Titans

by Tim Green

  By the time Cook got everything worked out, Rizzo and Camille had parked their car and were lost in a stadium of eighty thousand people.

  When their meal was over, Hunter and Bert collected their overnight bags and hailed a cab for the stadium. The team provided buses, but those didn't leave until a little later in the morning. Like many veterans, Hunter and Bert both liked to get to the stadium early to go through their rituals of taping, dressing, stretching out, and reviewing their game plans one final time. For three hours before the whole team was ready to go out, Hunter usually fussed like an old lady getting ready for church.

  The cab they'd caught at the hotel let them out at the mouth of the tunnel. Hunter breathed deeply. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs cooking mixed with the stale smell of spilled beer gave him a sense of belonging. For most of his life those smells meant football, and football was his life.

  On their way down the ramp a maroon Dodge Dynasty went screaming by them and screeched to a halt. A cop car was close behind, and the two friends pulled up short to watch the action. They saw the cops draw their weapons on the handsome black man in a suit and dark glasses who'd gotten out of the Dynasty.

  "Must be a fucking drug dealer or something," Bert said out loud.

  "In a Dynasty?" Hunter said.

  Bert shrugged. This New York is a fucked-up place. Where I come from, you don't see crazy shit like this happening," he said.

  The cops and the man exchanged a few words, and all three of them disappeared into the security offices at the bottom of the tunnel. Hunter and Bert rubbernecked as they passed the office on their way to the locker room, but they could see nothing through the battered blinds that hung in the office windows.

  Once in the locker room, Hunter almost began to forget his problems. The routine was everything, and for years he had used it to reduce even the most intense stress. He took comfort in dressing in his uniform the exact same way he'd been doing it for fourteen years. The obsession with the routine was more a distraction from the anxiety of the game than deep-seated superstition, as many people thought it to be. Hunter didn't think they'd lose if he made a mistake like looking into the mirror on the way out of the bathroom. But it was part of his routine not to look, so he didn't.

  Hunter was taped and dressed by the time most of his teammates were arriving from their bus ride. Now he was into the part of his routine that included a complete review of the game plan, followed by a personal prayer. The team always prayed together, of course, but he habitually said his own beforehand. Hunter was seated on the stool in front of his locker, looking at the carpet in front of him and saying his prayer when two large black wing-tipped shoes came to rest directly in his line of vision. This annoyed Hunter. He tried to ignore the distraction, but the shoes didn't move.

  Hunter looked up and found himself face to face with the cold, rodent-like eyes of Carl Lutz. He felt a nervous urge to revisit the bathroom. Carl smiled.

  "How did you get in here? How did you get that?" Hunter said, shifting his eyes to the blue-and-yellow locker-room pass that hung fastened to the button of Carl's suit coat.

  Carl only continued to smile and stare at Hunter.

  "I'm here to make sure you don't forget you got a job to do today," Carl said in a low, threatening tone. "You got a nice little family. I'd hate to see you fuck up and have something bad happen to them."

  Hunter just stared at Carl's pass.

  "I remember," Hunter said quietly in a voice that was tinged with nausea.

  "Good."

  Hunter looked up to watch the burly thug walk calmly out of the locker room. Hunter gazed around him, nervous that someone might have seen their exchange, but the rest of the team was more than a little busy getting ready for the season opener.

  Hunter was in a daze. The nightmare was fresh again in his mind. How could the thug have gotten such a pass? Then Hunter remembered that nothing was beyond those kind of people. That thought scared the hell out of him. It was all he could think about.

  Before he knew it, Hunter was out on the field, standing with his helmet under his arm in an assemblage of warriors. Out of habit, he sang The Star Spangled Banner" under his breath. Moisture welled in his eyes at the final words of the song, and the crowd roared. The usual feeling of noble battle, where the rules are clearly set out and the contestants cross the field after the game to shake hands, of being one great country, under one flag, normally touched Hunter before each game with the same kind of sentimentality that inspired Norman Rockwell. That and the thrill of the impending contest were typically a high.

  Today he had no such thoughts. Bewilderment and fear clouded his mind. That he was going to shave points in this contest was unquestionable. Just to hear his family mentioned from the mouth of Carl Lutz almost made Hunter want to find Rachel, get their daughter, close out what cash they had, and run. The outcome of the game seemed suddenly meaningless to him. The only thing that was important was to lose on points. Hunter decided he wasn't going to take any chances.

  The referee tossed a coin and Detroit called tails. Under normal circumstances, Hunter would have smiled when he saw the heads. He loved to take the field first, to get right into the thick of things instead of standing around while the defense drew first blood. Now Hunter jogged listlessly to the sideline with the other Titans captains. He headed for the Gatorade table to get the same last gulp of water he always got between the coin toss and the kickoff. The mouthful of water went sour and heavy about halfway down. The sickness stayed with him as he recalled his rain-soaked encounter with Tony Rizzo on Wednesday night. Here he had been all morning, acting as though this was just another game. Like everything was just fine and all he had to do was go out there and win. But that was not all he had to do. Carl Lutz's appearance had reminded him of that. He had to cheat. Yes, it was cheating, what he was going to do. With a sudden cold certainty, Hunter knew that doing anything for someone like Tony Rizzo was wrong. But as he heard the thud of the kickoff amid the cheering throng and watched the ball turn slowly end over end through the air, Hunter also knew that he had no choice.

  Chapter 25

  After Cook was able to verify to the troopers who he was, they became extremely helpful. The older of the two had a brother who was a Treasury agent, and he showed a respect for Cook that Cook hadn't seen from any of the locals since he'd arrived in the New York area. The troopers instructed the stadium security people to give him whatever he needed. They gave him a pass that allowed him to go wherever he wanted and a map on which they marked the location of the owner's sky box. Cook thanked the troopers, who said they'd see to his car, and he insisted on taking down the name of their superior. He intended on sending a letter of thanks. He knew that kind of thing went a long way in law enforcement, and he intended to repay the troopers for their assistance.

  Instead of going to the side of the stadium where Grant Carter's sky box was located, Cook did just the opposite. When he was directly across from the owner's box, he went up an escalator and found himself on the lower level of the stadium. People were everywhere by now, pushing, shoving and cursing their way to their seats before the game began. Most were dressed in the green and gold colors of the Titans, and many were already weaving from too much drink. Cook wormed his way up one level and out the nearest entrance to the seats and the sunshine that was quickly warming the day. A surly usher stopped him and asked for his ticket.

  "Oh," the usher said in surprise when he saw Cook's pass. "How can I help you?"

  "I just need a place to sit and observe," Cook said.

  "Well, all the seats will be filled today," the usher said, "but you can just stand here with me if you want. This is the best view in the house.

  "There, you can stand right there if you want to," the usher said, pointing to a small space between the entranceway and the seats that rose above it.

  Cook thanked the usher and wedged himself into the little nook while the mob filed past, looking for their proper seats. Cook pulled a small pair
of Zeiss field scopes--nothing out of the ordinary at a football game--from the side pocket of his jacket and began to scan Grant Carter's box. There were plenty of people in there, and it took Cook almost until kickoff to determine that Rizzo and Camille were not present. Cook thought it strange. Both Camille and Rizzo struck him as the types to be in a box where they wouldn't have to rub elbows with the common man.

  He knew they had to be in the stadium somewhere, though. He began to pan the crowd opposite him. If the daughter of the team's owner was in the crowd, her seats would be the best in the house. He started at the fifty-yard line in the first row and began working his way up. He found them about thirty rows up, almost directly opposite him, right on the fifty. Rizzo and Camille sat side by side, dressed as though they were going shopping on Madison Avenue, and both of them pensively stared at the field below. Cook examined the people who sat around them, all of whom were dressed in the typical garb of football fans: T-shirts, shorts or jeans, Titans baseball caps, and sneakers. The people talked and joked among themselves, leaving Rizzo and Camille to their apparently sullen silence. Cook wondered if the two of them had simply had a quarrel and were cooling off. As the game began, their expressions remained impassive. Camille seemed bored with the whole thing, and Rizzo had the intense, expectant expression of a man waiting for bad news.

  The Titans took the ball on the initial drive and began to move down the field. Hunter completed on a few underneath passes that gave them no more than five-or six-yard gains, but the running game was on the money and before he could think twice about it, the Titans were on the Lions' twenty-three-yard line. This made Hunter nervous. He knew he was in scoring position. If the Titans scored right away, he would have to compensate for it later. The next play that came in from Price was a pass. Hunter was glad for the chance to slow things down. By simply throwing a bad pass, he could greatly reduce the chances of his team scoring.

  As much as it bothered him to do it, Hunter dropped back on the next pass play and fired the ball just out of Weaver's reach. Weaver lunged and dove through the air, just tipping the ball. Up it went, lazily spinning end over end. A Detroit linebacker held out his arms to make the easy catch and raced down the field into Titans territory before he was tackled by Murphy.

  The crowd, who until then had been in a fevered frenzy, grew quiet. There was a little booing but not much. It was, after all, the opening game, and the crowd had as much tolerance now as it ever would, especially coming off a world championship season. Everyone around the game of football knew that an unlucky start didn't mean anything. In the game of football a team could be beaten soundly for three solid quarters and then come out and win it in the fourth. The sprinkled boos came only from the harshest Hunter Logan critics.

  After that Detroit made Hunter's job easy. The Lions went right down and scored to make it 7-0. After two more stalled Titan offensive series, Greg Peterson, the Titans fullback, fumbled the ball on a third and one. Detroit recovered and drove down the field to make it 14-0 with less than two minutes to go in the half.

  Hunter knew that if things got much worse, he might have trouble giving his team any chance to win at all, and his plan was to do what he had to to keep the Titans close until right at the end. Then he would try to pull the game out for them with some last-minute scoring that would give them the win, but only by one touchdown or less.

  Coach Price was signaling the plays to Hunter from the sideline. For the entire game until then, Hunter had simply run the plays that had been called, letting the chips fall where they may. He had done this at times, despite seeing a defense at the line of scrimmage that would undoubtedly stifle the play. Hunter really couldn't be criticized for running the play. Martin Price had the type of ego that could not admit he'd called the wrong play, so it was the safest approach for Hunter to take that would allow him to keep the game in check. If Price did call a big play, like the pass to the tight end down near their own goal line, Hunter could simply throw a bad pass or an interception. Things like that happened.

  Now, though, Hunter was determined to get his team a field goal before the half. Even three points would give his teammates the lift they needed in order not to self-destruct completely. Price signaled in an 80-Y-Go--the tight end would be the primary receiver in the post. Hunter called the play, told his line to give him time, and broke the huddle. At the line of scrimmage, Hunter could see that the Lions were in a three-deep zone with man-to-man coverage underneath. An 80-Y-Go was the wrong call.

  "Idaho fifty-five! Idaho fifty-five!" Hunter bellowed to his team. Idaho was the hot word that let every Titan player know that the play was being changed from the huddle call. A fifty-five put three of his receivers to one side and crossed them underneath in a way that would pick off the man-to-man defenders. The slot, who was the primary receiver, would cross the field to the weak side where the X receiver had hopefully run off his defender and the deep safety with a go pattern where he raced for the end zone. His team adjusted and shouting filled the air from both teams. The Lions scrambled to adjust to the new formation, and the Titans line began barking out new line calls for a different pass protection.

  "Set, hut! Hut!"

  Hunter took the ball from the center and dropped five steps. The slot came streaking across the field, wide open. Hunter hit him with the ball right in the hands, and the receiver ran for twelve more before being knocked out of bounds. In this way Hunter worked his team down the field to the Lions' ten-yard line with eleven seconds left on the clock, time enough for only one more play.

  Price signaled in an H-Out with the receivers running flag routes that would clear the end zone for the running back. Hunter called the play and ran it from scrimmage. The H-back was wide open, but Hunter held the ball an instant too long, then gunned it wildly over his receiver's head as he was hit from the side by two Detroit defenders. The field goal unit came out onto the field, and the Titans went into the locker room at halftime, well behind, but energized by getting on the scoreboard.

  After the game began, the stadium usher planted himself next to the agent to avoid the constant flow of fans to and from the concession stands.

  "Get too much beer spilled on me if I stand there," the usher said as an explanation, pointing at the concrete platform at the top of the steps. "You don't mind, do you?"

  "No," Cook said, but that was all. He continued to observe Rizzo through his scopes, only setting them aside every so often to rest his eyes. As the game went on, Cook became aware of the usher's expletive comments regarding the action of the game. Hunter Logan's overthrown pass into the end zone seemed particularly upsetting to him.

  'You're a big fan, huh?" Cook said in the way of polite conversation.

  "Yeah," the usher said. "I got a C-note riding on this."

  "Wow," Cook said.

  "Yeah, you ain't shitting," replied the usher. "Hunter Logan better get his head out of his ass or I'll be eating soup for dinner all next month."

  Cook thought about that, then ended their conversation by bringing the scopes back up to his eyes. At halftime, Camille got up from her seat. Rizzo remained where he was, sitting almost like a statue, impervious to everything around him, as if nothing mattered but the resumption of the game. Cook wondered at Rizzo's obvious engrossment with the game and if there was any meaning to it.

  In the locker room, Hunter sat and listened to Price exhort his team to pick up their intensity. Normally unemotional, the coach was now a frenzy of hand waving and yelling. The prospect of losing the opener to a team they were favored to beat by nine points was infuriating. It all went by Hunter as though he were watching a movie. His mind was on the task at hand. Right before the team went back out for the second half, Bert walked up to Hunter's locker and offered him a can of Gatorade. Hunter took the can and drained it.

  "You OK?" Bert asked.

  Hunter stood up and took his helmet off its hook. "Yeah," he said blandly.

  "Sure? You seem a little out of it. Is your shoulder OK?"
r />   "Yeah," Hunter said, then as if he were reciting a script, "let's go win this one."

  Bert nodded and followed his friend out onto the field. The Titans defense responded to their coach's call and stuffed Detroit on the opening kickoff. Hunter and the Titans took over at mid-field. Hunter decided to let things happen for a while and just play. The first series took his team right down the field and connected to Matt Brown in the end zone. After that he moved his team at will, but would come up short of the end zone to ensure only field goals. His play was brilliant until his team got inside the Detroit twenty-yard line. The Titans kicker made three out of four short field goals, and before Hunter knew it his team was winning 16-14. There were only about ten minutes to go in the game, and Hunter felt that he was right where he wanted to be. If the defense kept Detroit shut down as they had the entire second half, he could simply slog along without a score, win the game, and keep the score under a touchdown.

  Hunter was actually starting to relax a little about things when a Titans defensive lineman hit the Lions quarterback from behind, knocking the ball loose. Bert, who was close by, scooped it up and ran the fumble all the way down to the Lions' one-yard line before he was tripped up by a Lions running back. Bert came off the field with the ball held high for the roaring crowd to see. A touchdown now would put them up by nine and all but ensure a Titans victory.

  Hunter jogged onto the field, his stomach knotted with anxiety. The play was a dive up the middle. Hunter bobbled the snap. The ball came out of his hands. A Detroit defender grabbed for it but only batted it back into the Titans' backfield, and a melee ensued. There was a pile of bodies over the ball, and Hunter stood back to let the referees sort it out while he stared at his hands incredulously and rubbed them on his pants like some little league baseball player blaming his glove for a mishandled grounder. Hunter cursed quietly to himself. When the last player was pulled off the pile by the officials, all that was left was Murphy, the Titans' center, hunched protectively over the ball.