by BILL BARTON
The first week of training camp was shoulder pads and helmets only, full pads came later, and in the Houston heat, the least amount of clothing a player had to wear, the better. All the rookies bonded into a tight group before matriculating into the team. Most egos were checked at the door, and even though the veterans pulled some locker room pranks on the rookies, it was all in good fun and rarely carried onto the field. If the rookies showed respect and deference and maintained a proper work ethic, the older players would take them under their wings and offer nuanced advice about what to expect from other players and their on-the-field eccentricities and tricks. This was invaluable help for the new kids, and it made them feel more at ease with themselves so they could concentrate on their jobs.
Because Dewayne had created such a controversy with his contract deal, everyone was sizing him up on and off the field. He refused all requests from the press for interviews, giving them only locker room sound bites that always flattered his coaches and teammates. He gave no response to any rumors of drug use; he good-naturedly submitted to all drug tests by team doctors or surprise visits from league physicians entering the door, cup in hand, and always with the same results ... negative. The newest rumor began to circulate not long after his arrival in the city about how many children he had fathered since coming to Houston. It was true that women gathered outside the lobby of the hotel where the team stayed during training camp and used their charms to entice the players as they got on and off the bus each day for practice. Dewayne always pretended to be talking on his cell phone as he walked the Siren gauntlet, a trick he learned from his friend Harrison Barrow. But a very pregnant Rosella squelched that rumor in an interview for a Houston newspaper when she allowed her picture to be taken, hoping to prove that she was the only claim on Dewayne's heart.
No one was sure how to take Dewayne. Coaches and players, press and public were wary at first. Was this guy a real saint, or was he coming in with a savior attitude, trying to make everyone like him before he took off the appealing mask and insisted the universe revolved around him?
Dewayne knew the charm offensive was the best approach, one person at a time, but Colby was always on the lookout for a chink in the armor. The Stars was his team; the sixty-foot full-color banner of him hanging outside the stadium proved it, and his standardized fuming attitude backed up the bluster. This alpha male would not relinquish his dominance without stiff resistance.
Each day held its routines of stretching and conditioning, followed by players working with specialty coaches and focusing on drills unique to their positions. Defensive and offensive drills, special teams practice, and specific lineups designed to break in the rookies and give the veterans back their groove. A part of each day, defense and offense would line up opposite each other and run plays. It was a time for rookies to be humiliated or show their stuff. It was a time for veterans to break them in without breaking them. Colby preferred the breaking part.
A rule of practice was to keep physical engagement to a minimum. No one was supposed to hit the ground, but Colby wrote his own rules. Dewayne was always third in line for the outside receiver position, allowing the veteran receivers to take the first throws. He paid close attention to the defense and watched how they adjusted to the play as each player ran his route. The mental concentration was more exhausting than the physical as he tried to read the overall defense as well as evaluate the moves of the individual player in front of him.
When Dewayne ran his routes, Colby was always the one closest to him, whether it was man coverage or zone, and the more Dewayne improved, the angrier this tattooed beast became. Colby was the designated trash-talker, and Dewayne was surprised that the coaches allowed it to go on. Harrison Barrow pulled him aside when he came back from running one of his routes, having once again ignored Colby's verbal abuse.
"You're getting a free education;" Harrison said. "Referees would never let it go to this extent in a game without throwing a flag, but if you can handle Colby's trash talk, nobody can rile you"
Dewayne's next route was a crossing pattern downfield, cutting toward the middle. The quarterback threw the ball behind him, and as he turned to grab it, his field of vision suddenly changed. Instead of being eye level with backfield defensive players, he was looking at blue sky and bright sun. Dewayne lay on his back, listening to a distant voice become steadily louder.
"You are a Jobe steak on my plate," Colby shouted as he strutted around Dewayne's prone body lying motionless on the ground. "You been grilled and charbroiled. You are well done and dead. My fork and knife are cutting you up"
A hand came into Dewayne's view, diffusing the sunlight in his eyes, and a voice asked how many fingers he saw. His correct answer recharged Colby.
"And the boy can count. The boy has himself an education. He can count all the way to four, matching his IQ"
Dewayne jumped to his feet, as though refreshed from a power nap, and realized only then he had retained possession of the ball. Colby received no reprimands from coaches or players as Dewayne made his way back to the huddle; he knew it was a test, and to pass the test, one endured and struck back with equal force or pure cunning when the opportunity presented itself. Dewayne knew everyone expected a volatile reaction, knew his metal was hanging above the fire. When it was his time to go to the line again, he asked the offensive coordinator if he could run the exact same route as before. The coach nodded his approval, amused and curious to see what might happen with the exact same call and matchup.
The quarterback got the ball off quicker this time with a more accurate throw. Dewayne reached for the ball and caught a glimpse of the Colby locomotive coming right for him. Dewayne snatched the ball out of the air in front of Colby, but instead of lowering for impact, he spun away and headed upfield. Dewayne gave a quicklookback and saw Colby doing his Superman impersonation through the air but finishing with a bumpy landing, bouncing across the turf on his stomach, each hit knocking a little more air out of his lungs. Unlike Dewayne, he did not lie on the ground for a beat. He was up on his feet, cutting a broad circle, silent except for the rapid gasps for breath. Dewayne jogged back, bouncing the football in his hands, thinking maybe now Colby would have to capitulate some of his power attitude.
Colby cut off his forward progress. "Nobody in the NFL will hit you harder than I can"
"Then my rookie year should be a cakewalk," Dewayne said and tossed Colby the ball.
Coach Gyra waved Dewayne off the field, and he approached the head coach, expecting a warning to save it for the first game and for the other team.
"The hospital called;" he said. "There's no panic. Everything is fine, but your wife is there and she has gone into labor"
Robert Dewayne Jobe III was born at 5:32 a.m. three weeks ahead of schedule but quite healthy and sporting a full head of curly hair. During training camp the team remained sequestered, but Dewayne had been in constant phone contact with Rosella, and he had forewarned the staff the baby might arrive at any time. Joella had moved in a few days before Dewayne left for camp, and Cherie was just about to take her two-week vacation to come to Houston and relieve Joella when she got the call she was now officially a grandmother. By the time Franklin arrived, little Robert was out of the incubator and in his mother's arms with only another few days left in the hospital.
Dewayne still showed up for camp every day, but for the first few nights after Robert was born, Coach Gyra allowed him to stay at the hospital instead of the forced team retreat in the downtown Plaza Hotel. He loved the game, but the separation from his family at this time was harder than any hit Colby could deliver.
"Split right ... three sixty-seven, and let the fun begin;" the quarterback said, and the huddle began to break. "The ball will be there"
The last statement was directed to Dewayne. It was his first play in the first game of his first NFL season, and he was going to get the ball. Special teams had taken the touchback, and the Stars were starting on their own twenty-yard line. He jogged out to the righ
t side of the field.
All Dewayne could think was, Do not drop the ball. It was a simple one-step up, one-step back route. He just needed to make a big target and catch the ball, just catch the ball, no heroics necessary. He did not want his first pass to slip through his fingers. Seventy-eight thousand people filled the stadium, millions more could be watching the game at home, bookies had made their odds and taken their bets, Cherie and Franklin had brought the kids to the game, while Joella and Rosella stayed home with the baby and watched it on television. All he needed to do was to get this first play behind him. He did not need to do anything fancy or score a touchdown, and by all means he didn't want to jump offsides. Just a solid catch, a few positive yards, and that would be enough.
Out of respect for his speed, the Chicago cornerback assigned to cover Dewayne was playing about ten yards off the line of scrimmage. The center snapped the ball, and as Dewayne completed the step-up, step-back routine, the ball was already hurtling through the air to him. Everything slowed down as he watched the point of the ball sail right into the large diamond shape he had made with his thumbs and index fingers.
The second it touched his gloves, his fingers gripped the ball tight enough to make it squeal, and he spun around upfield. Mission accomplished until the cornerback buried his helmet into Dewayne's chest, stopping his forward progress and robbing him of the one yard he had gained.
With the ball tucked into his right side, Dewayne grabbed the back of the cornerback's shoulder pads with his free hand and tossed him aside like an annoying branch hanging over a trail. The cornerback waved his arms and his hands tried to grasp any part of Dewayne to slow him down until help arrived, but he fell empty-handed to the ground.
The safety had a good angle of pursuit, but by midfield, he gave up the chase and watched helplessly as Dewayne outran him. By the time he reached the ten-yard line, he pulled back his engines like an airplane preparing for descent and glided into the end zone.
When he saw the officials raise their arms to signal his first NFL touchdown, it was as though he had crossed into a madcap Wonderland, and he did not know what to do. The stadium was on the verge of collapse from the exploding fireworks, the rock music booming from the speakers of the JumboTrons on either end of the field, and the announcer screaming his name over and over. He went down on one knee and said a short prayer of gratitude, and by the time he got to the amen, the gang tackle the defensive team had hoped to use on him eighty yards back was now administered by exultant teammates who escorted Dewayne to the Stars bench without his feet ever touching the ground.
The offensive linemen dropped Dewayne beside the bench after going through the cheerful slaps of coaches and players to his head and shoulders. He took off his helmet, waved to the fans behind him, and then found his family twenty rows back on the forty-yard line.
Bruce and Sabrina obviously appreciated Cherie's revelry for her son's accomplishment and made an equal spectacle of themselves. Even the internationally renowned architect, once disdainful of what he considered low forms of entertainment, who had refused to watch a collegiate or professional football game until Dewayne came into his life, was now on his feet straining his vocal cords, adding to the dissonant sound rising out of the stadium.
Colby waited for Dewayne to stop waving to thousands of his new best friends and step off the bench before he slipped up beside him.
"That `going down on one knee, praying in the end zone' thing ... nice touch," he said before he pounded Dewayne on the shoulder with his fist, a gesture that was far from congratulatory. "So I guess I'd better get used to seeing you do that little humble-pie act every time you score, huh?"
"I'd like to think so," Dewayne said, turning away from the fans and grabbing a cup of Gatorade off the table.
"Well, well. My man has himself a direct line to God," Colby said, his derisive chuckle a slight to Dewayne's pleasure of this moment.
"I do" Dewayne took a swig of Gatorade, sloshed it around in his mouth, and spit the backwash at Colby's feet. "And I'm not your man:"
Colby looked at the splatter on his new game shoes and sneered as he stretched his helmet over his bald head before heading onto the field. He was smart enough to expend his displeasure at Dewayne's comeback upon the opposing team, and it was a good investment. Chicago scored only field goals, two of them, both in the second half, while Houston added three more touchdowns to their score.
When Dewayne returned to the bench after a repeat of his pious end zone ritual, Colby folded his hands in front of him and bowed in mocking reverence. But Colby's ire was raised to a new level when he watched Dewayne in the locker room for a postgame television interview and heard him acknowledge how he had incorporated his faith into his whole life. When the reporter tried to single out his first NFL stats, Dewayne deflected the credit to his teammates and singled out Colby for "leading a great defensive effort by holding Chicago to six points" Colby could not bear to receive praise from someone he believed to be so self-righteous, and he stormed out of the locker room, rejecting all requests for an interview.
The season progressed much as it started. In ten games, Houston lost only twice, and with the schedule of remaining games, the Stars were confident that going to the play-offs was a sure thing, a prospect that had eluded them the past two years. This fact was not lost on the public or the media, and Dewayne Jobe was usually the first name out of everyone's mouth about why the Stars' fortunes were beginning to turn. He had been named "player of the week" twice since the first game, an unusual feat for any player but rare as hen's teeth for a rookie.
Not all was perfect in Jobe-world, however. His image of faith and integrity had a polarizing effect on people. For most Houston fans, as long as the Stars were winning, Dewayne could believe in fairies and dress like one. For fans of other teams, it was easy to dislike someone who sprinted by his defenders as if they were running through tar on his way to the end zone, then did his "going to the chapel" kneel, as some sports commentators had dubbed it, each time he crossed the goal line. There were those in the media and even within the Stars organization who felt he should go easy on the God speak, but Rosella and his mother reminded him how he had gotten this far with God's help and it was not smart to take him out of the equation now.
Even if his public image suffered a bit from his expression of faith, it did not damage the number of offers for product endorsement that flooded into Jobe Enterprises, Inc. Often Dewayne was on the phone in the locker room discussing the particulars of deals with Rosella. Most advertisers were able to accommodate the demands of his schedule and shoot a commercial with a crew in Houston. But there was that rare trip to Los Angeles or New York, and Rosella had him in and out of a location within thirty-six hours. He never missed a practice and his health never suffered under such a demanding schedule, nor did his bank accounts. By midseason, what he had made in endorsements and investments was ten times what the Stars had paid in a signing bonus.
What did suffer was the level of respect and goodwill Dewayne had gained with his teammates early in the season. His "Bull Durham, Ah Shucks, Glory to God" public oratory was beginning to wear thin on many players, and it did not help that his fame and business deals were increasing week by week. Dewayne was oblivious of the general resentment until none other than Colby pointed it out to him.
After a second straight loss, which put their record at ten and four-not bad enough to jeopardize their play-off chances, but not conducive to building strong momentum going into those last two games-Colby strode through the locker room and went over to Dewayne, sitting on the bench in front of his locker heedless to the volume level on his phone as he debated the price of a national car rental company endorsement with Rosella. Colby got within inches of his face and glared at Dewayne until he told Rosella he needed to call her back.
"You and me;" Colby said. "We're going for a drive"
Dewayne thought it would be a good idea to have some oneon-one with Colby away from football. They pulled out of th
e stadium parking lot in Colby's SL500 Mercedes convertible and headed toward downtown Houston. The drive was befitting Colby's reputation as a linebacker, weaving through traffic at NASCAR speed, and Dewayne was glad he buckled in the second he shut the door. When they pulled into the parking lot of the End Zone Bar & Grill, Colby spoke to him for the first time since leaving the stadium.
"No need for you to take a knee thing once you walk through that door" Colby pointed to the sign. "It ain't the same kind of end zone"
It was, however, the only smart investment Colby had made with his Stars money. He was the majority owner of the eatery, and his reputation brought in a large and loyal clientele of those who identified with Colby's personality or were just wannabe bad boys. Everyone spoke to Colby, none to Dewayne, as they followed the hostess sashaying her way through the tables in her too-tight, too-short skirt to Colby's back corner table where he could observe and be observed. Two ice-cold beers and platters of Colby's favorite appetizers appeared on the table almost as soon as he and Dewayne had taken their seats. Dewayne requested the waiter trade out his beer for a cranberry juice, and it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"I'm gonna make this quick and painless," Colby said before guzzling a third of his beer. "The locker room is tired of hearing you go on about God and your endorsement deals. You got a life outside the locker room ... ;" he waved to the universe, "... keep it there"