by Tim Green
"You better get it together, Logan," Price had said, "because even Mr. Carter won't put up with that kind of shit for long. I don't care how much he's paying you. You'd almost have to try to look any worse."
The coach's last words had shocked Hunter, but there really was nothing to think about. Hunter was in too deep. Everything in his world--his finances, his career, and now apparently the well-being of his family--depended on his keeping Tony Rizzo happy. As much as he'd like to, Hunter didn't give a damn about what Price, or Carter, or anyone thought. He would do what he had to.
As if in answer to his prayers, the Colts came out after the half like a team possessed. Whatever their coach had said, it did the trick. Hunter had seen things like that before. During one half, a team looked like they didn't belong on an NFL field; in the next they were kicking the hell out of the defending Super Bowl champions. In this case, that was exactly what was happening.
Responding to his anger with Hunter, Price began the half by calling three running plays in a row. On third and two, the Colts stuffed the runner at the line and the Titans had to punt. The Colts offense then quickly and methodically marched down the field and kicked a field goal to expand their lead to ten. Hunter began to breathe easier. Sull, Price insisted on running. Hunter got the message: His throwing had been so unpredictable that the coach would rather take his chances on the ground. Under normal circumstances it would have been an infuriating insult. Now, though, Hunter was glad to oblige. This possession the Titans actually got a first down, but only one before they had to punt again.
On the next Titans offensive series the first two plays, again runs, failed utterly and left the team with third down and nine to go. Price signaled in an underneath pass play. Hunter dropped back to pass and threw to his deep receiver, who was wide open. To everyone but Hunter, Cook, and Rizzo, the ball looked like it was just barely overthrown. To those three men, however, it was an athletic feat of extraordinary skill. This is because each of them knew that Hunter threw the deep ball with such accuracy that everyone thought he was trying to complete it when he was actually making the ball truly uncatchable. Hunter couldn't help smirking to himself as he passed Price on the way to the bench. Even the incensed head coach could not blame Hunter for going deep to the wide-open receiver.
For twenty more minutes the game slogged on without another score. There were only three minutes and twelve seconds on the clock. Hunter felt almost safe. He actually toyed with the idea of trying to bring his team back and win the game. But two touchdowns would put him over the three-point limit that Rizzo had allowed him. He could score once, then get a field goal and then try to win it in OT by another field goal, but decided against it. He wasn't taking any chances. Football was a funny game, and strange things happened. This decision turned out to be one of the best he'd ever made. Desperate to score points, even the spiteful Price had to call passing plays if he hoped to win. Hunter obliged by completing a short underneath pass for five yards, then throwing two incomplete so that the Titans had to punt.
The game was essentially over. After heartily booing Hunter for this and every preceding pitiful series of play, people started to file out of the stadium. From his spot on the sideline Hunter could see them filling the aisles, people who knew that the game was now hopeless and who themselves had hopes of beating the worst of the traffic. Hunter had done so poorly that even Bert had averted his gaze when the two friends passed on the sideline before the defense went out onto the field. Hunter was so relieved that the morbidity of his friends and teammates made him want to burst out laughing. If they only knew what was really important.
But this in turn depressed Hunter. He felt like he was cheating them, cheating everyone. He knew that somehow he must have cheated himself just to end up in the position he was in. But he couldn't think exactly how that had happened He had been going along, playing football for as long as he could remember. He'd never had to think about such things before. His whole life had been defined by football, and until now it had simply been a matter of winning games on Sunday.
A cheer from the remaining crowd jolted Hunter out of his reverie. The defense had stuffed the Colts' attempts to run the ball, and using all three of the Titans time-outs they had only allowed twenty-seven seconds to expire. The Titans still technically had a chance to win. The Colts got into punt formation and it happened. The Titans blocked the kick. Someone scooped it up and took it all the way into the end zone for six. Hunter felt a twist in his gut. If he had scored a touchdown before the blocked punt, the Titans would have won by four. The idea made him queasy.
Now the Titans lined up for an onside kick. Hunter clenched his fists. The odds were one in a hundred of recovering an onside kick, but it happened. Hunter was buckling his chin strap and jogging out onto the field before he could think. It was like he was in a dream. That was probably the only reason he let the first play happen as it did. The Titans had the ball on the fifty-yard line. Even though they had no time-outs, the two-minute warning would stop the clock. Because of this, Price signaled in a draw play. Everyone would be expecting a pass with the Titans having depleted their supply of time-outs. Price had chosen to roll the dice. He was thinking that even if his team didn't score, they only had to go about twenty yards to get into field goal range. They could tie it up and try to win it in overtime. They certainly had the momentum after the last two plays.
Hunter called the play in the huddle as it was called. He went up to the line. He wasn't thinking, he was in a daze. It was incredible. The only thought that filled his mind was that he would gun the ball into the ground every time he dropped back to pass. He wasn't going to let his team score any points at all. He wasn't taking any chances on overtime. The draw to him was an exercise in futility, a ten-yard play at best to preclude the passing game that would be essential after the two-minute warning. So when Garrison Morgan took the ball up the middle, Hunter simply turned to watch him go down instead of carrying out his fake as he had been coached to do for over twenty-five years.
What he saw was incredible. It was one of those runs that made the highlight film for the entire league. Morgan bounced off tacklers, reversed his field, and literally jumped over bodies on a run that lasted forever in Hunter's mind. He found that he was moving down field, watching, willing some Colt defender to somehow drag his teammate down. It just didn't happen like this. It was too much. No one could have luck this bad. No team could have luck this good. Then it happened.
The Colts free safety finally caught up to Morgan, and even as Hunter's teammate was raising the ball in the air in celebration of an amazing, game-winning athletic feat, the free safety dove, reached out, and just clicked the back of Morgan's heels with his hand. The running back tumbled, and Hunter searched madly for the closest official to tell him whether or not Morgan had scored. It seemed like eternity. A second passed, then two. Not one of the officials raised his hands to signal a touchdown. A signal finally came for a Titans first down.
The clock stopped for the two-minute warning. Price was furiously gesturing Hunter over to the sideline. Hunter practically staggered. He would never remember what Price's words were. He had the vague impression that all was forgiven in the flushed thrill of imminent victory. He forgot the play that Price called, but did know that it was a run. It didn't matter. Hunter called a thirty-two trap in the huddle. His voice, like the rest of him, shook uncontrollably. He didn't look at a single teammate's face in the huddle. He kept his head down and mumbled the call so that Morgan had to demand he give it to them all again.
Hunter went to the line and took the snap. He dropped back into the backfield, passing Morgan, who reached out expectantly for the ball. Hunter turned and stumbled. His line, who had been blocking for an inside run, allowed the Colts defenders to come streaming through into the Titans backfield. Hunter waited until he was completely engulfed and then simply opened his arms, allowing his opponent's big, burly defensive end to pluck the ball from his grasp. The lineman lumbered for a coup
le of yards before tripping on his own teammates and being swamped by Titans players who had turned to see the disaster and come running in vain pursuit. The game now was over. The Colts offense trotted out and fell on the ball three times to run out the clock, handing the world champions a 10-7 defeat. Hunter, relieved almost to the point of tears, didn't even notice or care that his entire team avoided him like a leper as they made their way off the field and back into the locker room.
At The Star casino in Atlantic City, Scott Meeker, Sal Gamone, and Mark Ianuzzo sat clustered around a big-screen TV in a large penthouse suite. The view through the sweeping, tinted windows was of the Atlantic Ocean. The expanse of blue water was broken by white triangular sails of recreational boaters heading for the harbor, and every so often a helicopter lifted straight into the sky before heading out over the water on its way back to New York City, carrying the high-rollers who'd spent their weekend at the tables. Of the three men in the penthouse's expansive living room, only Scott Meeker had shown any emotion during the game. The final minutes, of course, had meant nothing to these men. They had placed their money on the point spread, which was six. They were in no danger that late in the game, but they watched with interest because they knew that Tony Rizzo was. They knew that if Morgan had run the ball in that final yard and scored, Rizzo would have had to come up with several million dollars.
"Did you see that?" Mark Ianuzzo said to Gamone after the final gun. "If that guy goes in, it's kaput!"
Sal Gamone remained silent.
"What?" said Ianuzzo.
'Just this," Gamone said quietly, "you saw what Hunter Logan did. How likely are the chances of the Titans blocking that kick . . . then getting the onside kick . . . then, to top it off, have Morgan run through the Colts like shit through a goose? That wouldn't happen like that in another hundred years. And even if it did, Logan learned something. He wouldn't let it happen like that again. Next time Morgan never gets that hand-off on the draw. I think what our friend Rizzo has is a good opportunity.
'The only thing that concerns me," Gamone continued after taking a drink from his glass of straight scotch, "is how long Logan can go on doing things like this and not get run out of New York, or benched by the team. People are going to start asking questions if this happens too much."
"It's a funny game, though," Ianuzzo pointed out. "Lots of times guys have bad games. As long as we don't try to go to the well too often . . . but I agree with what you said about that game not coming out like that again."
As the two men talked, Meeker began to flit about the room like a three-hundred-pound songbird, refilling his guests' glasses and clapping his hands gleefully with every other step he took. For him the game was a grand win. He was playfully considering just how he would spend the easy money he had just made, and greedily anticipating an even bigger take on the next game. Beyond that, he was delighted to have acted as the broker for what was looking like a very successful venture for everyone.
"I've got to hand it to Rizzo," Ianuzzo said. "He's got either the coach or the owner in his pocket. Did you see how they yanked Logan in the second quarter and then came out and put him back in the second half? No wonder Rizzo is so damned confident."
Sal Gamone simply nodded thoughtfully.
"The Titans play the Giants in two weeks," he finally said.
Ianuzzo knew what his counterpart meant without his having to explain. There would be more action on that game than anything short of the Super Bowl. It would be a tremendous opportunity.
"So," Ianuzzo said, "we're going ahead with Rizzo?"
Gamone tilted his head and lazily raised an eyebrow before he said, "If he delivers like he did today in two weeks? Then I think the young man will have shown us that his intelligence and efficiency make him an excellent candidate for the council. If, of course, the day should arrive when his uncle is no longer able to run the business."
Ianuzzo snorted, "Yeah, if, of course."
"Scott," Sal said, "you set up a meeting with Tony for tomorrow. I want to give him plenty of time to get the things he needs in place."
Meeker nodded eagerly.
"I always knew you never liked Vincent Mondolffi," Ianuzzo then said pensively.
"I like him," Gamone answered, sipping his drink, "but he's got strange notions, like there's something wrong with the kind of business that we've all built our fortunes upon. It's not good to forget where you came from."
The Titans' schedule during the working week required players to report to the facility on the day after the game to get treatment for their injuries, lift weights, run, and, as a team, watch the game film of the previous day. It was a light-hearted fun experience when the team won, and it was absolute torture when they lost. When they won, everything was good. Mistakes were overlooked. Good plays were lauded by coaches and teammates alike. When they lost, every mistake was accentuated to the point that each man was made to feel as though something he specifically did had caused the entire team to lose. Hunter dreaded the film after the Colts game more than any other he'd ever had to watch. He knew how bad it was going to look, and he couldn't help worrying that someone might find him out. Because he knew that the mistakes he'd made were intentional, and he couldn't help thinking that others would see that as well. He couldn't imagine what would happen. No one could prove it certainly, but he'd be ostracized by his entire team if they ever suspected him of such a thing.
The reality of the situation was that everyone thought Hunter had simply played an awful game. His teammates knew that his shoulder was hurt, and they hadn't forgotten that he was the same guy who had taken them all to the championship last year. Still, the entire film session was painful for Hunter. Price was openly brutal with his criticism.
That's so bad," Price had said, replaying Hunter's final game-losing fumble over and over again, "that it's embarrassing."
Under normal circumstances, Hunter would not have allowed Price to berate him like a schoolboy. He would have had words and even fists with the coach right there in front of the team. Instead Hunter sat there and humbly took what was coming to him. He felt that he deserved everything that Price gave him. With the danger now behind him, Hunter found himself wishing he had somehow managed to help his team win and keep Rizzo happy.
His teammates thought they knew how Hunter felt, and they gave him his space during the few hours he was at the complex working out and treating his shoulder. Only Bert had any words for him at all.
"Don't worry about it, buddy," his friend said as Hunter was drying off after a shower. "We're all behind you. You just get that shoulder well, and you'll get us right back on top."
Hunter only smiled weakly and said, 'Thanks, buddy. I feel bad I let everyone down."
"Shit happens," Bert said.
"Yeah, shit happens."
"Get together this week?"
"Sure, I'll have Rachel call your boss," Hunter said, cracking his first smile.
"Kiss mine."
Hunter spent the rest of the day with his daughter out back on her swing set while Rachel worked with Julie in the kitchen, where she could watch them through a window over the sink. Hunter had had an elaborate playground built for his daughter well before she was old enough to use it. It sat between some of the old trees in the backyard and was an intricate maze of swings, ladders, towers and slides that spanned a large area filled with wood chips. Hunter and Sara could spend hours at a time out there and never get bored. Around six o'clock Rachel called them in. She gave Hunter a cold beer at the kitchen table before Julie served dinner.
As they began to eat, Sara said abruptly, "Mom, what's wrong with Dad?"
Hunter looked up at his wife.
"Why, honey? I thought you and Daddy were having fun all afternoon," said Rachel. "Daddy's fine."
"Are you fine, Daddy?" Sara said, looking at him innocently.
Hunter put on his best smile, "Of course, honey. Why?"
Sara shrugged as if to say she'd been wrong before, then said, "I don't know,
you just seem sad."
Hunter leaned over to his daughter and hugged her. "I'm fine, honey," he said.
Hunter and Rachel did their best to make light-hearted conversation throughout the rest of the meal, and if they didn't pull it off, Sara was too polite to say so.
When Sara was finally off to bed and Julie had reared to her apartment over the garage, Hunter and Rachel settled themselves down for a quiet evening in the living room. This was the heart of the old house. It was paneled in mahogany, and thick beams crossed the high ceiling. Dark, heavy wood and leather furniture, along with a large cobblestone fireplace, gave the room a cozy feeling despite its size. Hunter carefully laid a fire and lit it before sitting down on the couch next to Rachel.
"Is the alarm on?" she asked as he cracked open a bottle of Rolling Rock that she'd left for him on the coffee table.
"My God, Rachel," Hunter exclaimed in a more exasperated tone than he meant to, "do you think I can relax for even one damn minute? I mean, I go through hell at work, I get home and play with Sara until bedtime, I make us a fire, then I finally get to relax and you want me to get up and put the alarm on at nine o'clock at night?"
"Forget it," she said quietly, but he was already up.
Hunter came back, apparently cooler than when he'd left, but no sooner did he bring the green bottle of beer to his lips than a nasal electronic voice blurted out: "Someone has entered the rear outer perimeter."
Hunter gave Rachel an exasperated look.
"Maybe just some kids playing around," she weakly suggested.
"Someone has entered the rear inner perimeter" came the voice once again.
Hunter stood up and went toward the back of the house, digging for a moment in one of the kitchen drawers and coming up with a can of Mace. Rachel followed him nervously to the back door, crouching behind his back and peeking over his shoulder as though they were in the middle of some horror movie. Security lights flooded the entire backyard. A well-dressed black man carrying a briefcase and shielding the spotlights from his eyes with his free arm slowly climbed the worn slate steps of the patio off the kitchen and knocked softly on the thick wooden door.