Quarterback

by Dustin Stevens

  Without glancing down Kris could feel goose pimples rise along his arms, the familiar ecstasy of what was to come finally arriving.

  Sliding between a pair of defensive linemen, Kris crossed into the locker room, pausing on the edge of it and surveying the landscape before him.

  In the corner, Mills lay flat on his back, a pair of oversized headphones jammed down over his ears. From where he stood Kris could see him bobbing his head along with the music, though he knew better than to even speculate as to what was pulsing through them.

  In the center of the room Dickson and Smith stood in animated conversation, each of them acting out some play that had either happened in practice a few days before or was about to happen a few hours later. As each one demonstrated his heroics, the other stood shaking his head in disbelief.

  An assistant coach sat on a folding chair in front of Walsh’s locker, a stack of play cards in his hands. Across from him Walsh set, his long hair tied back in a bandana, following along as the coach pointed things out.

  It was the first time Kris had ever noticed a single thing beyond his own preparation. Glancing up at the digital clock on the wall, he ran through his own pregame routine, realizing that most weeks he would now be lying face down on a table in the training room, a trainer massaging his calves and hamstrings with warm towels.

  Most weeks he found the task dull and tedious, just one more thing he had to do to be ready for game day. Now, standing on the outside of the room looking in, each day becoming more of a stranger in a place he had lorded over for a decade and a half, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t give to have his face smashed down in the rancid leather of a massage table.

  Beside him Adler appeared, just out of the training room himself. Fresh strips of athletic tape encased his lower legs from the base of his toes up to each calf, his walk a bit stiff from the uncompromising support.

  “Nothing like a locker room on game day, eh Hop?” Adler asked, slapping Kris on the back, his hand connecting flush with leather and sending up a loud smacking sound.

  A wan smile crossed Kris’s face as he looked back at Adler. “You said it, man.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Despite the seventy people all packed tight into the locker room, near silence permeated the space. Nobody said a word as they stood, repositioning their weight from one foot to the other, glancing back and forth.

  Overhead, the faint sounds of the stadium crowd could be heard. The PA system playing the Star Spangled Banner. The crowd chanting along with the Warrior cheerleaders. A trio of F-15’s flying overhead. An old Guns n’ Roses song, the volume raised to ear splitting levels.

  Just a few dozen yards separated the players from the madness outside, nothing more than walls and concrete, but still the scene inside the locker room was controlled. Almost somber even.

  “I shouldn’t have to say one thing right now,” Dumari said, standing in the center of the room, turning in a tight rotation to look at the throng of players bunched about him. “I shouldn’t have to say one damn word.”

  Around him, players raised their heads towards the ceiling, a few bouncing up and down on the balls of their feet.

  “If you don’t know what’s at stake here today, if you don’t know what you have to do,” Dumari said, “then I don’t have a thing to say to you besides get the hell out. Take off that helmet, take off that jersey, because you don’t deserve to wear them.”

  As he spoke, the folds on either side of his mouth deepened, his frown intensifying across his features.

  “Take them off, because we don’t want you.”

  “Yes,” someone in the back called, a deep voice full of bass. At the sound of it a few heads nodded in agreement, the energy in the room starting to pick up.

  “In this locker room, we want men,” Dumari continued. “We want men that we can go to war with.”

  “That’s right,” another voice called out, spitting the words in anger.

  “We want men that are going to walk out on that field, on our field, and do whatever it takes. That are going to walk out of here today knowing that they laid it all on the line.”

  Around him more players began to bounce up down, many taking in deep breaths, pushing them loudly through their nose. The errant sound of a shoulder pad being slapped rang out, followed by a hand smacking against a helmet.

  “There it is,” a third voice called from the back.

  “Men that know if we want to play tomorrow, if we want to see next weekend, we’ve got to get it done today!” Dumari said, his face growing a deeper shade of red, his skin tone almost matching the windbreaker he wore.

  Around him the team inched closer, the players starting to bounce with a growing fervor.

  “Men that are going to walk out of here today as champions!”

  The final word was no more than out of Dumari’s mouth before a roar rolled up from the team. Players yelled with guttural rage as they clamped their helmets down over their heads, slapping at each other, the sound echoing through the room.

  “Now let’s go get it!” Dumari yelled, sending another wild cry up from the team as they streamed out into the tunnel, their cleats clacking against the concrete floor beneath them.

  In the far corner, Kris waited until every last person was gone before walking out, pausing at the edge of the scene to give the empty room a glance before exiting out into the tunnel.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The option to remain an honorary captain had been extended to Kris the week before, an invitation from Riggs in recognition of his fifteen years in the role and the fact that he was still a part of the team. He was, after all, injured, not retired.

  Kris, mindful of the fact that the offer came courtesy of Riggs and not Dumari, declined the invitation. Two distinct lines of thought went into his decision, one that took a total of six seconds for him to make.

  The first was that while he wasn’t quite in hiding, he had no intention of drawing any more attention to himself than necessary. The second, and more important, was that the role of captain came with playing quarterback.

  As much as it pained him to admit, today that wasn’t him.

  Smith, Adler, Walsh, and Amos Straley, a hulking defensive tackle for the Warriors, walked four across towards midfield for the coin toss as Kris exited the tunnel. He’d waited long enough to let the crowd greet the team and for the initial excitement die down, the stadium volume at its standard pitch as he slipped down the sideline.

  Across from the four Warriors captains a trio of Las Vegas Vandals walked towards midfield, dressed in their white away jerseys with purple pants and orange trim. The two sides converged together, shaking hands in every possible permutation. When they were done they stepped apart, the referee showing them the ceremonial coin and asking the Vandals to call it in the air.

  Making his way up the sideline, Kris crossed over the ten yard line, the cheerleaders warming up nearby. He could hear them going through their monosyllabic cadences as they practiced the same cheers he’d heard since he got there fifteen years before.

  “The Warriors have won the toss and deferred to the second half,” the referee announced over the loud speaker. “The Vandals have elected to receive.”

  Kris clapped his hands together, feeling the old surge of adrenaline course through him, looking over to see the captains jogging in off the field. Picking his way around the aluminum benches already dotted with offensive linemen waiting for their turn to take the field, Kris approached Walsh halfway down the sideline.

  Already the backwards hat had returned to his head as he warmed up, throwing fifteen yard darts to a receiver. After each catch the receiver tucked it under one of his arms before lobbing it back, Walsh catching it and firing it on again.

  “How you feeling?” Kris asked. Behind him he could hear stadium vendors hawking popcorn and sodas, smell hot dogs with mustard in the air.

  “Good,” Walsh said, grunting as a he hurled another pass away.

  “R
emember, just like LA,” Kris said, “they like to bring that delayed blitz.”

  “Yep,” Walsh replied, his gaze never leaving the receiver.

  Kris started to add one last tip about watching the roving safety, but was cut off by the roar of the crowd. He glanced up to the Jumbotron to see Smith knocking away a pass, bringing up fourth and long.

  “Offense!” Dumari screamed from the edge of the field, sending a waving of the same call the length of the sideline.

  Walsh threw one last toss before waving off the return from the receiver and dropping his hat down onto the bench. He took up his helmet in both hands, sliding it down on to his head while walking forward.

  “And if you see them using that slant,” Kris said, walking stride for stride beside him, “don’t be afraid to run right back into it. The creases are there.”

  “Right,” Walsh replied, pulling up beside Dumari.

  The coach glanced once at Kris before looking down at the laminated play sheet in his hand. “Twins right, 27 Rock Lightning.”

  A half smile grew on Walsh’s face as he nodded, turning and jogging towards midfield, the rest of the offense already huddled up and waiting for him.

  Kris took up a post behind Dumari, folding his arms across his chest, the offensive substitute players crowded in tight around him, awaiting the call to go in. He watched as Walsh called the play and the huddle broke, both sides of the ball getting into formation.

  “Eight men in the box,” Kris said, his voice low and even. “They saw what Dickson did last week. They’re daring Walsh to beat them.”

  In front of him Dumari turned and glared over his shoulder, shaking his head in disgust. He shifted himself back to face the field as the ball was snapped, both lines slamming into each other.

  Hearing the smash of the pads sent another jolt of adrenaline through Kris’s body, the hairs on his legs standing on end. Without realizing it he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, feeling as if he was deep in the pocket himself.

  From the first step he could see the defensive end had the jump on the Warriors tackle. He shot away from the line like he was fired from a cannon, his left shoulder on the tackle’s hip and pushing the pocket by his third step.

  “Get rid of it,” Kris said, his voice growing louder. “Get rid of it!”

  Two steps later the defender slammed into Walsh’s kidneys, the ball squirting across the turf. He finished the sack, smashing Walsh to the ground before scrambling onto all fours and diving for the ball, a half dozen players from both sides piling in around him.

  “Dammit,” Dumari said, the entire sideline watching as the referees untangled the pile. On the field, a trio of Vandals motioned towards their end zone, arms outstretched in the opposite direction.

  A moment later, the officials joined them.

  A groan went up from the crowd as the Vandals danced together on the field, celebrating the takeaway.

  “Shit,” Kris muttered, watching as the offensive line picked up Walsh from the turf and the team jogged towards the sidelines.

  Chapter Fifty

  Kris had been in the same situation as Walsh enough times to know how it worked. Everybody was always quick to point out that he had thrown for over four hundred touchdowns in his career. What often got lost in the shuffle were the hundred turnovers on his résumé as well.

  Standing off to the side, Kris waited while Walsh stood fuming, his hands on his hips. A pair of oversized headphones was mashed down over his head, framing a face that was twisted into a scowl.

  On the other end of the line was the offensive coordinator up in the coach’s box overlooking the field, going through the same tirade he did every time the ball changed hands. Kris had heard it so many times he could recite it verbatim, matching Walsh’s expression with the tongue lashing he was receiving.

  Kris turned away for a moment, letting the rookie take his abuse like a man, instead focusing in on the other verbal beating being doled out nearby. The offensive line coach, a diminutive Irishman with a crew cut, was in the face of an offensive tackle twice his size, screaming spittle in controlled bursts.

  “Come on now!” he bellowed, a vein pulsating in his forehead. “You’re better than that! Get your feet right and kick his ass. I don’t want to see him in the backfield one more time all day!”

  In front of him the hulking tackle nodded in anger, his wide Mohawk bobbing up and down in agreement.

  Feeling awkward and a bit out of place, Kris turned towards the Jumbotron above the field. He watched as the Vandals lined up in a single back set and swung a pitch out to the left, their running back taking it in for the score. The crowd behind him displayed their disapproval, a collective groan rising above the field.

  A moment later it grew even louder as the Vandals kicked the extra point.

  “Yeah...yeah...okay,” Walsh said, drawing Kris’s attention back around as he pulled the headphones off and dropped them on the bench. Without looking at Kris he grabbed his helmet, already heading towards the field.

  “Short memory,” Kris said, keeping stride beside him. “You’re alright.”

  “Yeah,” Walsh said, casting a sideways glance at him, “I got this.”

  Side by side they arrived beside Dumari, watching as the kickoff return team took the field.

  “That was the slant I was telling you about,” Kris said. “Don’t be afraid to audible into it. The creases are there.”

  “Damn it Kris, I said I got this!” Walsh spat, vitriol in his voice. He glared at Kris a long second before shaking his head and turning his attention back to face forward.

  Pure venom rose in the back of Kris’s throat as he stared at Walsh, a dozen retorts coming to mind. Around him several players openly stared, their expressions ranging from annoyed to astonished.

  “Stay out of this, Hopkins,” Dumari said, his mouth curled downward into a frown. “I don’t want my quarterback going off-script and audibling all the damn time.”

  Once more Kris felt ire well within him, but he bit back the words. Grinding his teeth together he set his jaw and took a step back, watching as Dumari relayed the play call to Walsh and the offense jogged out on the field.

  “I know you think this is your team,” Dumari muttered, shifting at the waist to peer down his nose at Kris, “but I’m the head coach. Your days here are done.”

  The veins in the side of Kris’s neck pulsed as fire threatened to explode from every orifice. He could feel the stares of the players around him on his skin, his hands bunched into tight fists in the pockets of his jacket.

  Still, he remained silent.

  Dumari waited a full second for a reply that never came before turning back to the field. Kris could hear him continue to mutter under his breath, the entire time fighting the urge to drop him with a sucker punch to the skull. He entertained the thought for just a moment before lifting his gaze to the field, watching as Walsh came to the line of scrimmage.

  On the defensive side of the ball, the Vandals shifted into a 3-4 alignment, the outside linebacker walking up on the outside.

  Kris recognized it the moment they moved.

  “Here comes the Will,” he said, his voice steeled. “He’d better audible.”

  “He’d better not,” Dumari spat, turning his head at the neck to make sure Kris heard him.

  In front of them Walsh called the cadence and took the snap, swinging right and faking the handoff. He carried it out for two steps before rolling back against the field, all alone on a naked bootleg.

  “Here he comes,” Kris said, already shaking his head, knowing what would happen next.

  Walsh made it a third step into the bootleg before the Will linebacker tore in off the edge, bearing down fast.

  “Take the sack, take the sack!” Kris called from the sideline, his voice still flinty.

  Not fifteen yards from where he stood, Walsh panicked as the Will closed in on him. Trying to elude the tackler he jumped into the air, lobbing a floater out over the middle t
owards Mills.

  From where he was standing, Kris watched as the ball seemed to hang in the air forever before being plucked down by the Las Vegas strong safety. The moment his hands touched it he turned towards the end zone, nothing but open field in front of him.

  Another groan echoed through the stadium as he raced by Kris and Dumari, covering the ground in just a few seconds before doing a front flip over the goal line.

  Kris watched as the Vandals converged in celebration for the second time, his gaze rising to the scoreboard announcing the Warriors were down 13-0 just four minutes into the game.

  Kris waited until Walsh approached the sideline, staring down the rookie as he came closer, jerking his helmet off in frustration.

  Once he arrived Kris looked at him and Dumari in order before shaking his head in disgust.

  “Yeah, you’ve got this.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The sound penetrating the ceiling of the locker room was a stark contrast to that of just a half hour before. What was once 80’s rock music and anticipatory cheering had receded into boos, a collective moan of displeasure rumbling through the stadium.

  The sound brought a wry smile to Kris’s face as he stood in front of his locker, a response equal parts melancholy and self-righteousness. It was a sad ending to fifteen years in the beloved old stadium, but a bit gratifying to see them combust without him at the helm.

  Using the same Warriors duffel bag he’d brought home from the hospital the first time a month before, Kris went through the top shelf of his locker, collecting the things he wanted to take with him. A couple pairs of running shoes, his sunglasses, wallet, cell-phone. Anything with a Warriors insignia on it was left behind, step one in a past he was already looking forward to moving on from.

  “So that’s it, huh?” Riggs asked, the old man dressed the same way he was every time Kris saw him. Gray slacks and vest, blue sport coat, a tie of some design mixing the two, a little red and gold thrown in for variety. He stood in the doorway of the locker room with hands deep in the pockets of his trousers, his mouth curved down at the corners.