by Pat Flynn
“Hope or Denham?”
“Denham. Don’t worry, there’ll be no press. And we’re not bringing in the county athletic director. Not yet.”
“Goddamn it, Chase! Who are you bringin’?”
“Just me, Coach, and Jed Stanwich.”
“The lawyer?”
“Just an interested observer, tonight.”
“Goddamn!”
“You’ll be going to hell if you keep that up, Frase.”
Mr. Fraser slammed the phone down. “You go to hell!”
chapter 33
After short pleasantries, which weren’t all that pleasant, the meeting got underway. Like most places of politics, this room had seen more than its share of mind games, scheming, and skulduggery, and tonight would be no exception. The men from Denham sat on the far side of the mahogany table, leaving the chairs closest to the entrance for the visitors. It was an old mafia trick: sit facing the door so you can’t get shot in the back.
Strike one.
The three Hope men—Principal Gordon Fraser, Coach Ben McCulloch, and Attorney at Law Errol Simmons (for job-security reasons both the coach and the principal preferred not to get the mayor and the pastor involved)—were tieless. The Denham connection wore dark silk ties that matched their black jackets and polished black leather shoes.
Strike two.
A small tape recorder sat in the center of the table. “Gentlemen, the tape you are about to listen to is a backup, of course,” said Jed Stanwich, a Denham liquidation lawyer who made his fortune when many Texas oil companies went belly-up in the late 1980s. “The original is in an envelope addressed to the county athletic director.”
He pressed Play.
Strike three.
“Warren Ross, Empire Hotel,” said an Australian, answering a phone.
“Hello, Mr. Ross, my name’s Don Morgan. I work for a Texas newspaper.” It was an American voice and Errol Simmons thought he recognized it. Probably one of Stanwich’s cronies, he decided.
“Texas, Queensland?” said the Aussie.
“No. Texas in the United States of America.”
“United who?”
“States of America. You know, the country.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, mate. What’s a Yank ringing me for?”
“I was wondering if you know a boy named Austin Eaton?”
The voice became friendlier. “Ozzie? Yeah, course. Jack’s grandson.”
“Good. Well, Austin’s having a lot of success here on the football field. Did you know that?”
“Ozzie? Playing footy in America? I had no bloody idea.”
“Well, I’m just calling for some background information on Austin. I heard that he plays rugby for a team that you own.”
There was a laugh. “No, mate. I don’t own ’em. I own the pub and we sponsor ’em. Buy their jerseys and stuff.”
“What team is it?”
“The Yuranigh Magpies. Ozzie helped us make the Grand Final this year. Bloody brilliant, that kid.”
There was a pause. “I heard it’s a pretty good league he’s playing in. Professional?”
“Most of the blokes play for fun, but there’s a bit of money in it.”
“So you pay Austin for playing?”
“Just pocket money, really. One fifty a game, but he’s worth a lot more.”
“So he makes one hundred and fifty dollars a game playing rugby?”
“That’s what I just said. Look, who are you again, mate?”
“Don Morgan.”
“And you’re a journalist?”
“That’s right.”
“What paper do you work for?”
“Umm. The Texas Post.”
Jed Stanwich hit the stop button.
Coach McCulloch spoke. “I’ve lived in Texas my whole life and I ain’t heard of no Texas Post.”
“I’ve seen some low things in my time but this is lower than a rattlesnake in the grass,” growled Principal Fraser.
The Denham coach stood up. “Then tell me, what do you call recruiting a professional athlete to play for your school?”
“That’s unfair and you know it!” said Coach McCulloch, standing and leaning across the table, finger pointing at the rival coach. “We had no idea the kid played rugby and made, what, a hundred and fifty dollars a game? Whoop-de-doo!”
“He’s a pro, Ben. You know and I know it’s illegal as all hell.”
“You have five players who run the forty in under four and a half seconds. If anyone’s recruiting professionals it’s you boys with your crooked district line.”
All three Denham men got to their feet.
“You take that back or I’ll shove my hand so far down your throat you’ll be shittin’ knuckles!” said the Denham coach.
“You can’t coach a lick so I’m pretty sure you can’t fight, either,” snapped Coach McCulloch.
The Denham coach suddenly jumped up on the mahogany table. The principal and Jed Stanwich grabbed an ankle each to try and stop him from killing the Shooter coach.
Coach McCulloch had his arms outstretched. He didn’t believe in fighting, but this was one time he’d gladly make an exception. He’d endured the ugly face coming toward him for fifteen defeats in a row, goddamn if he’d let these people take his one sweet victory away without a fight.
Errol Simmons, the Hope lawyer who hadn’t said a word, shouted, “STOP IT! ALL OF YOU!”
The men looked at him.
Errol spoke quietly into the sudden silence. “Let’s sit down and work this out like civilized people. If I want Jerry Springer, I’ll turn on the TV.”
Grudgingly, everyone returned to their seats.
“We’ve got a situation here and I’m sure it can be resolved,” Errol said. “What are you men proposing?”
Jed Stanwich answered. “We want Hope to turn themselves in to the county athletic director.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Principal Fraser. “He’d shut us down.”
Errol put his hand out. “I’m sure there’s another way. I don’t think Denham would like it if, say, someone hired a team of private investigators to take a look at their program, see what they could turn up.”
“You’d find nothing,” said Chase Biggs, the Denham principal.
Errol looked up at the paintings of Denham mayors on the wall. These men knew a thing or two about playing political hardball. So did Errol. “So if, say, I asked the teachers why not one football star has failed a subject in twenty years, which would of course have made them ineligible to play, they’d tell me it’s because they’re all such fine students?”
“Yes, they would,” said Biggs.
“And if I asked Mr. Garnett, who, if my memory serves me correctly, resigned last year as head of math, he’d say the same thing?”
Chase Biggs didn’t reply. He took a sip of water instead.
“Errol’s right,” said Stanwich. “I’m certain we can come up with a better alternative.”
“And don’t tell me,” said Principal Fraser. “You just happen to have one.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Stanwich. He gave a little smirk. “Now we all know if this tape was given to the county AD all hell would break loose. The Shooters would have to forfeit all the games that Austin played in, which was every game this year, and they might even be kicked out of the competition.”
Principal Fraser’s lips tightened. Without a winning football program his school would be just like any other school, except worse.
Stanwich continued. “And if the press were to get ahold of this, the towns of Denham and Hope might declare war against each other.”
The men nodded. On this one point they all agreed.
“So what I’m suggesting is that the tape never sees the light of day. If that happens, Hope keeps its tie for the district championship.”
“What’s the catch?” said Coach McCulloch.
Errol held up his hand, stopping the coach from saying any more.
“Well,�
�� said Jed Stanwich, “all we ask is that Hope lose the coin toss tomorrow night. Then Denham and Booth move through to the play-offs, everyone sympathizes with Hope for their rotten luck, and no one need be any the wiser.”
“No deal,” said Errol. “You lose the tape and we’ll lose a certain math teacher’s phone number. Everyone here knows he resigned from Denham when he was told that all first-string football players must pass their exams. I hear he’s dying to tell his side of the story.”
Stanwich grinned. “Errol, it’s a nice try but I happened to talk to Garnett this afternoon. He’s got a good job up there in Arkansas. He’s happy to let bygones be bygones and he told me so. Lose the coin toss or lose the season. It’s your choice.”
There was silence for a few moments. No matter how bitter this proposal was to Hope, the alternative tasted a hundred times worse.
“How do you deliberately lose a coin toss?” asked Principal Fraser.
Stanwich stopped grinning. “We have a plan.”
chapter 34
Unlucky Shooters Miss Play-offs
By Brent Sherlock
TIMES Sports Writer
If only we were bears.
A fairy-tale season came to an end last night when a coin landed the wrong way up in a freeway diner.
Finishing in a three-way tie, the Booth Bears, Denham Armadillos, and Hope Shooters couldn’t all advance to the state play-offs. One team had to be eliminated by a coin toss, and so when the respective high-school football coaches showed up they did so with white knuckles and the knowledge that a dream would end for a town.
In an unusual break from convention the coaches didn’t throw at the same time. Coach Chuck Creely from Booth went first and came up heads, as did Coach Mal Shield from Denham. Coach Ben McCulloch, who was last, reached into his left pocket, took out a nickel, and took in a deep breath. For a moment he held the coin up to his eyes, as if in prayer, knowing that he needed heads to force a retoss.
It came up tails.
“We had a heck of a season,” said Coach McCulloch. “Going 8 and 1 and tying for a district championship is something I’m awfully proud of. I hope everyone in Hope feels the same.”
The Shooters’ players were gathered at team captain Tex Powell’s house, glued to the radio. Many openly wept when the result came through.
“It totally sucks, man,” said Powell. “We could’ve gone all the way this year.”
The Hope community has offered their condolences and support. Julie Slipper from the school board said that Coach McCulloch has been offered an increased salary and the opportunity to hire a new offensive coordinator. The coach was not available for comment. Slipper also said that a pep rally would be held on Tuesday night to congratulate the players, whose 8–1 regular season record is the best in sixteen years.
For Hope fans, however, this will be little consolation. For the first time in a long time a Shooters team seemed capable of playing for a state title. The trouble is, when the postseason starts, they won’t be there.
According to well-known booster Dave Graham, there is only one option. “After the pep rally we go into hibernation and don’t wake up till next season.”
If only we were bears.
In related news:
—Malivai Thomas underwent a major knee reconstruction to repair his anterior cruciate ligament last night. The surgeon said that, although the operation was a success, it will be a long, hard road back for Thomas and there is no guarantee he will ever regain his blinding speed. At present Thomas is unsure of his future in football. Since the injury, no college has expressed an interest in signing him. —Sam Wilson and Austin Eaton are taking a recruiting trip to Justice University this weekend. The Eagles are interested in both Shooter stars.
chapter 35
The gymnasium at Justice University is almost as big as a football field. In fact, in the middle of the gym is a quarter of a football field, where the green grass is artificial along with the cool breeze—a welcome escape from the summer sun.
The rest of the gym is filled with free weights, power racks, chin-up bars, exercise bikes that beep, giant rubber balls, and lots, lots more. Signs on the wall display lifting records that are all held by footballers, because at Justice, footballers are the biggest and the strongest. They’re also the only athletes eligible to hold lifting records.
Before he’d come to America the only place Ozzie had lifted weights was in the old dairy, where he had a wooden bench, a bar, and four forty-pound round weights. He’d become used to things being bigger and better over here, but this … Imagine how much muscle Johnno could put on here in a month?
“Pretty cool, ain’t it?” said Andy Hosking, the student who’d been assigned to show Ozzie around. “Not much like this back home.”
Ozzie looked at Andy. “Where are you from?”
“Australia. Cahn’t you tell?”
Ozzie did his best not to laugh. Andy sounded about as Australian as Greg Norman. “What part?”
“Sydney. You?”
“Yuranigh.”
“The outback?”
“Sort of.” Ozzie couldn’t get over the way this bloke talked. “How long you been here?”
“I’m a junior, so just over two years. They offered me a golf scholarship and I jumped at it. It’s an awesome school. You’ll love it.”
To Ozzie, a junior was a youngster, school was a place you went to before university, and awesome was a word you didn’t use when describing school. He wondered whether he’d talk like this if he lived here a few more years. Would he become someone another Aussie didn’t recognize?
“We’ve got some cool stuff lined up for you,” said Andy.
“A sorority party tonight and some boosters are taking you to the Steakhouse for lunch tomorrow. Those cows melt in your mouth, dude.”
Andy showed Ozzie around the rest of the university, including the athletes-only dining room, the athletes-only dorm rooms, and the athletes-only games room. Athletes could go for their whole four years at university and meet regular students only in class.
The athletics department was housed inside the college’s seventy-thousand-seat football stadium. There were hundreds of offices and huge tutorial rooms designed to make sure athletes passed their classes and stayed eligible to play sports for Justice. Ozzie was introduced to dozens of smiling faces that said, “So pleased to meet you! Hope to see you next year!”
One of the offices was bigger than all the others and it wasn’t the athletic director’s. The door to it opened and out walked the head football coach with his arm around Sam Wilson’s shoulder. Both were smiling.
“Coach Lee, this is Austin Eaton,” said Andy.
“I surely know that,” said Coach Lee, shaking Ozzie’s hand. The coach wore an Eagle T-shirt, which showed a stomach fat from too much barbeque but stretched tight from years of sit-ups.
He turned to Sam. “Son, I’d like to see you real soon.”
“Thanks, Coach,” said Sam. He leaned in close to Ozzie. “Good luck, mate.”
Coach Lee ushered Ozzie into his office. Mounted on the wall above his chair was a deer’s head, and on the other walls were photographs of football players, and banners saying Conference Champions.
“Have a seat,” said Coach Lee. “How’s it all going so far?”
“Good.”
“What’s impressed you the most? The purdy college girls?”
Ozzie smiled. “The weight room.”
“It’s somethin’, innit? I’ve seen boys go in there, 150, 160 pounds …” The head coach sat back and studied Ozzie. “About the same as you. They spend a summer in the weight room and”—he clicked his fingers—“they’re 200 pounds. Not boys anymore but men. You won’t find too many people wanna mess with that much muscle. Your daddy a big man?”
“Not huge, but real strong. Still can’t beat him in an arm wrestle.” Ozzie didn’t realize that he wasn’t talking about his father but his grandfather.
“You spend some time
in our weight room and I guarantee you’ll pin his arm to the table so quick he won’t ask for a rematch.” Coach Lee laughed briefly, then became serious. “Look, Austin, let me get right to it. Our recruiters have been watching you all season. Most boys we study for two or three years, so you were a surprise package, I’ll admit. But with you, right away we liked what we saw. You’re not the quickest or the biggest, but you’ve got something the others don’t. You know football. I don’t see that often, especially not from an Australian.” He shook his head. “Look, I just want to know one thing. What do you love about the game? The most? Because I believe it’s the things we love that tell us who we are.”
Ozzie looked up and saw a black-and-white photo of a player diving to make a catch. The player’s eyes were on the ball, his body stretched horizontally, three feet off the ground. “When I’m out there, I don’t have to think about anything. I can just … play.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Best form of meditation I ever had was being handed the ball on fourth and one with three linebackers heading straight for me.” The coach gave a wistful smile. “But that was a long time ago. Now I get paid a million dollars a year to run a football team and you know what I tell my players? It’s worry money. I get paid to worry about all the things that can go wrong so the players don’t have to. All they need to do is pass their classes and play football. What more could a young man want? But you know what? Not many of them can do it. They worry about being a starter, about winning, about making it to the pros, about which cheerleader they’re gonna date. But it’s boys like you who I want. Boys who can let me do the worrying for them. Boys who can stay in the moment and just play. Sometimes I think America has got too much on its mind to be great these days.”
Coach Lee locked eyes with Ozzie. “Now I know you are a big-time rugby player as well, but I’d love to have you here as part of our program. In front of me is a piece of paper with your name on it, with an offer of a full scholarship for four years to Justice University. That’s housing, meals, books, tuition, and the chance to play football for one of the finest college teams in the country. Now, I know you haven’t been here too long, but let me tell you, any boy from Texas or nearly the whole of the USA would jump at this opportunity. After four years, if you’re good enough, there’s always the chance of a professional contract. We had a boy last year who signed with the Dallas Cowboys for $20 million. But even if that doesn’t happen, you’ll leave here with an education you can use anywhere in the world and memories that will last a lifetime. I don’t need an answer straightaway but I will need one soon. You think about it.”