would have been spared. The men would hear Frank Gifford say that Theismann is in a lot of trouble. “Theismann’s in a lot of trouble,” Gifford says, would say, said. Gary would see that Taylor launches himself onto Theismann’s back, that he slides down Theismann’s body, that his right thigh . . . Bald Michael would see that linebacker Gary Reasons jumps on Theismann after he is down, after his leg has and had been broken in two. Wesley would see that nose tackle Jim Burt jumps on Theismann after Gary Reasons jumps on Theismann. Gary (and Robert) would see that the circuit of Taylor’s anguish could not be completed. Bald Michael would see that Gary Reasons prays. He would see how it is done. The men would recall that this was Theismann’s 71st consecutive—and final—regular season start at quarterback. The men, excepting Steven, would not immediately recall that the Redskins won the game. The youngest of the men would recall that they were permitted to watch only the first half. The men would hear Frank Gifford say, “We’ll look at it with reverse angle one more time, and I suggest, if your stomach is weak, you just don’t watch.” The men, many of them, would have a weak stomach, and they just wouldn’t watch. A few still winced and moaned, even after all of these years. There was the year that Peter threw up a little. These men, to their great shame, had sent their wives into emergency rooms with their injured children because they could not stand the blood, the needles. The men would watch the slow-motion replay, the reverse angle replay, with their hands over their faces. The men would hear, over and over, O. J. Simpson’s groaning commentary.

  But first—before that—they saw the Jefferson Memorial, which George, Nate, Jeff, Adam, Wesley, Carl, Randy, and Myron had each separately visited on class field trips in elementary school. Wesley’s teacher’s name had actually been Mrs. Fortune. They heard Frank Gifford say that it was unseasonably warm. They read the caption “Live from Washington, D.C.,” and saw that the periods were squares. The font, quaint and earnest, elicited a warm and formless memory of safety. The warm and formless memory of safety elicited by the quaint earnestness of the font made them feel mournful. The mournfulness caused by the formless memory of safety elicited by the quaint font made them feel like brimming vessels. They were alive, gloriously sad. Bald Michael had almost no hair remaining at all, just small patches above the ears, as neat as decals. The men heard the bleat of the referee’s whistle, and they saw the magic circle of the huddle, inside of which the play was chanted. When the huddle broke, the offensive players, even Theismann, jogged eagerly to the line, where the defense waited. It was a home game, nationally televised. It was first and ten, near midfield, early second quarter. Everything in the playbook was available. You could run anything here. If you had a trick up your sleeve, now was a time and a down and a field position you might try it. The men watched as the players jogged to the line of scrimmage. Theismann’s right leg was intact, as straight and strong as an Ionic column. Everything was early, everything was open. The things that had not happened yet were greater than the things that had happened.

  THERE WAS A DEER next to the dumpster behind the hotel. It stood still in the rain, ears alert, waiting to be frightened. A grainy version of the deer occupied a small box in the third column of the fourth row of the surveillance grid of the sixteen-channel CCTV monitor at the front desk. Like anyone shown on a surveillance monitor, the deer appeared to be involved in a crime.

  In another box of the surveillance grid, the parking lot glittered blackly.

  In another box, four grown men threw a football in a hallway.

  In another box, two employees from the AquaDoctor scrubbed the lobby fountain with soft brushes.

  In another box of the surveillance grid, the stairwell was so profoundly deserted as to seem post-human.

  In another box, an elevator passenger dropped into a three-point stance.

  In another box, it was very difficult to tell what exactly was going on.

  In another box, a man wearing an elbow pad ran an unsustainable pace on the treadmill in the workout center.

  In another box, two grown men threw a Frisbee in a hallway.

  In another box, the continental breakfast had long since ended.

  In another box, was that a cat in a hallway?

  In another box, inhabitants of the conference center applauded
silently.

  In another box of the surveillance monitor, the front desk clerk ignored the sixteen-channel surveillance monitor.

  In another box, a man pacing and gesticulating alone in a hallway was either suffering from mental illness or using a phone with a hands-free headset.

  In another box, an upside-down bird gnawed grainily on the knotted rope in its cage.

  In the final box, an elderly man walked with purpose and a dignified limp through the lobby doors, into the hotel, vanishing from the box. He then reappeared in the front desk box, placing his elbows on the desk in a manner that seemed both inquisitive and assertive. He spoke with the front desk clerk—he appeared to speak with the front desk clerk—then walked briskly out of the box. The elderly man reappeared in the elevator box, pressing buttons, or more likely pressing a single button repeatedly. Here, in the elevator, you could see him well. He was perhaps seventy-five, with a full head of neatly trimmed gray hair. He was tall, with excellent posture. He wore a plaid shirt tucked into dark pants, but it was not difficult to imagine him wearing a uniform of some sort. The man did not, like almost all passengers, look at himself in the mirror on the back wall of the elevator. After a time, the elevator doors opened, and he exited the box. He reappeared in a different box of the sixteen-box surveillance grid, walking toward a group of grainy men throwing a football in a hallway. Most of the men dispersed immediately, though one of the men stood against the wall as if frozen. His face, which was not clearly visible on the surveillance monitor, had a startled expression. The abandoned football still spun on the hallway carpet like the altimeter dial of a rapidly descending aircraft. Midway down the hall, the elderly man stopped outside of a room, and knocked on the door. The vending alcove was neither visible nor audible. The man appeared to say something to the door. One is forced to assume that he was viewed through the peephole. Eventually, the door opened, and the elderly man entered the room, disappearing from the box in the fourth column of the second row of the surveillance grid. By this time the deer, too, was gone from the box with the deer in it.

  IN THE LOBBY, Wesley walked circles around the fountain, where a quality control representative on break from the Prestige Vista Solutions retreat was talking to the workers from the AquaDoctor about ornamental carp. Wesley’s daughter was having trouble sleeping because someone at school had told her that Jesus got pinned to the arch for his belief system, but right now Wesley needed to concentrate on Giants nose tackle Jim Burt. What Wesley needed to keep in mind, according to Steven, was that Burt was undrafted out of the University of Miami. As Burt, Wesley had the not-insignificant role of pushing hard up the middle, then diving belatedly onto a screaming pile containing Theismann. The key was to wait for Gary Reasons, played by Bald Michael, to dive late onto Theismann, whose leg was already fractured by Taylor, before he commenced his own late dive onto Theismann’s fractured leg. There were two late hits—Reasons had the early late hit, and Burt had the late late hit. Burt had invented the Gatorade shower, Steven said. The rhythmic whisper of the soft brushes against the tiles of the fountain sounded like a mother putting her baby to sleep. Wesley, at any rate, had to remain patient. He had to have an internal clock, Steven said. He had to make certain he did not get too excited and dive prematurely late, as certain Burts had in previous years. (Gary’s Burt, four or five years ago, arrived at Theismann almost before Taylor.) Wesley’s uniform had pizza sauce on the shoulder stripes. “Do you mean nailed to the cross?” Wesley had said to his daughter, immediately regretting it. He had chosen to care about accuracy, correctness. Why? The child had seemed fragile ever since the squirrels had mutilated her jack-o’-lantern. “Hey, look, it just makes it spookier,” Wesley had said, holding up the mauled pumpkin, but the child was inconsolable. Her worry box was full. “This is not something that just started,” Wesley’s wife had said. “She’s always been like this.” “She’s just overly sensitive,” Wesley said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” his wife had said. Wesley missed his children, the gay son in college, the troubled girl at home. He wanted them not to suffer, even though he knew suffering was important. He wanted them not to have more than their fair share. He was helping to raise sensitive children. That was the worst kind of children, the most painful. “He came back to life, though, honey,” Wesley had said of Jesus, immediately regretting it. It was the early afternoon, Saturday, but as he walked around the fountain Wesley imagined his daughter sleeping. That was the time he loved her best. That was the only time she wasn’t running her mouth. That was the only time she wasn’t explaining the world, trying to make it safe with her words. The workers from the AquaDoctor and the quality control representative from Prestige Vista Solutions looked up to see the elderly man walking through the lobby, lightly gripping the arm of a nondescript Caucasian male, perhaps forty-five, with brown hair (streaked gray), receding hairline, pale and puffy and carelessly shaven face, rogue hair growth in ears and nostrils, bushy eyebrows, yellowed teeth, vitamin deficiency, wrinkles around eyes, some dark spots on face and hands, maybe six-feet-two in college but now shorter, about one ninety or one ninety-five with an incipient gut, a slight limp, no visible scars or tattoos, a slightly enlarged prostate, wearing ill-fitting jeans, a pilly sweater from Target, and a light jacket with a dry sheen. The two men were clearly father and son—you could see it in their walk—but the elderly man had aged far better than the younger man. The father’s grip on the son’s arm was less about support than custody. The younger man carried a duffel bag.

  The front desk clerk looked down from the father and son to watch the father and son grainily traverse a small box on the sixteen-channel surveillance monitor. “We could carve the other side of the pumpkin,” Wesley had said to his daughter. “We could get another pumpkin,” he had said. “We could go eat the squirrels’ food,” he had said, pretending to dig up nuts with his paws. “Honey,” he had said to his daughter, “those Bible stories were translated.” Wesley, circling the fountain, preparing intently for his role as nose tackle Jim Burt, did not see Adam’s father leading Adam out of the hotel.

  •

  CARL WASN’T a particularly gifted barber, but he had all of the equipment—the cape, the dull scissors, the electric clippers with a cord that was too short. He had cut hair in college to make money, and for a dozen or so years now he had offered cuts to the men on the afternoon of the Throwback Special. The haircuts were optional, free, and private. Carl’s clippers glistened with golden oil. The men signed up for fifteen-minute appointments, but they all tended to arrive at Carl’s room at the time of the first appointment. The man with the first appointment went in alone, while the others waited in a line in the hallway, seated against the wall in the order of appointment. Some men in the hall had no appointment, and just came for the company. Thus, the ritual was communal, but only in the hallway, where the men laughed and talked, while the clippers buzzed faintly behind the door. Carl had nothing to do with this arrangement. He would have welcomed all of the men in the room together. He would in fact have preferred chatter and merriment and derision to solemnity and isolation, which he found exhausting. But the custom reflected the will of the men, for whom the haircut was as private as a urological exam. The custom arose spontaneously, and it was perpetuated without consideration. A haircut by an acquaintance required submission, and submission required privacy. The man sat, he wore a musty cape, heavy as a welcome mat. Carl sprayed his hair with a water bottle and combed it, humiliatingly, straight forward. There was no mirror. Drops of water ran down the man’s nose. His face itched, but he did not scratch it. His arms were trapped beneath the heavy cape. He was a child again, a boy. His thoughts drifted toward his mother. The standing barber circled his chair, carelessly bumped him, wiped water from his face, hair from his ears. The barber leaned down close, breathing heavily, smelling like a man. His forearms were hairy. The barber talked, or he didn’t. The barber cut the hair however he wanted to cut it, regardless of request or instruction. He moved the
man’s head up, down. The barber nicked him—the neck, the tips of the ears—then dabbed the blood roughly with a towel. The man resented this optional experience that he craved. When a man came out of Carl’s room, the other men whistled and made loud noises at him. They made fun of his haircut, made fun of Carl. “What did he do to you?” Then it would grow quiet in the hallway, and the next man would stand and knock gravely on the locked door.

  3:00: Peter

  Peter’s hair was wavy and wiry. It was brittle and lifeless, like something partially buried in an ancient seabed. It was both thick and thinning. At the crown of his head a turbulent cowlick seemed to be churning toward landfall, forcing evacuation in low-lying areas. Carl had never given Peter the same cut twice, and the sight of the swirling cowlick made him nervous and angry. To cut hair was to love order, but Peter’s scalp was the site of radical turmoil. Not even a skilled barber could have done much with it. The hair, though, was only part of the issue. Peter was, as the ancient barbers whom Carl had worked with in college would have said, a leaker. Some people, almost as soon as you lay that heavy cape across their shoulders and put your hands to their heads, begin to lose the solid self. Peter removed his mouthguard, the emotional levee. He was trying to tell Carl about the children’s choir’s fall concert, and he could not finish. The sound from those rented risers . . . Carl was annoyed, but he knew what to do. He had watched the old-timers. He tucked the scissors into his back pocket, and he picked up the spray bottle from the bedside table. He did not move quickly, but neither did he move slowly. With the spray bottle, he sprayed water onto Peter’s head. He sprayed and sprayed, combing forward. He doused Peter’s head until streams of water ran down Peter’s face. Peter knew to keep his hands beneath the cape. Carl sprayed. It was an old trick, a ruthless courtesy.