Her Game Was Passion Ch. 05

-one-

Clemens, wearing one of his new six-hundred-dollar silk suits, sat behind his desk, licking his lips thoughtfully. The office stunk of stale cigarette butts.

"I want to know what happened," he said. "I didn't see it, but Reeves told me. You looked over all your receivers. You looked right at Lennox and then you toss it right into the safety's hands. Then stood there and got knocked on your ass."

"Somebody drugged me," I lied.

"Good story. Reeves told me about the stuff in your locker. Said you claimed somebody tried to frame you."

"I just couldn't seem to move. I felt dopey as hell. I never saw that guard who knocked me down."

I wondered what he would do if I told him the truth. His eyes were very serious. He leaned forward on his desk, leaned on both elbows, giving me his straight-in-the-eye look. I was supposed to look back straight into his eyes. I looked at his right ear, then his forehead, then back at his right ear. Finally his right hand went to his right ear. He rubbed it to see if perhaps something might be hanging from the lobe. So I switched my gaze and looked, puzzled, at his forehead. He rubbed his forehead.

"Why didn't you tell Reeves?" he said. "Reeves said you deliberately, as far as he's concerned, tossed the ball to the other team."

"I was dopey. Maybe the Mafia had money on the game."

"Scott, don't give me a lot of crap. Nobody bets on these teams. You're full of crap."

"You should have given me a saliva test."

"Don't talk to anybody about it."

"What about the press?"

"What press? We could use some good press."

"Jacko won it anyway," I said. "He's doing okay."

"Listen, Scott, I want it straight. Why did you throw the ball to the opposition?"

"I don't even remember throwing it."

"Concussion?"

"Could be."

"Doc says you're okay."

"Maybe it went away."

Hell, I thought, why don't I say it? Piss on football. Get up and walk out. Only two games left: Piss on it. Money. I needed the damn money. Nope. You're kidding yourself. You're still nuts, Norton. You still think you might make it back to big time, even if you hate it. Of course, it was true. I hated the goddamn game now, but I wanted- one Sunday, just one Sunday back in the NFL. Just one Sunday to show all those cruddy bastards who said I was washed up. Of course, you're washed up, Norton. Nope. Just one Sunday. That's all you want. Then tell them to piss up a rope. The knee maybe was good for one Sunday. But I had as much chance of getting one big Sunday as I had of falling in a toilet and coming up with gold ingots.

"Scott, I like the way you throw the ball. You got some charisma, too. I'm going to back you up this time. No more of that shit."

"Don't you ever get the ashtrays cleaned around here?"

"Goddamn secretaries," he said.

I rode around town. I didn't know where I was going. Kansas City looks gray in the fall. The sky was gray, even the lawns looked gray, not brown, and the longer I drove the grayer all the buildings looked. I felt I was breathing gray air. I drove back to my apartment. I didn't know what to do. I felt dead, zapped. Bored. I didn't want to do anything.

A couple of hours later it was very cold out on the practice field. We were practicing kill-the-clock drill. The idea was to practice stopping the clock. Line up on the football without using a huddle. Just a predetermined play. Ends run sideline cuts. You drill the ball high and hard over the head of one of the ends out-of-bounds. Some people had stopped their cars and were parked along the edge of the field watching us. It was cold but not windy. Reeves kept shouting at us to hit hard on the play. Jacko and I were taking turns in the pocket. It should have been an easy practice except everybody started to sock. Reeves was stupid to keep the drill going as long as he did and telling everybody to sock. But I felt good, calling out the play and number, feeling different suddenly, forgetting the depression, dreaming again like a fool about Big Sunday. The ball was cold. Somebody whacked me on the blind side when I threw. Then suddenly Reeves said he wanted us to practice running plays. By this time we were usually finished practicing. The socking was getting loud. Schaeffer came back in the huddle after a sweep with a bloody nose. I ran a couple of counters and then Reeves said he wanted to see some off-tackle traps. The lines were socking head to head. It was turning into a regular game. I got tackled after handing off. Reeves didn't say a word. I thought I'd test the knee and roll out right. I had the feeling of being back in college again. I started rolling and Gregory came through as cornerback and grabbed me by my left thigh. I lifted his head up with my right forearm and threw him and kept moving, going wide, hearing somebody coming up from behind. Suddenly I got hit, not right from behind, just to my left, a helmet driven straight into my back . followed by two individuals falling on me. Somebody punched me in the kidneys. I came up swinging at Gregory. He knocked me down with a shot in the stomach, and picked me up. He was six feet five, two-ninety.

In the next huddle I said we'd run a go-go-go offense, and gave them several plays so we wouldn't huddle after each play. I could see Reeves using the stopwatch on us. We got the defense rattled. Somebody stepped on my hand. It was painful. My helmet got knocked off or torn off. I stooped to pick it up. I thought I saw my head inside it. It looked very real. I wondered if I'd been kicked in the head. But there it was. My head inside the helmet, looking right up at me, a little worm of blood crawling out from the corner of my lip. I shook my head. Jacko came over and tapped my shoulder.

"Reeves wants to see you," he said.

I went over to the sidelines. I couldn't figure out why he hadn't talked to me about the game after my talk with Clemens. Cutie. Reeves was a cutie. As I came toward him, he turned his back and waved with his clipboard for me to follow. him. I shook my head. I still kept seeing my head inside a football helmet, my eyes staring up at me. like a dumdum pumpkin head in the garbage can after Halloween. He kept swinging his whistle, on the cord round and round as I followed him. For the first time I noticed he didn't have any neck. His shoulders just haired into his head or vice versa, however it might look to you. He was wearing a bloody red deer hunting coat, with the parka section slung down on his back. He slapped the clipboard against his thigh, turned around suddenly and knelt down on one knee. He didn't look at me. We were about thirty yards now from the sidelines. I guess I was supposed to kneel down on one knee. Coaches face to face for a sports page picture.

"You're doing okay out there, Scott. I want you to know that."

"I'm enjoying it."

"I can see it."

"Everybody's up. I can feel it."

"We're going to win a championship, Scott."

"I'm hoping so."

"We got to do better than we did at Decatur."

"We won it."

"That's not enough, Scott."

"What more do you want?"

"A two hundred percent max."

"Over what?"

"Over Decatur."

"Look at today. The guys are putting out. We been putting out all season," I said.

"Not two hundred percent."

"You can't measure it."

"I can. I've been coaching twenty years. I coached my own boys. My own sons. They learned what two hundred percent means. Absolute max. I won't buy any in and out. Two hundred percent max. That's the answer all the way. No other way. I won't accept a hundred percent. We got to have super perfection. Absolute super. Unless some of these kids learn it all their dreams are blown. And you ought to know this. You can blow their dreams."

"I don't dream anymore."

"Maybe that's your problem."

"I got a lot of problems."

"You're not going to ruin this team. You're going to make this team."

"Okay," I said.

"You know what this game is all about. It's war. You got to die out there. You got to want to die, Scott."

"I don't want to die."

"What I want to talk about."

"What?"

"You don't want to die enough. Those kids want a leader who wants to die out there."

"Ah, Reeves, knock off the crap. What're you really trying to get at?"

"I'm going to square with you. Give you a chance."

"Spare me."

"You got dreams, Scott. You won't listen to them. Your dreams are scaring hell out of you. You won't face the reality of your dreams. You've chickened on your dreams. Maybe you've busted your will."

"Maybe."

"See. There. There it is. You sound really shitty. And I was going to give you a break."

"Okay. Give me a break."

"You'll blow it."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're not starting the next game. You just blew it with me."

I stood up.

"Wait a minute," he said. I looked over his head, across the street at the gray houses, the gray sky.

"I want to see if you've got it," he said. "I'm going to give you a chance. Do you go to church?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"If I give you a chance, you got to pray. You need prayer, Scott. I mean it. Maybe that's your problem."

"Which church?"

"There are many stairways to heaven, Scott. You pick your own. Which I don't care. Pick it and start climbing. You can get to the top of those stairs in life, Scott. I'm going to give you a chance."

"I hope they're not too steep."

"Don't be a shitty smart-ass with me. A little humility, Scott. Pray. I'm going to help you."

I didn't say anything. The houses, the sky, the grass, even Reeves looked like he was turning gray, all of the objects dissolving into a big gray blob.

"Scott," he said. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Seal my ruby lips."

"Why do you have to be so smart ass?"

"It makes me pray for more humility."

"I ought to kick your ass, Scott. But I'm going to level with you and then you're going to have to level with yourself. You're going to have to sacrifice."

"What?"

"All that smart-ass shit."

"For what?"

"You got dreams, Scott. I know you got dreams. Well, here's your dream. Francis Parks got mugged in a parking lot in Minneapolis. Nothing in the paper yet."

"Jesus," I heard my voice say and my heart started hammering. "What's the matter with Fran?"

"Busted sternum."

"They can shoot him up with Novocain."

"Not this one. He's busted."

"Nothing on the radio."

"It's not out yet. I just got a call."

"They got Lee and Graff on the taxi squad." "They still need a back-up man."

"Where did Fran get mugged?"

"In the Lutheran Brotherhood parking lot. He just came out of WCCO from Semi-Pro Sports show."

"Lee hasn't played since September," I said.

My heart started jumping around again. All kinds of ideas started racing through my head. Lee had a hell of an arm but he hadn't played in a game since training camp. Parks was the whole cheese. Their season was finished. God! This was the Superbowl! Miami was probably no more than a three-point favorite over the Vikings. But now at least thirteen points. But what kind of chance would I have of getting in the game? Reed dampened my spirits immediately.

"It's between you and Jacko."

"How do you figure?"

"They only want one quarterback."

"He's never been under that kind of pressure."

"He's good, Scott."

"We've got one more game. Who starts?"

"Jacko starts first half. You start second."

"He doesn't know how to cope with NFL pressure."

"Neither one of you'll get in the game. I'm sending only one. Whichever does best in the last game. You're about dead even in performance."

I didn't say anything. I turned around and trotted back to the practice field sidelines. I watched Jacko run a damn nice quarterback draw. I was suddenly envious as hell. He looked as good as Upton on that draw.

-two-

In college I took a course in creative writing and our instructor Dr. Louis Castlemeyer had us practice writing what he called dramatic transitions over and over again, stressing a four point structure. Reaction. Dilemma. Decision. Action. I was in my dilemma and reacting strongly.

After practice I sat in my apartment. The more I thought about what I might do, the more hot and cold flashes I got. I started shivering and sweating. I wanted a drink badly. I walked down to the local bar. I knew I wasn't going to get stiff. There was too damn much at stake. I just wanted to relax.

What if something happened to Lee or Graff and I did get in? But it was going to be tough to beat out Jacko. I'd have to look good in the second half.

I drank the scotch and water slowly and looked at the wall of the booth. No, I'd never get in the game, not even if I got picked over Jackos. He'd probably pick Jackos because he was young, had a future. But that didn't mean anything to Fred Grant. He would go for an old pro, but not if I looked lousy in the last game.

I felt rotten about what I was thinking. How to get rid of Jackos? How to keep him from playing well in the game? To hell with it. It was a chance in a thousand. I'd never get another chance. Not if they knew about the knee. This was my last shot.

I put my glass down and shook my head when the waitress hustled me for another drink. Only one way to get Jacko out there. Get him sick before or during the game. It would have to be something he ate and I'd have to get it to him before the game. They dope horses, don't they?

Where in hell would I find any dope in Kansas City? I thought and thought and thought and then it hit me. Hang around a high school. There was bound to be a pusher. Norton, you prick. But I was never going to get a chance again.

I looked up the high schools and the nearest to me was East High. The next day at noon I drove over to East High, a big stack of bricks, and sat on the steps. The trouble was I didn't look quite old enough to be the father. of a high-school student, so what was I doing on the steps. Maybe waiting for my nephew. There were kids smoking sticks under the trees and I strolled around a nice grassy lawn in front of the building, thinking I could make a buy. But all I did was get the kids to stop smoking. They probably thought I was a cop. They faded away. I was leaning against a tree, looking out at the street. It was all starting to look gray again, even the brick building.

The biggest red-faced cop I've ever seen came up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Buddy, waiting for somebody?"

"My nephew."

He had hair coming out of his nostrils and ears.

"Lunch is over. What time you meeting him?" He squinted at me, watching me closely. He looked Very suspicious.

"He should have been here twenty minutes ago.

"What's his name?"

"Dick Evans."

"Ask in the office?"

"He'll be along," I said.

"I got you pegged, mister. You look like a molester. Same size. About the same clothes. We got a report on you. Offering the chicks chewing gum, trying to get them in your car."

"I'm a real barracuda."

"Maybe you'd like to go downtown and talk to the captain."

"What's wrong, officer? I'm standing under a tree. Doing nothing. What's wrong?"

"Public property."

"What do the taxpayers do?"

"Let's see your driver's license."

I took out my wallet. He looked at the license. He smelled of stale beer and cigars.

"Ain't I seen you someplace before?" He squinted one eye at me.

"Circus," I said. "I came through here last year with Ringling Brothers."

"What you do?"

"Animal act. Cats."

His eyes bugged.

"Lions?"

"Pussy," I said. I looked straight a. him. He turned his head a little to one side.

"You ain't kidding?" He watched my eyes.

"No. Just Pussy. Little cats," I told him.

"Where do you keep them?"

"They got ate up."

"Huh?"

"Dog act ate them all up two weeks ago. I'm out of work. I come back here to buy some new pussy. Best show pussy in the world is right here in Kansas City. Smart cats."

"What kind of cats?"

"Plain old alley cats. My nephew's going to take me out to an old woman who has a bunch of cats. She's sick and wants to sell them."

The cop handed me my driver's license.

"Lots of luck, buddy."

He walked away. I thought he was going to scratch the back of his head like a television cop but he kept right on walking.

After practice that afternoon, Clemens came into the locker room and told the whole squad they were expected to attend a Baptist church supper that evening in honor of the team. First time I'd heard about it.

"I want everybody there: I mean everybody. If you want to play tomorrow night, you be at that dinner."

It turned out a guy named Carl Peterson was sponsoring the dinner for his church supper to help raise funds for the church's Girl Scout camp. And it also turned out Peterson had a big piece of the team stock.

It was strictly chicken and peas and the place was full of mothers and fathers and all the high school athletes in the city. Clemens gave them his number one chicken and peas speech.

I got my elbow up on the table and my chin propped in my hand and by the time Clemens started to talk, I was fast asleep though I could hear his voice droning on and on across a dream I was having. I was coaching the Vikings. Grant had retired. I had led the Vikings to victory in the Superbowl. I had a ten-year contract.

I don't know how long the dream lasted, but suddenly Brown was poking his elbow in my guts,, muttering, "Wake up. Wake up. He's finished talking."

I knocked over my water glass and stood up in the applause for Clemens breaking over the room. I was halfway to the door when all the chairs were being pushed back from the table and Mom and Dad were ready to go home for the ten o'clock news.

"I just loved your last game," somebody said to me in the hall.

It was a girl. A very tall, beautiful chick, about twenty, brown hair, gorgeous tits. She was wearing a Girl Scout uniform.

"I'm Shelly Jensen," she said.

She held out her hand. I shook it. What the hell was this luscious dish doing in a Scout uniform?

"How're you, Shelly?" What the hell did she want? I looked her over. Big-big blue eyes. Creamy skin.

"Are you busy right now?"

"I'm going home," I said.

"I wonder if you could do me a favor?"

"I'II try."

"Well, the church has asked me to organize a girl touch football team. I don't know any plays. Uh, I wonder if I could talk to you now."

"The season's almost over. Kids will freeze outdoors in this weather soon."

"Maybe just a few plays. It's for next fall. Your team changes a lot and I thought, uh --"

"You're absolutely right. I won't be back next year. Why don't we go over to your place and I'll diagram a few plays for you?"

She smiled quickly.

"I'll just get my coat."

In the car she said, "I just love football."

"It's a fascinating game."

She had a nice little apartment, very feminine decor. She asked if I cared for a drink.

"Where did you get that outfit?" I said, looking at her Scout uniform.

She didn't say anything.

I said: "Scotch on the rocks and a Scout dress. I don't get it."

"Piss off," she grinned. "I've had my eye on you since you got into town. She unbuttoned the Scout dress down the front, left it on the floor and went into the kitchen. She came back carrying two drinks and wearing a bathrobe.

"I still don't get it," I said, clinking her glass with mine.

"I'm a school teacher," she said. "The salaries are lousy." She sat down beside me. "I get paid for being a good Scout mistress." We clinked glasses again.

"You've got an unlisted phone number," she said.

"To keep away the good scouts."

"Want to turn on?"

"Why not?"

She went away and came back with a couple of joints. We turned on. When I got her to bed, we were both turned on. She was something. She really knew how to take it out of you. A real scout. Fire by friction. I damn near went up in a puff of smoke. We were lying on the bed. She asked if I wanted to drop some acid. For about a million years I didn't say anything because I knew I had it made. I was going to get to suit up with the Vikings.