by Bill Syken
I close my eyes and visualize my punt routine. Limber stance. Easy catch. Flat drop. The top of my foot meeting the wide bottom of the ball. Up, up, and away.
I just need a chance. Onderay Marshall is back on the field and leading the offense again. I have to root for him to throw inaccurately, but not so inaccurately as to be intercepted. I call up a precisely calibrated hex, and it works. On a third-and-four, Onderay throws a short pass out in the flat a good five yards over the head of his intended receiver. It is time for another punt.
“Eleven!” Huff shouts.
Finally. My number has been called. I have a shot.
I trot onto the field and take my position, standing up on my toes, loose, hands to my side. I stand at our forty-nine-yard line, which means that I can go for my coffin corner. Put it out of bounds inside the five. I can remind them just what a weapon I am.
Of course, if I go for the corner and miss, I am fucked. I slept horribly last night, and the night before. But I have practiced this too many times not to go for it when I need it most. I have spent practice session after practice session in an unvarying and monotonous routine, all in order to build muscle memory, and I need it now. The left corner. I can drive that ball straight into the left corner and end this competition now.
I give the signal, and Backlund snaps me the ball. It comes out to the right. The far right. I cannot field it cleanly. Fucking Backlund.
I lunge and snag the ball with both hands before it hits the ground. But now I am bent over and turned to the side, and the rush is coming quick. If I try to right myself and punt, my kick will be blocked. That is the last thing I need.
So I run farther to the right, sidestepping the defenders who are charging up the middle and also evading a rusher who has made a clean break coming from around the left side. He is closing in on me quick.
I keep running to the right and, looking upfield, I see a #80 with that goofy webbing on his helmet. I have no idea who #80 is, but God bless him, he is doing exactly what he has been instructed to do when the play breaks down, which is to run a short out pattern. A defender is shadowing #80, a half-step behind.
I rise up and throw an adrenaline-powered dart that hits the receiver in the chest. He makes the catch and turns, taking a step upfield before he is tackled.
The pass gains eight yards. We have a first down.
I can hear the vets holler and applaud. If I am not mistaken, I even hear Bo John White call out, “Oh, shit! Gallow’s after my job!”
Someday, Bo John. Someday.
As I run off the field, I veer toward Backlund.
“Nice one, Nick,” he says, giving me a hard pat on the rear end as I pull up alongside. He seems unconcerned about his two blown snaps.
“What’s going on, John?” I ask. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Backlund says with an easy smile as we settle on the sideline next to each other and take off our helmets. “It was Tanner. He told Huff to have me give you and Woodward each a bad snap. Wanted to see how you’d handle it.”
Great. As if this week hasn’t been stressful enough, Tanner has to increase the level of difficulty. What a cock. But if he’s giving me a test, it means he hasn’t decided to cut me.
And now Tanner knows that when a play breaks down, he would rather have me back there than Woodward.
The public will never see my pass to #80, never know about it, never care about it. But right now it feels like my Bradshaw-to-Swann, my Montana-to-Clark, my Manning-to-Tyree. It is too soon to say that I have beaten Woodward. I suspect they will continue to look at us through the first cuts of regular training camp, at least. But with that play, Tanner’s uptightness will become my friend. Every time he thinks about replacing me, he will see the image of the ball squishing out from underneath Woodward, and he will know that if Woodward turns the ball over like that during a regular season game, he will wish he had paid me that $350,000.
And if I survive till training camp, and the team pays me that bonus, it will blunt the Sentinels’ financial incentive to switch punters. Once behind me, the $350,000 will work in my favor, because if they’ve sunk that much money into me already, they might as well hold on to me.
Nothing is settled, but my math just became a whole lot better. I feel like I will remain a Sentinel for a while longer. I should survive through to August.
CHAPTER 23
AS I JOG in from the field, I see Cordero waiting by the entrance to the locker room area. She smiles broadly when she sees me. She is such a sweet, upbeat gal; it pains me that I am coming to dread the sight of her, all because of the job she does.
“I talked to Scott Nellie,” she says with a sly smile. “Sounds like you handled him quite well.”
“Who were you checking up on, me or him?” I ask.
“A little of both,” she says. “Have to keep my children safe. Speaking of which, Freddie Gladstone texted me. He says he needs you to call him right away.” She says this with her customary good cheer, as if she didn’t have anything better to do than pass me messages.
“Thanks, Eleanor,” I say. “You’re the greatest.”
I trot into the locker room and, still in full pads, retrieve my BlackBerry from my lockbox and go outside to return the call in privacy.
“I did it,” Freddie says, sounding a little breathless. “I am coming to you live from a real working law office. This might not be that bad, actually. Everyone is very friendly, well-dressed. A couple of the secretaries are hot. The only dickish moment so far was when one of JC’s lawyers told me not to speak to the press at all.”
“So his lawyers are competent, is what you’re telling me.”
“Pretty much.”
“What are they planning?”
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out how the coffee machine works. They have all these flavor packs, but I can’t figure out where they go.”
“You can survive without the flavor. Just read up on the case.” I pause before adding, “Call me later. Let me know how the day goes.”
* * *
By the time I emerge from the showers, Woodward is already gone. Which disappoints me. Back in college I read The Iliad; one of my favorite details from that book is how the great warriors, before fighting, would dine with each other and exchange gifts as a sign of respect. I like that tradition; it recognizes that those men, despite battling for opposing armies, are a brotherhood. I have no gift to offer Woodward, but I want to at least give him a proper farewell.
Back at the Jefferson, I drop in on the Tolleys. When I knock, it is Woodward who opens the door. He is in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, looking particularly young.
He has a hangdog sourness on his face, but he clears it quickly when he sees me. “Nick, this is a surprise.”
He holds a garbage bag in his hand.
“I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of something,” I say.
“No, no, I am just helping to pick up a little before we check out tomorrow,” Woodward says. “Come on in.”
I enter and see four sleeping bags on the floor, and clothes in various piles alongside them. Plus empty bags of pretzels and corn chips, and cans of beer. Many empty cans of beer. The room is fetid and airless. Woodward said he was helping, but I see no one else here.
“Everyone’s out getting cheesesteaks,” Woodward says. “Can’t go to Philadelphia without eating a cheesesteak, right?”
“Afraid not,” I say. “How come you’re not with them?”
“To tell you the truth,” Woodward says, with a forced smile, “after today, I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“C’mon,” I say, though I feel a guilty rush of hope that he has been cut already. Has Udall pulled Woodward aside after practice and told him it is all over? “You had a great camp, Woodward. I was very impressed.”
“Really?” he says darkly, bending over to pick up a can of Coors Light and chucking it into his bag. “How about that bad snap? You caught yours and threw for a first down. I
dropped mine and then I didn’t even cover the ball.”
At that point the toilet flushes, and a young woman emerges from the bathroom. She is in her middle or late teens, and is wearing blue-jean shorts and a black sleeveless T-shirt, and her dirty blond hair hangs down below her shoulders.
“This is my cousin Annie,” Woodward says, smiling at her warmly. “She’s keeping me company.”
Annie slinks over to shake my hand.
“Hi, Annie,” I say. “I’m Nick.”
“Nick Gallow?” she says. Her smile disappears and her handshake loses what little force it had.
“Yes,” I say.
She turns to Woodward. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s a teammate,” Woodward says, with emphasis.
She shakes her head. “If you say so.” Then she flops down on the sofa and turns on the television.
“Do you have another garbage bag?” I ask. “If we work together, we can have this place clean in five minutes.”
“No need, Nick,” he says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re still the rookie around here, right?” I say. “Go get me a trash bag, now.”
Woodward smiles and fetches me a bag from the utility closet. I begin to clean while Annie remains perched on the sofa watching television. After clicking past a few shows, she settles on the reality program Celebrity Fit Club. As I fill my bag, I listen to the contestants on the show. One exclaims, I look like a pregnant man!
I am impressed with the quantity of Coors Light the Tolleys have gone through. Every time I look under a dirty shirt or giveaway paper from the lobby, I find a few more. They must have gone through five cases of beer this week.
Near one sleeping bag I come across a small black cardboard box, with red lettering that reads WINCHESTER VARMINT X. I open it and find three bullets inside. I study the outside of the packaging and see that the box originally contained twenty bullets, for a .270-caliber rifle.
“Those are Uncle Frank’s,” Woodward says. He is suddenly standing behind me.
“Quite the hunter, is he?” I ask.
“He likes to eat what he’s killed,” Woodward says. “He hasn’t been to the meat section of a supermarket in five years. Remember how I invited you over for fried turkey the other day? He bagged that turkey himself. He had to drive a few hours out of town to find a place to hunt, but he did it.”
“Frank’s a real genius,” Annie mutters. “Spent sixty dollars on gas to kill a twenty-dollar bird.”
“Sounds like a remarkable fellow,” I say. “Did he take his rifle with him to stalk the wild cheesesteak?” In my cleaning I had not seen a gun to go with these bullets.
“He wouldn’t leave it lying around,” Woodward says. “It must be in the truck.”
“Smart man,” I say. “You wouldn’t want a rifle to get in the wrong hands.”
Standing there, with this box of bullets between us, I let the silence linger—just like that officer did to me at the scene of the shooting, hoping I would blurt out something, just to fill the quiet.
“How’s your agent doing?” Woodward asks.
“Better,” I say. “He’s home.” Vicki had texted me upon their arrival in Ohio.
“That’s great,” Woodward says. “Tell him I wish him well.”
“I will,” I say. “Thank you for that.”
Then we resume cleaning, as Celebrity Fit Club babbles on in the background. The instructor is now barking at a recalcitrant dieter. “You can’t do this on your terms! It’s not your game anymore!”
I look at the mess Woodward’s family has left behind, and I wonder how much help it actually was for Woodward to have the whole clan in town this week. From what I can see, Woodward’s support system could be a real drain.
In my cleaning, I hit a cluster of snack-food packaging—an empty box of Tastykakes, some empty Fritos bags, a couple ice-cream sandwich wrappers that have been licked clean. I hope this isn’t what Woodward’s per-diem check was used for.
And then I find the tatters of a gray Sentinels T-shirt, one that Woodward must have brought home from the locker room. It has been slashed sideways repeatedly.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Woodward says, reaching out an arm. “Let me get that…”
In holding up the shirt I see the name GALLOW handwritten across its back in black Magic Marker, along with my number eleven.
Whoa.
I look at Woodward, who gazes down and away, in the general direction of his cousin. I turn to Annie just in time to see her looking back toward the TV, and snickering as she shakes her head.
“Any comment?” I ask him calmly.
“You know how it is,” he says, hands in pockets, head tilted askance. “Everyone wants me to make the team so badly. They were just letting off some steam the other night. No one meant anything by it.”
The shirt has been attacked with such enthusiasm that it is barely in one piece.
“No hard feelings?” Woodward asks pleadingly.
“No,” I say. And I mean it. Because I’m not a complete hypocrite, and I can’t say that I haven’t wished failure upon my young friend.
Though now I really wouldn’t have put it past his family to have trashed my apartment a few nights ago, as if they were a pack of bratty kids on Mischief Night.
I throw the shirt in the garbage and within minutes Woodward and I finish our work. The place is, if not clean, at least presentable. We set our bags near the door.
“Good-bye, Nick,” he says, extending his hand.
“See you at training camp in a few weeks,” I say. “Let the competition continue.”
“Let’s hope so,” Woodward says.
“I’d bet on it,” I say. Then I turn to Annie. “Good-bye,” I call to her. “Nice meeting you.”
“You leaving already?” she sneers, without taking her eyes off the television. “Got what you came for, did ya?”
More than I expected, actually.
* * *
When I return to my apartment, I open up Footballmania.com and scour their news stories about the shooting, but I cannot find the detail I am looking for. This is the problem when football beat writers have to flip a switch and become police reporters. Not a single article mentions the caliber of the bullets that hit Cecil and Samuel.
I text Freddie, asking him to look into that detail. It is an unlikely scenario, to be sure, but I need to check in the name of thoroughness. I want to know if it was a .270, on the off chance that Uncle Frank’s rifle is missing because it has been planted in the back of Jai Carson’s car.
CHAPTER 24
FREDDIE RESPONDS TO my query by saying that he’s left the office already but he will look into the matter tomorrow, if he remembers.
I don’t believe it likely that the Tolleys are behind the shooting, with me as their target. Nor do I regard it as impossible. Three years ago, in 2006, the punter for Northern Colorado State was stabbed in the leg in a parking lot, and the culprit turned out to be a player he had beaten out for the job. And Northern Colorado State is a small school, with a weak football program. But one man was willing to commit felony assault so he could punt there. Obsessions don’t always make sense. It is the rare Romeo who chooses wisely the Juliet he would die for.
* * *
Minicamp is done and we are off for more than a month, until full camp begins at the end of July. But I wake up the next morning feeling like I need to work out. Between the trip to Alabama and then minicamp itself, my muscles feel antsy. They are telling me that I have fallen off my fitness routine.
I begin in my apartment, doing two hundred squats with my twenty-two-pound weight bar yoked across my shoulders for added resistance. Then I do two hundred push-ups and another three hundred squats, and then go down to the lobby and run up seventeen flights of Jefferson stairwell.
I finish in just under an hour. I shower and poach myself an egg, and then I check my phone to see if Freddie has gotten back to me. It’s coming up on 9:00 A.M., and he is
surely not even in the office yet.
I think of what else I might do today. My agenda is suddenly empty. I could visit my mother, as I had promised, but I don’t want to leave town. My loose plan for these days had been to spend them at Freddie’s beach house. But Freddie is working, so that is out.
After these camps are over, or especially after a season is over, I often go through a down period that I would compare to postpartum depression, except that I don’t want to analogize between bringing a new life into the world and a three-day minicamp.
The red light on my phone blinks. A message, from Aaron.
Take a look. I’m sure there have been more embarrassing police investigations but I can’t think of one.
The document is too big to download on my phone, so I boot up my laptop and open the report on the Winking Oyster. I scan for Melody’s name, but I do not see it anywhere. If the report doesn’t mention her at all, this is going to blow my theory about her criminal past, and it certainly won’t arm with any piece of information that I can use to get her to talk.
I go back to the top and read more thoroughly, and I soon find the reason for Aaron’s disdain. Vice police worked the strip club for ten months before they moved in for what seemed like a small number of arrests.
The police did nab five dancers for offering sex services and two bouncers for dealing in ecstasy, amphetamines, and marijuana, but no bosses were arrested. The operation must have gone on for so long that its main targets got wind of what was happening and beat their way out of town. Then the cops realized the big fish had gotten away, collected whatever they could, and shut down the club, just so they would have something to show for all their drooling recon. A single sentence tucked meekly at the bottom of the report told the story: “The club’s co-owner, VAUGHN PENDERS, and a bartender, ALICE PENDERS, disappeared on December 9. They are believed to have been key figures in these operations and are actively being sought.”